Chapter 26
"Frank's Gun Shop," read a modest, faded sign above a shabby door.
The building itself was a small, one-story brick box that fit drearily into the gray, unremarkable landscape of Queens Village.
No personality, no intrigue, no reason for a passing stranger to step inside.
The moment I pushed open the heavy door and walked in, every expectation shaped by spy movies shattered against brutal reality.
There were no gleaming display cases, no cool samples mounted on the walls.
What greeted me instead was a minimalist, perfectly organized, Spartan interior.
The air was thick with the smell of steel, gun oil, and gunpowder.
Gray brick walls, bare.
Just a couple of wooden shelves holding a handful of rifles and pistols.
My Master Watchmaker's eye instantly caught the faint casting seams on the plastic and the absence of micro-scratches from actual use.
Props.
Behind the single massive oak counter, he looked at me in silence.
A tall, lean man around thirty, with close-cropped black hair, a strong jaw, and cold, evaluating eyes.
He wasn't wearing the iconic white skull shirt — just a plain black tee — but I was 95% certain this was the Punisher.
Future version, or possibly present.
The silence stretched.
The man behind the counter clearly wasn't going to break it.
This place was for insiders.
A random walk-in, unsettled by the atmosphere, would leave empty-handed.
But I had a specific purpose.
"Um... I'm from Eric," I finally said, and my voice came out conspicuously loud in the quiet.
"Name?" he asked flatly, without expression.
His gaze didn't shift.
"John. John Thompson."
He watched me in silence for several more seconds, as if checking me against some internal list.
Blade had probably given him a heads-up after all.
Frank gave a short nod, and I noticed the tension in his shoulders drop by one barely perceptible degree.
If not for my skill catching the smallest details, I'd have missed it entirely.
"Why do you want to buy weapons?" His voice was even, but there was weight behind the question.
This was a test.
"Self-defense. And future modification," I answered just as directly.
"Self-defense" he seemed to accept without comment.
But at "modification," his right eyebrow twitched slightly.
I decided to expand on it.
"I don't just need guns. I need reliable, easily modifiable weapon platforms — so I can improve them myself without risking damage to the core mechanism."
I stayed quiet about Technological Modernization, of course.
"Hmm. Interesting."
Something resembling genuine interest flickered across his face for the first time.
"That's a pretty rare request. Eric was right about you. What specific platforms did you have in mind?"
"To start — a pistol, two different assault rifles, and a sniper rifle," I laid out my plan.
"But I'm no expert, so I'll trust your judgment on the actual models."
"Good. Wait."
With that, Frank disappeared into the back room without another word.
He returned three minutes later carrying an entire arsenal, which he laid out on the counter with surgical precision.
"Start simple," he said, indicating the pistol.
"Glock-17. Austrian plastic brick. There's almost nothing in it that can break. It'll shoot in mud, underwater, after you drop it off a roof. Simple as a hammer and just as reliable. But more importantly for you, it's a platform. More aftermarket parts exist for this pistol than for any other on the planet. Barrel, slide, grip, trigger — you can swap out everything. Turn it into a competition pistol or a suppressed tool for quiet work. It's a blank slate."
This guy was capable of speeches that long and penetrating?
I was genuinely surprised.
Then again, it was about weapons — obviously the central passion of his life.
And I agreed with him.
Glock was a brand name synonymous with reliability.
But being in the same room as one of the world's best weapons experts, I couldn't resist satisfying my curiosity.
"Frank, can I ask a couple of questions? I'm a beginner — almost everything I know comes from movies and games, so it's probably wrong."
He nodded slowly.
"Okay. Why the Glock and not, say, the Beretta 92FS? It's a classic — the US Army used it for decades."
"Key phrase: 'used,'" Frank answered without pause.
"The Beretta isn't a bad pistol. But its design and ergonomics are from the seventies. It's heavier. It has a complicated double-action trigger — the first shot requires one level of force, the second another. That's an extra variable when your hands are shaking. The open slide is a magnet for dirt. It works well. The Glock works well every time. For a beginner, simplicity is life. Fewer parts means fewer things that can go wrong."
I nodded, taking in his logic.
Simplicity is life.
But my curiosity — shaped by years of pop culture — demanded one more answer.
"Got it. What about..." I hesitated, knowing how stupid it was going to sound, but the desire to hear a professional's verdict was stronger than my pride.
"The Desert Eagle? I know it's probably overrated, but the stopping power..."
Frank froze for a moment, as if making sure he'd heard me right.
Then he let out a short, dry laugh with no warmth in it whatsoever.
"'Stopping power'?" He gestured toward the AK with his chin.
"A round from the Kalashnikov will go through your target, the guy standing behind him, and the brick wall behind them both. In a city, that's called overpenetration, and it's a straight road to killing bystanders. That's a liability."
He stepped into the back room and returned with another pistol.
"Here, hold this."
He handed me a massive, chrome-plated pistol — the Desert Eagle itself.
It weighed like a small anchor.
"Seven rounds in the magazine. The Glock holds seventeen. This weighs twice as much. After the first shot, you'll be aiming at the ceiling. And it jams if you hold it wrong. This is a movie prop — loud, shiny, and completely useless in a real fight. Did you come here for tools or for props?"
I felt heat rise to my face and quickly set the Desert Eagle down on the counter.
Frank's logic was lethal.
"Is that an AK-47?" I asked, eager to change the subject, pointing at the legendary rifle.
"That's the one. The Kalashnikov."
Frank ran a hand along the wooden handguard with obvious respect.
"It'll shoot even if you use it as a paddle. Dirt, sand, no maintenance — it doesn't care. The 7.62 round punches through light cover that would stop other rounds. It's not as accurate, kicks harder. But when you're fighting through pure chaos, it will not let you down. This isn't a scalpel. It's an axe. And you need both."
He picked up a black, more modern-looking rifle.
"AR-15. Lego kit for adults. Light, accurate, ergonomic. Fully modular — you can change everything on it, from the stock to the caliber. Today it's a close-combat carbine. Tomorrow, a medium-range precision rifle. It's more demanding than the Kalashnikov. It needs cleanliness and care, like a thoroughbred horse. But it pays you back in accuracy and handling."
"Why not the classic M16? Isn't that where all of this started?"
"Because the starting point was rough," Frank answered without pause.
"The first M16s sent to Vietnam jammed in the humidity. They spent decades fixing it. What you're looking at is the result of fifty years of corrections. The AR-15 in carbine configuration is shorter, lighter, and more reliable than that long musket ever was. You wouldn't run the first version of a piece of software when there's a final release with all the patches applied, would you?"
"Fair enough. What about the sniper rifle?" I nodded at the last weapon on the counter.
It looked surprisingly simple.
"Remington 700. Built for distance. The bolt assembly on this rifle has been the gold standard for half a century. Incredibly accurate and reliable. And, like everything else here, it's a platform. You can eventually build an entirely new rifle around that bolt. This weapon isn't for chaos. It's for one precise, deliberate shot that settles everything."
"It looks kind of plain, though. I've seen Barrett rifles — they look a lot more impressive. Aren't they better? I'm willing to pay for it."
Frank looked at me, and his expression held no contempt — just the quiet weariness of a teacher explaining something that should be obvious.
"The question isn't whether the rifle is better. The question is whether you are better. A twenty-thousand-dollar rifle can shoot a half-inch group at 500 meters. This Remington will shoot three-quarters of an inch. You'll only feel the difference once your own skills exceed what this weapon can do — and that takes years and thousands of rounds."
He pointed at the rifle, then at the full set.
"You'll spend five thousand on all of this. The other fifteen thousand you'd be throwing at a brand name — spend that on ammo and training instead. That's what'll make you dangerous. Not the name on the receiver."
"Thanks for the lesson," I said sincerely.
He'd genuinely opened my eyes.
Frank nodded and summed up.
"This set covers everything you need. A reliable pistol. An accurate carbine. An indestructible assault rifle. And a tool for solving problems at a distance. Master all four, and you'll be more dangerous than 99% of armed people on this planet."
"Speaking of 'master'..." I decided to risk it.
"Could you recommend an instructor?"
I expected a business card or a phone number.
Instead, he just looked at me.
"Myself," Frank answered without hesitation, which surprised me considerably.
Reading the silent question on my face, he clarified.
"This shop is for insiders. Nobody else comes here, and my margins are thin — so I teach the basics on the side. To beginners. Like you."
"How long would it take to cover the basics? Assuming I want to move as fast as possible."
Frank studied me for a moment.
"Pistol — one hour. AK and AR — three. Remington — another three. But that's just the bare minimum," he said, naming his rate without any room for negotiation.
"Three hundred dollars an hour. After four hours, you'll leave here capable of defending your life in a back-alley shootout — not just punching paper."
"Not that I plan on getting into back-alley shootouts," I muttered, "but I'd gladly pay for your instruction."
"Then let's go," he said, heading for the door.
"Right now?"
Frank stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder.
"Time is a resource. I don't have much of it. I need to be home by six."
I needed to be home by then too, actually.
"So we'll only have time for the pistol and the rifles," I quickly calculated.
"We can handle the Remington another day."
We didn't drag it out.
I got in the Honda and followed him.
Frank's car turned out to be a black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS — old, perfectly restored muscle, its low, guttural rumble seeming to make the asphalt tremble beneath it.
He drove through the unremarkable streets of Queens, and before long we turned into a deserted industrial alley and stopped at an unassuming metal door set into a warehouse wall.
The range was a massive basement space.
The smell of gunpowder and gun oil was several times stronger here than in the shop.
Cold gray concrete, walls lined with sound-absorbing panels, and dim lighting just enough to make out the targets.
The atmosphere was oppressive, functional, and completely stripped of any frills.
"My job isn't to teach you to enjoy shooting," Frank said, catching my look as I sized up the space.
"It's to burn the skills into your muscle memory so you can survive."
"Actually, I kind of like it in here. It has atmosphere," I shrugged.
Frank ignored my bravado.
He silently laid out two copies of each weapon — the Glock, the AK-47, and the AR-15 — on a wooden stand.
"First, four fundamental rules. This isn't empty words. This is your new religion. Memorize them. Rule number one: ALWAYS TREAT A WEAPON AS IF IT'S LOADED."
He picked up the Glock, extracted the magazine in one smooth motion, then racked the slide back and checked the chamber visually and by feel.
"There is no such thing as 'unloaded.' There's 'loaded' and 'unchecked.' Every single time you pick up a firearm, the first thing you do is check the chamber. No exceptions. 'I thought it wasn't loaded' — that's what they write on idiots' tombstones. Understood?"
He pointedly handed me the Glock.
I nodded and tried to repeat the procedure.
I ejected the magazine, started pulling the slide back — and that's when my inexperience showed.
For just a split second, one clumsy movement, the barrel drifted toward Frank.
His reaction was instantaneous.
He didn't just step aside — his body seemed to blur, instantly clearing the line of fire.
The next second he roared, and his voice hit me like a gunshot in the closed space.
"Rule number two: NEVER POINT A WEAPON AT ANYTHING YOU DON'T INTEND TO SHOOT!"
I froze.
The silence in the basement became deafening.
"The barrel points at the target, at the floor, or at the ceiling," he continued, his voice dropping to an icy calm.
"You get shoved, you stumble, your finger slips — the bullet flies. And it won't care that you didn't mean it. This gets burned into your reflexes. Do it again, and I'll break your arm. Understood?"
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Lesson learned.
And I genuinely did not want to find out whether he meant that last part.
Frank picked up the second Glock and demonstrated his grip.
His index finger lay perfectly straight along the frame, well clear of the trigger.
"Rule number three: KEEP YOUR FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOU'RE READY TO SHOOT. Your finger rests on the frame, straight as an arrow. It touches the trigger only when your sights are on target and you've made the decision to fire. Not before. This is the most common violation beginners make. And the most deadly."
He set down the Glock and pointed toward the far wall with its targets.
"Rule number four: ALWAYS KNOW YOUR TARGET AND WHAT'S BEYOND IT. In a city, there are no safe shots. Bullets go through walls, cars, and people. Anyone could be standing behind your target. Every time you press that trigger, you own the entire path of that bullet. No certainty — no shot. Now — understood?"
I straightened, looked him in the eye, and recited clearly, without a single stumble:
"Always treat a weapon as if it's loaded. Never point it at anything I don't intend to shoot. Keep my finger off the trigger until I'm ready to fire. And always know my target and what's beyond it."
The rules were carved into my brain.
Frank nodded once.
The theory was over.
"Good enough," Frank said briefly, and there was no praise in it — just an acknowledgment of fact.
"Now we move to practice. Starting with disassembly and reassembly."
He picked up the Glock.
His movements were economical and smooth, not a single wasted motion.
"The Glock, as I said, is simple as a brick. Just five main components you need to know: frame, slide, barrel, recoil spring, magazine. Disassembles in three seconds," he narrated each step as though dictating a manual.
"Drop the magazine. Check the chamber. Pull the slide back slightly. Press the release tabs. Remove the slide. Done. You should be able to do this blindfolded, in total darkness, under fire."
He ran through it again at speed, then gestured at the second pistol.
My turn.
I ran through his instructions in my head — already embedded in memory — and picked up the weapon.
To my own surprise, I got it on the first try.
My fingers moved with a confidence and precision that felt almost outside of my control, as if I'd spent my whole life doing nothing but disassembling and reassembling Glocks.
The Master Watchmaker skill worked perfectly, turning any mechanical device into an intuitively readable system.
Frank watched my hands in silence for a long moment, his gaze heavy and analytical.
"You pick things up fast," he said finally, and that was apparently his highest form of praise.
He moved immediately to the AK.
"Then we go to a weapon designed for war, not display cases. The tolerances between its parts are loose enough that you can pour sand in there and it'll still fire. Disassembly is primitive. Press the latch, remove the receiver cover. Pull out the recoil mechanism. Extract the bolt carrier and bolt. Done. The parts are large and sturdy. This weapon forgives mistakes."
I followed along, and again everything went without a hitch.
The thought of high school safety class made me smirk.
Back then my hands were clumsy and I kept losing track of the sequence.
Now they moved with a fluency and understanding I couldn't fully account for.
Frank gave a spare nod, his gaze growing more intent, and moved to the last weapon of the day.
"And this is a different philosophy entirely. Accuracy and modularity. AR-15. It breaks into two halves — upper and lower receiver. Push out two pins and the rifle opens up. The bolt carrier group slides out from the rear. The parts are smaller, the tolerances tighter. It demands attention and cleanliness. If dirt gets into an AK, it spits it out. If it gets into this, it might jam. Keep that in mind."
Disassembly and reassembly didn't take long.
Once Frank was satisfied I'd got the mechanics down, he moved to the next phase.
"Now — the fundamentals of combat accuracy. Your body is a machine that holds the tool. And that machine has to be perfectly calibrated."
He stepped close and began adjusting my posture without ceremony.
"No relaxed stances. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, weight forward on the balls of your feet. Your stance should be aggressive and ready to move. Hold the pistol as high as possible. Grip it like you're trying to crush the handle — the weapon should feel like an extension of your body, not a separate object."
"What about breathing? That matters, doesn't it?" I asked, trying to settle into the unusually tense stance.
"In competition shooting, maybe. They'll tell you to fire on the exhale," he said, and the contempt in his voice was plain.
"In combat, there's no time for that. Your heart will be hammering and your lungs will be burning. You learn to work the trigger in the natural pauses between heartbeats. You don't fight your body — you find a pocket of calm inside the storm and work from there."
After the stance work, we moved to pistol drills.
Frank broke down the two types of reload.
"Emergency reload. You're in the middle of a fight, the slide locks back — you're empty. Your job is to get the weapon back in the fight as fast as possible. One fluid movement: the finger drops the empty mag, it hits the floor — forget it, it won't save your life. Simultaneously, your other hand is already reaching for the pouch, pulling a full mag, seating it, slapping it home, and hitting the slide release. Weapon is back in the fight. Standard time: one and a half seconds."
Even with the Master Watchmaker working in my favor, my best result after dozens of reps was around two seconds.
The muscles needed the work.
"Tactical reload. The fight has died down. You've got a few rounds left in the magazine. Starting fresh combat with a half-empty mag is stupidity. Bring the full mag to the pistol. Then carefully remove the partial and stow it. Insert the full mag last. Do everything at maximum natural speed — it's slower, but you conserve ammo and you're always ready for the next engagement."
I did better with this one.
The more complex, deliberate sequence of movements played well to my skill.
Frank noticed.
"More complex means it suits you better. Like a watchmaker," he muttered to himself — but I heard it.
I also stayed tactfully quiet about what kind of combat actually awaited me.
That would've been a stupid thing to raise.
This was the Marvel world.
Danger didn't need to be sought out — it would find you on its own.
The last hour of training was the most punishing.
Frank drove me through carbine drills until I was soaked in sweat, and his few words of acknowledgment for my accuracy were the best reward I could have asked for.
"Look at the rifle," he said, picking up the AR-15.
"The sight is here." He tapped the red dot.
"The barrel is here — two and a half inches below. At fifty meters, that doesn't matter. But if the target is three meters away and you're aiming at the head, the bullet hits the chest. Aim at the eye, you hit the chin. This is called mechanical offset. In close quarters, you have to instinctively aim higher. We'll drill this until it becomes reflex."
And drill we did.
I shot — a lot.
Recoil, the bite of gunpowder smoke, the ring of brass hitting concrete — all of it merged into one continuous stream.
The culmination was a transition drill.
When Frank barked "Empty!" I was already automatically dropping the rifle on its sling, drawing the pistol, and continuing to fire.
As Frank said: that drill is what saves lives.
I agreed completely.
By the end of the fourth hour, I felt every muscle in my body.
My legs ached, my arms trembled from sustained tension.
But they remembered.
Remembered how to field-strip a Kalashnikov by feel, how to swap a Glock magazine in two seconds, how to instantly transition to a sidearm when the rifle ran dry.
I left Frank not as an expert, but with a solid combat foundation.
I hadn't just bought pieces of deadly metal — I had understandable, predictable tools I knew how to use.
Six thousand dollars well spent.
Driving home in the Honda, I thought about Frank.
One difficult question kept turning in my mind: was he already the Punisher, or not yet?
I ran through his bearing, the way he spoke, his dry and humorless edge, and concluded — no.
Not yet.
There was still life in him.
There was fury, there was discipline, but not that dead, scorched emptiness I'd read about in the comics.
The original Punisher was a profoundly broken man who had turned his back on humanity.
This Frank was still alive.
Which meant he still had something to live for.
A 90% chance his family was fine.
And it would be an extremely good thing if it stayed that way — not out of pure altruism.
A stable Frank Castle was a valuable and reliable contact.
The Punisher was just a force of nature.
So yes — someday, when I had the strength for it, I'd need to think seriously about how to keep his family safe.
But those were thoughts for later.
I arrived home and checked my trusty watch.
6:11.
Twenty minutes until Lucas's courier showed up.
I showered quickly, washing off sweat and gunpowder residue, and changed clothes.
My muscles ached in a satisfying way.
Frank had said that despite my natural — acquired, but he didn't need to know that — accuracy, I'd still need to put in a couple of hours at the range each week.
Keeping the skills zeroed in, staying sharp.
At exactly 6:30, an inconspicuous cargo van pulled up outside.
Two silent men in work clothes unloaded everything quickly and professionally.
My garage transformed in an instant from a reasonably spacious workshop into a high-tech equipment warehouse.
Some of the boxes had to be brought into the house itself — space was critically short.
When the van pulled away, I stood alone among my new arsenal.
It was approaching seven in the evening.
I looked at the vacuum chamber, the industrial mixer, the rolls of aramid fabric, the boxes of chemicals.
All the pieces were in place.
All the tools were ready.
The only question now was what to do next.
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