When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, something's gotta give. But what happens two unstoppable forces collide? Tonight on Deadliest Fiction, we celebrate the release of John Wick 2 by pitting John Wick, the deadliest hitman in the criminal underworld, against Frank Castle, the bane of criminal scum everywhere! Bullets will fly and people will fall, all to determine the answer to the biggest question! WHO...IS...DEADLIEST?
A black ops veteran and skilled marine, Frank Castle's life was irreparably changed when he and his family were caught in the crossfire between the Blacksmith, the Mexican Cartel, the Kitchen Irish, and the Dogs of Hell motorcycle club. Shot in the head, Frank fell into a coma, but pulled through. Upon awakening, Frank launched into a brutal killing spree, becoming the most wanted man in New York, until he was captured by Daredevil, who helped Frank eliminate the remaining Kitchen Irish. Put on trial with Daredevil's secret identity Matt Murdock as his attorney, Frank was sentenced to life in prison, where he forged an alliance with Wilson Fisk to escape and track down the Blacksmith. Working alongside Karen Page, Frank discovered that it was in fact his former commanding officer. Disgusted, Frank executed him, then vowed to continue hunting the scum that have terrorized people for too long.
A former member of the United States Marine Corps, John Wick was once the deadliest hitman on the planet, famously deemed the "Baba Yaga" or "Boogeyman" by the Tarasov Syndicate, his primary employers. After falling in love, John did one final hit, deemed "impossible", before retiring. However, tragedy struck when his wife Helen was diagnosed with terminal cancer and died. Grieving, John came to care for the dog Helen left him, treating it as his last connection to a normal life. Unable to catch a break, John fell into misfortune when Iosef Tarasov, son of his former employer, breaks into his house, kills the dog, and steals his car after John rebuffed his attempt to buy it. Enraged, John reentered the game and wiped out the entire Tarasov organization over the space of two days. Adopting a new dog, John retired for real, though he was forced to return to settle a blood debt involving the D'Antonio crime family.
- Melee: Combat Knife. Frank used a KA-BAR knife during his time operating as both a Marine and a vigilante. He was also shown to be a skilled hand-to-hand combatant, able to hold his own against Daredevil and defeat a dozen prison inmates with only a shiv and a broken broom.
- Pistol: Glock 26. A semi-automatic handgun with a range of 50 meters and 10 rounds per clip.
- Shotgun: Ithaca 37. A pump-action shotgun with 5 rounds per clip.
- Assault Rifle: M4A1 Carbine. An automatic assault rifle with 30 rounds per clip, a range of 500-600 meters, and a rate of fire of 750 rounds per minute.
- Body Armor: Bulletproof Vest. Frank wore a standard military bulletproof vest with the logo of a skull spraypainted onto it to frighten criminals.
- Melee: Switchblade. John often used a small switchblade for melee combat, and he was also a skilled practitioner of Judo, Ju-Jitsu, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu, having developed a fighting style that enabled him to fight in-tandem with gunplay.
- Pistol: Heckler & Koch P30L. A semi-automatic handgun with 15 rounds per clip and a range of 50 meters.
- Shotgun: Kel-Tec KSG. A bullpup pump action shotgun with 14 rounds per clip.
- Assault Rifle: AR-15. During his time in Rome, John used a highly customized AR-15, a fully automatic assault rifle with 30 rounds per clip, a rate of fire of 700-950 rounds per minute, and a range of 500-800 meters.
- Body Armor: Bulletproof Suit. John used a special made of an unknown material that was capable of stopping a bullet and knives when attacked in a certain direction. It was able to catch a round fired point-blank into his chest that sent him over the edge of a second-story balcony, though he did crack a rib.
- Both men have had a fairly extensive amount of training, but Frank takes a slight edge due to having also served as a sniper for Force Recon on top of his traditional marine training. John was just a member of the 3rd Battalion.
- They've both seen their fair amount of action, and while Frank has fought in multiple theaters, he ultimately has only been a vigilante for about a year. It's very clear from his behavior and reactions to him that John has been at this for a very long time, and he's got the skills and respect to show for it.
- John's a skilled fighter and gunmen, but many of his attacks are largely improvised, with him simply slaughtering everyone in his path until he gets results. By comparison, Frank has extensively mapped out every attack and back-up in case said first attack goes south, as best demonstrated in his attack on the Dogs of Hell, where he brought Daredevil along as unknowing back-up and used it to teach him a moral lesson.
- They're both in top shape, but John's experience comes back to bite him here. He's mid-50's, and just isn't as capable of taking a hit as he used to be, with the events of both of his films leaving him a bruised, limping mess by the end of it. Frank, meanwhile, has some scars, but he's still a former soldier in his mid-30's, giving him an edge here.
- Frank's good, but sometimes his bloodlust gets in the way of his thinking process. He's been shown as being very capable of tricking into an ambush if you get him pissed off enough, and he has a tendency to get outplayed if he ignores opponents too long like he did with the Kitchen Irish. John, meanwhile, is a master of cutting loose ends, frequently doubletapping enemies to make sure they're dead and making sure to pursue all leads so nothing comes back to bite him in the ass.
- Voting ends March 13th.
- It will be set in New York City, in an abandoned apartment building.
- Scenario: After Frank manages to kill one of his closest friends in an attack on Continental property, John reluctantly exits retirement at Winston's behest to eliminate this massive threat to the criminal underworld once and for all.
Whistling to himself, Harry Heck gave a passing nod to the guard as he entered the building, guitarcase slung over his shoulder. One of the best parts of coming to the US was getting to visit the Continental's US properties. The Continental was everywhere, of course, but something about the US locations had a certain...charm to them. Maybe it was because how he'd always liked going to fancy hotels as a kid growing up in Arkansas. He shrugged off the respect as he stepped up to the desk. The clerk looked up at him and smiled. "Harry! You staying for business?" Harry chuckled, then tapped his case. "Yeah, believe it or not, I got a gig and a hit." The clerk looked surprised. "That's great! Let me get you a room." They reached for a clipboard and briefly flipped through it. "To be honest, I'm surprised you're staying here instead of the hotel. You've got the money for it."
Harry shrugged. "Guess I just prefer getting to live a little bit smaller than most of you city folk." The clerk smiled and pulled a key out from under the desk. "I can understand that. You have room 10, 5th one on the right down the hallway." Harry grinned as he took the key and placed a gold coin on the desk. "Thank ya kindly." Harry walked to his room and unlocked his door, finally setting the case down and flopping onto the bed. Fuckin' planes wear me out. Just as he started to close his eyes, he heard a muffled thump from the room next door. Harry Heck knew a lot of things, and one was that the noise in the room next to him was a gunshot. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, opened his case, and picked up the handgun in the side pocket. Some prick better not think it's a good idea to do business on the Continental grounds. He exited the hallway to see a bloodsoaked man in a leather jacket, holding a silenced pistol and an assault rifle slung over his shoulder, exit Room 12. Harry slowly raised his gun and trained it on the man, who stopped in his tracks. "Hope you didn't do something stupid in that room, ya-" It was at that moment Harry looked down to see that the man was wearing Kevlar with what appeared to be a skull spray-painted on it. It was none other than Frank Castle, the man who'd torn his way through most of New York's criminal underworld. If it hadn't been for the Tarasovs messing with John, Castle would have the highest extended killing spree in New York history.
Unfortunately for Harry, the moment it took for him to recognize was all it took for Frank to plant a round in his head, then move on. Taking the rifle off of his shoulder, Frank walked into the lobby and opened fire. Normally he tried to watch his shots, but the scumbag he'd torched in Room 12 told him this was a motel for hitmen and criminals. It felt good to just cut loose. As the last of the bodies hit the floor, Frank jammed another clip into his gun. "One batch. Two batch." The clerk, who he had put two in the chest of, tried to pull a gun from underneath the desk, but Frank put one in his head, just to be safe. "Penny and dime."
As they lowered Harry's casket into the ground, John sadly tossed a single gold coin into the ground, then walked away. His father used to tell him that there came a time in your life where you stopped celebrating friend's birthdays and started attending their funerals, but John had never really assumed he'd have to worry about that in his line of his work. Turns out, he was terribly wrong. As he walked back to his car, he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to see Winston approaching him. "Winston." Winston nodded. "John. I'd figured you'd come and pay your respects to Harry." John could tell from Winston's face that this wasn't just a friendly catch-up. "I'm not going after who killed him, Winston. I said I'm out, and I mean it." Winston nodded, then handed John a picture. John looked at it to see Frank Castle, and he crumpled it up and tossed it to the ground. "I'm-" "Please, John. He's killed so many of us. Attending all these funerals, it's just so-" He leaned against John's car and took a breath. "It's tiring."
"I know, Winston, but-" Winston held up a hand and handed John a golden card with the symbol of the Continental on it. John's eye widened. This card meant that he had the official protection of the Continental. As long as he had it, it rendered him effectively untouchable to the criminal community. "Winston, I can't take this." "You don't have to." Winston took the card back and walked away, replying over his shoulder. "But it's yours if you're willing to take down Castle." As John sat in his car, he looked at the picture of Helen clipped on the mirror. He scowled, then started the car. After this, I'm out. And NOTHING is going to bring me back.
Groceries in his arms, Frank walked into his apartment and flicked on the light. With a whir, the lights on Frank's workbench, the place where he keeps his gunrack, tools, and tactical map, came on. There was a friendly bark as the dog leaped up from the couch and followed Frank into the kitchen. "Hey, bud." He scratched the dog on his head and pulled a bone from the bag. "You smell this?" The dog barked, and Frank chuckled. "Yeah, I figured." As the dog settled on the couch with it's prize, Frank unpacked the groceries and sorted them before walking over to the tactical map. Pulling a pin from a sewing kit, Frank placed a pin in the motel he knocked over last week. He'd had strange luck, but that junkie letting slip about a "Continental" had led him straight to a rat's nest of criminals. Worst part was that these guys were scum who considered themselves classy, like they weren't the worst killers and thieves Frank had encountered since he met up with Fisk back in prison. Looking over the map, he paused between two locations, one an abandoned apartment building that the Continental was running women out of and the other was a drug nest with no ties. When you flush a rat's nest, you gotta keep hittin' 'em. Don't let up.
Frank looked at the dog, chewing happily on it's bone, and said, "How's the name Max sound, buddy?" The dog looked up at him and barked. "Heh, I figured. Kids always did want a dog." The mention of the kids caused Frank to wince, but he pushed it to the back of his head. They ain't coming back. Just gotta keep killing the trash that took them away.
John pulled into the driveway of his home and went inside. He stopped to pet Buster on the head, then went to the basement and stared at the slab he had buried his guns in. At some point, he was going to say fuck it all and drop the vault in a lake. With a frown, he brought the hammer down on the slab, cracking it. With each blow, the words "One Last Kill." rang in his head. One last kill, and he was free. BANG! One Last Kill. BANG! One Last Kill. BANG! One Last Kill. With a splitting crash, the slab cracked apart and the pieces fell to the ground, revealing a vault. Punching in a combination, John stood back as the door swung open, revealing his arsenal. Grabbing his Heckler and Koch, he loaded it, grabbed 3 extra clips, then tucked it into a shoulder holster, then grabbed his switchblade and clipped it onto his belt. He went to get up, but hesitated. If Castle was as dangerous as everyone claimed he was, he would need more guns. He knew just who to call.
Turk pulled up to John's house with a grin. This was friggin John Wick, the goddamn Baba Yaga, and he was selling him guns. He took a deep breath, then stepped out of the car to see John walking towards him. Turk smiled, then offered John his hand. "You must be Mr. Wick. Turk Barret, it's a real-" John walked right past him and cracked open the trunk of the car. Turk awkwardly put his hand at his side. "Man of business. I can respect that." He strolled up to John as he pulled an assault rifle and aimed it at Turk, who practically lunged out of the way. Noticing that John wasn't paying attention to him, he straightened up and started pitching. "I see you're an Ar-15 kinda guy. That's, uh, that's got a nice scope. Pretty sure I got armor piercing stuff somewhere in my ride." John jammed a clip into and grabbed three more before setting the gun by the car. "I won't need it."
Turk raised his hands defensively. "Aight. Anything else you-" John pulled a Kel-Tec and pointed that at Turk as well. Turk ducked and squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck!" He waited, then opened his eyes to see John staring at him with a confused expression. "I mean, uh, nice choice." He straightened up, then shrugged. "Y'know, danger of doing business. Had to get my knee fixed cause some crackhead stole a couple of Glocks. You know how it is." John didn't reply, then went back to inspecting the gun. This guy was not a talker, and something about that bugged Turk. If you were gonna do business, at least have the goddamn respect to engage in a little conversation. How do you do, how's the girl, who's gonna win the game next week, shit like that. He thought about bringing it up with John, but then he remembered fishing all those Tarasov goons out of the water and decided against it.
John took 3 extra clips for the Kel-Tec, then nodded, satisfied, before fishing two gold coins out of his pockets and offering them to Turk. "I'll take these." Turk eagerly grabbed the coins, then tried once more to get a handshake from John. "Pleasure doing business, Mr. Wick. Say, you ever need work, my boy Cottonmouth could hook you-" John, once again, ignored him in favor of picking up the guns and going back into his house. "Fine, fuck you too." Turk grumbled under his breath, got in his car, and drove away. Cottonmouth and his crew back in Harlem didn't pay in gold, but at least they could shake a man's hand.
Staring through a sniper rifle scope, Frank watched as the Continental guys stepped out the back to get the new shipment, and he felt his finger tighten on the trigger as a group of well-dressed, but visibly scared or emotionless women were dragged out of the back of a trailer and pushed into the warehouse. It didn't matter how much gold and shit you tossed around, these people were trash, and Frank was more than willing to dispose of them, but not yet. He needed to keep scoping out the area, and make sure he knew every square inch of this place. Then he could start laying down some punishment.
After the last of the men went inside, Frank slung his rifle over his shoulder and took out a notebook to scribble details of the building. As he wrote, he smirked. Red was lecturing him about going after the wrong people, but where was he when it came to these guys? Where was Captain America, or Stark, or any of those other assholes in tights? Nowhere to be found. He was the only who was giving the Continental what it deserved. He closed the notebook, then left the rooftop.