Poor Tommy
Roleplaying Log: Poor Tommy
IC Details

Frank finds someone lurking outside Punisher Keep.

Other Characters Referenced: Barbara Gordon, Carmine Falcone
IC Date: June 15, 2019
IC Location: Punisher Keep, Jersey City
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 18 Jun 2019 06:16
Rating & Warnings: R for language and violence.
NPC & GM Credits: Babs as Tommy Bohanan.
Associated Plots

Frank might not have even noticed young Tommy Bohanon if it weren't for GAARD. Especially since the young man is just leaning against the wall of a warehouse four doors down. At least, he might not have noticed him any time soon. As it is, however, one of the windows in the left-hand screen of GAARD's control center flashes, then shifts over to the other monitor. Frank looks up from where he's cleaning the action of a submachine gun he really never wants to have to use — damned things aren't accurate beyond a couple dozen yards — and calls, "Red run into a problem?"

"No, Frank." It's definitely Babs's voice that GAARD is using, at Frank's request, but it doesn't have the same liveliness or verve behind it. "There is someone watching the building."

Frank comes around the table, over to the monitor, and frowns down at it, "You know, I think I should pay him a visit. Anyone else hangin' around?"

"No, Frank." There's a pause, "My cameras don't have anyone else in range who has been there longer than ten minutes."

Considering for a moment, Frank checks the pistol at the back of his belt, then nods, "Text Red: Shit. Someone's poking around outside. Going silent myself." He looks at the camera, running through the layout of the surrounding warehouses for a moment in his head, then nods, heading for the back door.

That was twenty minutes ago. Now Frank leans against the front of one of the metal tables again, looking at the young man duct-taped to one of his dining room tables. Blood trickles from the man's nose and lip alike, and a makeshift blindfold covers his eyes. Frank himself is sporting a new shiner, which he pokes around at with the knuckles of one hand, then leaves it alone, focusing on his new captive, "Now just what are we goin' to do with you?"

Tommy "T-Bone" Bohanon was just supposed to check out a tip-off that there's been some freeloader taking up residence in Falcone's holdings in Jersey City. Once, Falone was trying to make a move on the open real estate in New York, but the local games stepped up and Falcone recognized it as now a waste of resources; that didn't stop him from holding onto some of the warehouses he bought up because — while he was not expanding — he intended to still do business in New York City. So, when T-Bone was sent to check the warehouses for the squatters, he expected that he would come in, shake some cages, head out. What he didn't expect was getting jumped by the Punisher.

He'd landed a few solid hits, but — like Frank called it — busted his hand on the thick skull of the retired Marine. Now he's bound and blindfolded, and Frank Castle's voice sends a little panic through him as he gives a tug at his duct-tape bindings. "L-look, dude… I was just pokin' around. Trying to find a rave spot. Didn't know this was occupied." It's a good cover, almost delivered perfectly save for the fact that Tommy was carrying a semiautomatic pistol.

Frank picks up the pistol and pulls back the slide, catching the round that comes spinning out, "One in the pipe. Quicker reaction time, one more round if you need it, but you're also more likely to blow your balls off if you shove the thing down the front of your pants like you did, kid." Frank ejects the magazine, putting it on the table beside him and then wracking the slide once more to remove the last round, catching it and setting it with the others. The pistol itself is set down next, "And you need to be packing to find a rave spot? And don't give me some bullshit about self-defense. This thing's had the serial numbers filed off. Come on, what's your name, kid?"

It's the sounds that really send the mind racing. You see, Tommy's not all that great about paying attention to what gun operation sounds like besides the noises of gunfire. He couldn't tell you the differences; just the fact it makes noise. So, the kid twitches and wiggles a bit until he hears the low clank of the pistol being set down. He doesn't relax, but he also doesn't look like he's about to shit his pants right away. "Dorian Scallioni, man. Just Dorian. I ain't no one. You don't need to keep me here. I was just poking around, checking the places out, looking for shit to steal." Again, not a bad lie.

"Huh, that's a new story." Frank grunts softly, almost sounding like he's impressed. He's not. "Hey GAARD," it probably sounds like 'guard,' "could you bring up the kid's file? I'll read it myself. Let's see how Mr. Scallioni's rap sheet looks. And what name's actually on it." His phone chirps, GAARD having transferred the text there instead of reading it out loud. After all, there's an unknown being in the warehouse. Frank's eyebrows go up as he looks at the text, and then the image comes in following it, and he shakes his head, "Damn." It's appreciative and amused alike. He types a brief message back, then steps forward, close enough that Tommy can probably sense him, and snaps a selfie with the soft faux shutter sound. It's cheesy, with Frank grinning crookedly and flashing a bold 'thumbs up' in front of the other bound young man, "Where was I. Oh yeah, Mr. Bohanon," he read the report that popped up on his phone courtesy of GAARD, and just goes straight to the guy's real name, "I'm real surprised that you've gotta go stealin' shit on the side, seein' as how you run numbers and drugs for the Falcone gang."

Tommy's mind is racing as he hears the little appreciative tone, the shuffling of Frank's feet, the sound of the fake camera shutter. He can't seem to guess what that was — photo for the boss? For the cops? Didn't Frank work with the Bats? He starts making leaps, assumptions, and then finally settles into a thick swallow as Frank drops his actual surname. He flinches slightly, wishing he wasn't bound so that he could actually get some space. "Look, that was a long time ago. I ain't pullin' that shit anymore." Again, a good lie, but GAARD's information tells a different story as just two days ago, GCPD Organized Crime noted that The Don dispatched Tommy to NYC.

Frank smothers a grin as he looks at the phone again, giving the nearest camera a thumbs up before he forces the smile all the way off his face, "Yeah? That's good to hear. Real brave of you to have such a change of heart since talking to The Don two days ago. Me, I figure he's gonna be pissed." He looks down at his phone again, typing, shaking his head and snorting, and typing again. The phone still makes the little keystroke sound as he types slowly. "Here's the deal, Bohanon. I'm pretty sure I know everything I need to know about you." He steps close to the chair, drawing his Ka-Bar and stepping close so that he can set the flat of the blade on Tommy's thigh, the sharp edge up toward his body. There's probably enough of a gap in the bottom of the blindfold that Tommy can see that fact, "So what I want to know is what you know about me."

Tommy visibly flinches at the words, and even recoils a bit as far as his chair would let him. Then he is choking out his sputtering denial, but it is mostly an incoherent string together of words that might include a couple of pleas in there. Then he's quieting with a thick fear holding his throat. He listens to the deal until the knife makes its appearance at his leg, and he jumps back abruptly, only to make the chair he's in rock a bit "Look, man… all I know is that Falcone sent me here because there were boys who came by a few nights ago and saw some movements in the warehouse. You musta been comin' here or something, man. I was just supposed to stake-out the warehouse, get a good look at you. That's all I know, man. All I know."

"All you know?" Frank rocks forward violently, but it's his left hand that snaps into Tommy's side, just below the ribs, his right still holding the heavy blade all too close to the Bohanan family jewels. Settling back onto his haunches, he taps the younger man's thigh with the knife blade, to get his attention off the aching side and onto the threat of the knife, "That's bullshit, Bohanon. You're tellin' me that Falcone doesn't know who's here? Come on, Bohanon, you don't expect me to believe that, do you?" He leans back, the knife disappearing and some more typing sounds faint to straining ears. "You're gonna tell me everything you know, Bohanon. Way better for you if I don't gotta make you do it."

The movement sends Tommy recoiling back as far as he can, even sucking in his gut to try to give ample space between him and that knife — and the man who wields it. But then Frank's meaty first slams him in the ribs, and he's choking out the breath he's holding in a tight noise of pain. His head bows briefly, and he's taking quicker breaths — sharp inhales that come through his nose alone, his jaw clenched tight in abject fear and now pain. He waits several heartbeats before he musters, voice a bit squeaky and winded that, "I don't know what you need to know," the words spill out of him at an impressive speed. Then he shakes his head, tight and certain. "No." There's another squeak. "There's lots of options, man. Meta refugee, one of those Defenders, or-or-or maybe just a guy looking to squat. Look, man — I'm not looking for trouble." Except maybe to give someone else trouble.

You don't punch a guy in the head. That's how you break your hand. Instead, Frank grabs the back of the chair and slams the hilt of the knife into Tommy's head, not hard enough to crack the skull, just rattle him around a bit give him a solid headache. "Come on, Bohanon." He waits a heartbeat, settling back into a squat in front of Tommy, "I need to know everything you know about Falcone. Because you fucked up, and you fucked up hard. Some scared meta, some drifter, one of the Defenders? You'd be lucky to run into them." The knife is back near Tommy's groin, his hand holding the blade just resting atop the younger man's thigh. "They wouldn't kill you."

Frank's had plenty of experience hearing to a grown man basically go into desperate animal noises, and that's where he's got Tommy. The dude is squirming back from the knife, making pleas that are nonsensical. It takes that knife to his groin to really sink the fact home that he's got two options: castration or death. Maybe both. He's breathing quicker and his chest and belly are both moving with the desperation. Then he manages, squawking, "Look. I never even seen Falcone. I work for his man — Milos Grappa — he sent me here because Falcone's been worried that he's got all this real estate that he ain't using. So, he wants to check it, make sure it's ready for operation come Fall. He made contacts, ya'know, with some of the movers and shakers in New York. He's got this idea that he can set up in Jersey and still make plenty of profit outta New York without steppin' on toes, right man? I mean, trafficking metas — gotta go somewhere and there's lots who would pay."

"You're right," Frank gravels, even as he leans back and tapa-tapa-tapas at his phone again. He studies the response, grunting thoughtfully, types again, grunts again, and then slowly starts to circle around Tommy's chair, just close enough that he can drag the flat of the knife blade across the man's shoulders and the back of his neck, keeping the fire of fear with fuel without necessarily stoking it further. "There's plenty of people who'd pay to get outta New York on the quiet. And if they can't pay, I bet Grappa'd love havin' a meta on retainer, wouldn't he? So it's time for you to tell me where I find Grappa. Where's he eat, where's he drink? Because I think I need to have a talk with him."

That's when Tommy starts to sputter with — is that laughter? It's great, thready laughs that almost send him into hysterics. Look, the guy is really low level and just a little two-bit thug for the Falcone Family. He didn't come here expecting to find the Punisher. So, it takes him several long moments to pull himself back together before he just manages, "Grapa? Jesus Fucking Christ, man. He's Falcone's bodyguard. No, he's The Bodyguard. Like, capital 'T', capital 'B.' I get my orders from his Lieutenant. I ain't even all that special. Dude wouldn't even recognize me if he saw me in an empty room with 60 watt lights."

The laughter surprises Frank, and he pauses, then leans forward over Tommy's shoulder, "Is that supposed to scare me?" Backing away just a touch, he slams his forearm into the back of the young man's head, then grabs his hair and pulls his head back, opening up the man's throat to… there's the flat of the Ka-Bar against the skin. "I can start at the bottom though." The blade taps against Tommy's skin, "Well, not at the bottom. That's you, isn't it?" There's no real pause, but he immediately continues, "Gimme the lieutenant's name and where I can find him."

Tommy takes the forearm to the head with a forward rock, his head slumping forward just a heartbeat before Frank is pulling his head back by his hair. He keeps breathing out of his nose in quick gasping breaths that do nothing to calm his nerves. The touch of the knife causes his throat to bob and tighten, and it becomes clear that he's now holding his breath. His eyes flicker down through the blindfold toward what little he can see ahead of him — no sign of Frank Castle in his sights. He just whimpers at the question of whether or not he is at the bottom, and his head does a couple micro-shakes. "She'll know I told you."

"That's just fine, Bohanon." Frank presses his thumb against Tommy's throat, turning his blade so that the sharp edge rests against the young man's throat, ready to slice like a sausage, "Because she's never going to see you again." He lets that sit, heavy in the air, and then comes around Tommy's shoulder. The knife comes up to slice away the blindfold, with Frank Castle's face right in the young man's line of sight, "And if she does, you're gonna see me again, and it's gonna be the last thing you ever see. You know who I am?"

At first, Tommy has no idea where Frank is going with this. But he's not a total dummy. Things click into place, and Tommy's breath relaxes a bit. "You're letting me go." The words barely hold a question. "I disappear and that's that?" The change in light has him squinting, and then he looks into the gnarly face of Frank Castle. It takes him a long moment before he's nodding. "Yeah." He croaks. "You're The Punisher."

"You're just a small-time shit. I looked into you." Frank had GAARD look into him. He crouches before Tommy, "Yeah. I am. I'm Frank Castle." Because The Punisher is just a name given to him by others. "But you. You aren't even suspected of having killed anyone. Couple of assaults, but mostly just being an asshole. So you get a one-time deal, Bohanon. You get the fuck off the East Coast. Go to California or Montana or something. Find a new life. I hear you get so much as a fucking parking ticket…" he leans in, "…and believe me, I'll find out, and I'll come find you. And no one else ever will."

Tommy does not enjoy Frank Castle being this close to him. He doesn't enjoy Frank Castle being in the same room as him. He doesn't make eye contact, and tries very hard not to look at Frank when he offers his deal. His eyes are darting around the floor, at their shoes, and then to Frank's knife. He licks nervously at his lips, and then starts to nod. "Okay. Okay, man. Look… her name is Zama di Palo. She runs this night club in Red Hook — Gotham." Because there's Red Hook in New York City, so let's not get confused. "It's called Noir." Gotham. So original. "You can find her there. But she's going to see you comin'. Like a mile away."

The knife hasn't disappeared yet, held casually in Frank's right hand. In fact, he flips around backhand, then forehand again, proof against idle hands. "Zama de Palo at Noir in Gotham." His eyes flicker up, past the young man, to the nearest of the cameras, then back to Tommy, "Okay Bohanan, so then where won't she see me comin'?" A smile quirks up one corner of Frank's lips, "Not that I have a problem goin' through everything and anything she's got ready for me. Just a little less to spend on ammo." And fewer deaths that way, and less chance that he ends up with a mortal wound.

Tommy's not getting used to being in this chair with the Punisher idling flicking around his knife. When he asks the question, the young man almost whines out a breath. "Dude, I don't know. I'm not her body man. I have no idea. I see her at the club, and she gives me what Grapa needs done, and I do it. Man, you're asking me to give you shit I don't know."

Frank steps forward, reaching out to grab the front of Tommy's shirt and drawing back the knife at his side, threatening a thrust between his ribs. "You don't hear things when you're there? Where she lives? Where else she likes to eat?" Frank turns his head slightly to one side, a thought occurring to him, but he leans into the hand on the younger man's shirt. He lets a little rage bubble up beneath his gravely words, turning them into a harsh growl, "You're not out of the woods yet, Bohanon."

"No! Dude! I'm not your guy!" Now his panic is back, and he's trying to squirm back away from Castle, but there's nowhere for him to go and you would think he would have figured it out by now. "Maybe ask one of the Bats! I don't pay attention. That shit gets you in trouble!"

The knife closes on Tommy slowly, Frank's intense gaze never leaving Tommy's eyes. "You think the Bats work with someone like me?" He shakes his head, and the knife reaches Tommy — or rather, the duct tape around his wrists. "Here's your new rule, Tommy boy. If Captain America or Superman wouldn't like you doin' it, you don't do it." He brandishes the knife again, "You got me?" There's a pause, "And I swear to God, if you pissed on my chair…" He crouches down to cut the duct tape off Tommy's ankles too, tensing, ready for a blow.

"Fuck if I know," Tommy shoots back. Then he is being cut free, and his arms drop away to rub at his wrists. It's only when his ankles are clear does the kid look up at Frank again. He takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. "I swear… I didn't piss. And I won't do anything. No way. I'm gone, I'm out. You won't even know where I'm at I'll be so fucking quiet." When Frank gives him the smallest gap, he's out of the chair and starting to stumble out of range.

Frank twists away, letting Tommy run for the door. He hefts the knife for a moment, then sheathes it and picks up the chair instead, peeling off the remnants of duct tape as he watches Tommy flee. Heading over toward the monitors, he watches the young man keep run, just making sure. "GAARD, can you run down addresses on Zama di Palo? And track her credit…" he stops then, frowning, "…no, her bodyguards' credit cards. Bet she doesn't pay for a fuckin' thing." As he gathers up shreds of duct tape, he adds, "Oh yeah, and text Red: di Palo looking into the place. Looker starting a new life. Time to look in on her."

Tommy's booked it for the door and out into the night.

It takes only a minute before a reply comes through: "Zama di Palo? She's a lieutenant in Falcone's organization. Be careful poking around, Frank."

"GAARD, text Red: Yup. She is. This is the play you wanted me to make, right? Stop them from pushin' into New York?"

Another text comes through moments later, "Yes. I'll be your back-up, but might be time for Falcone to realize what he's getting into if he continues pushing."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License