"Frank's Gun Shop," read the modest, faded sign on a shabby door. The building itself was a small, one-story brick box, blending dismally into the gray and boring landscape of Queens Village. No emotions, no intrigue, no desire for a casual passerby to enter.
As soon as I pushed the heavy door and stepped inside, the expectations fueled by spy movies shattered against a harsh, brutal reality. There were no shiny display cases or cool samples hanging on the walls. I was greeted by a minimalist, perfectly organized Spartan interior. The air was thick and smelled of steel, gun oil, and gunpowder. The gray brick walls were empty. There were only a pair of wooden racks holding a few rifles and pistols. My new Master Clockmaker's gaze instantly noticed the barely visible mold seams on the plastic and the absence of micro-scratches from use. Props.
Behind the only massive oak counter, he stared at me silently. A tall, wiry man in his thirties, with short-cropped black hair, a strong jaw, and cold, calculating eyes. He wasn't wearing his signature white skull t-shirt—just a plain black one—but I was 95% sure this was the Punisher. Future, or perhaps already present.
The silence stretched on. The salesman clearly wasn't going to break it. This place was "for those in the know." A random customer, frightened by this atmosphere, would have left empty-handed. But I had come with a specific purpose.
"Um... I'm from Eric," I finally said, and my voice sounded inappropriately loud in the silence.
"Name?" he asked briefly, without emotion. His gaze didn't change.
"John. John Thompson."
He stared at me for a few more seconds, as if checking an internal list. Blade must have warned him after all. Frank gave a short nod, and I noticed the tension in his shoulders drop by a single, barely perceptible degree. If not for my skill that noticed the smallest details, I wouldn't have even seen it.
"For what purpose are you buying weapons?" His voice was even, but there was weight in the question. This was a test.
"Self-defense. And further modification," I answered just as directly.
He seemed to ignore the word "self-defense." But at the word "modification," his right eyebrow twitched slightly. I decided to develop the thought.
"I don't just need weapons. I need reliable and easily modifiable weapon platforms. So that I can personally... fine-tune them without risking damage to the basic mechanism." I tactfully kept quiet about Technological Modernization.
"Hm... Interesting," he said, and for the first time, something resembling interest flashed across his face. "A rather rare request. Eric was right; you're an interesting kid. What specific platforms are you interested in?"
"To start with, I'd like to take a pistol, two different assault rifles, and one sniper rifle," I stated my plan. "But I'm not a specialist, so I'll trust your choice of specific models."
"Fine. Wait."
With those words, Frank silently vanished into the back room. He returned three minutes later, carrying an entire arsenal. He laid out four weapons on the counter with surgical precision.
"Let's start with the simple one," he pointed to the pistol. "Glock 17. An Austrian plastic brick. There's almost nothing in it to break. It'll fire in the mud, under water, after you drop it from a roof. It's as simple as a hammer and just as reliable. Но the main thing for you is the platform. There are more tuning parts for it than for any other pistol in the world. Barrel, slide, grip, trigger—you can replace everything. Turn it into a competition pistol or a suppressed weapon for quiet work. It's a blank slate."
Was this guy capable of such long and soulful speeches? Shock. Although, we were talking about weapons—evidently the main passion of his life. And I agreed with him. Glock is a brand; it's reliability. Но being in the same room as one of the best weapon experts in the world, I couldn't help but satisfy my curiosity.
"Frank, can I ask a couple of questions? I'm a beginner, and almost all my knowledge is from movies and games, so it's likely wrong..."
He nodded slowly.
"So. Why a Glock instead of, say, a Beretta 92FS? It's a classic; the US Army used it for decades."
"The keyword is 'used'," Frank answered without pause. "The Beretta is a decent pistol. Но it's design and ergonomics from the seventies. It's heavier. It has a complex double-action trigger—the first shot requires one amount of force, the second a different one. That's an extra variable when your hands are shaking. The open slide is a magnet for dirt. It just works well. The Glock works well every time. For a beginner, simplicity is life. The fewer the parts, the less chance something will go wrong."
I nodded, accepting his logic. Simplicity is life. Но my curiosity, fed by pop culture, demanded answers.
"Got it. And what about, um..." I hesitated, realizing how stupid this would sound, but the desire to hear the verdict from a professional was stronger than my shame. "The Desert Eagle? I know it's probably overrated, but the stopping power..."
Frank froze for a moment, as if checking if he had misheard. Then he gave a short, dry chuckle, devoid of any mirth.
"Stopping power?" He pointed with his chin at the AK. "A round from a Kalashnikov will go through your target, the guy behind him, and the brick wall behind both of them. In the city, that's called 'over-penetration' and is a direct path to killing innocents. That's a liability." After those words, he went to the back room again and returned with another pistol. "Now, take this."
He handed me a massive, chromed pistol, obviously the Desert Eagle. It weighed like a small anchor.
"Its magazine holds seven rounds. In the Glock," he nodded at the counter, "there are 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. It's a movie prop. Loud, shiny, and absolutely useless in a real fight. Did you come for tools or for props?"
I felt myself blushing and hastily put the Desert Eagle back on the counter. Frank's logic was lethal.
"This, I assume, is an AK-47?" I hurried to change the subject, pointing at the legendary assault rifle.
"That's the one. Kalashnikov assault rifle." Frank ran his hand over the wooden handguard with clear respect. "It'll fire even if you use it as an oar. It doesn't care about mud, sand, or lack of maintenance. The 7.62 round penetrates light cover that the next sample would fail against. It's not as accurate; it kicks harder. Но when it comes down to survival in total shit—it won't let you down. It's not a scalpel. It's an axe. You need both tools."
Then Frank picked up a black, more modern-looking rifle.
"AR-15. LEGO for adults. Light, accurate, ergonomic. The modular system allows you to change everything on it, from the stock to the caliber. Today it's a carbine for close combat. Tomorrow, it's a sniper rifle for medium ranges. It's more finicky than a Kalashnikov; it requires cleanliness and care, like a thoroughbred horse. Но it pays for that with accuracy and convenience."
"Hmm, why not the classic M16? Isn't it like the progenitor of all this?" I gestured vaguely.
"Because the progenitor was half-baked," Frank answered without pause. "The first M16s sent to Vietnam jammed from the humidity. They were being perfected for decades. What lies before you is the result of fifty years of working through mistakes. The AR-15 in a carbine configuration is shorter, lighter, and more reliable than that long musket. You wouldn't use the first version of a program if there's a final release with all the patches, would you?"
"Logical. What about the sniper rifle?" I pointed to the last weapon. It looked surprisingly simple.
"Remington 700. For work at a distance. The bolt group of 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 machine around this bolt. This weapon isn't for rushing. It's for one precise, calculated shot that decides everything."
"But... it looks a bit too simple. I've seen Barrett rifles, for example. They look much more impressive. Aren't they better? I'm ready to pay."
Frank looked at me, and there was no contempt in his gaze, but rather the weariness of a teacher explaining obvious things.
"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 a three-quarter-inch group. You'll only feel the difference when your own skill exceeds the capabilities of this weapon. Years and thousands of rounds will pass before that moment." He pointed at the rifle and then at the whole set. "You'll spend five thousand on all this. And the other fifteen that you would have thrown away on a fancy brand, you'd better spend on ammo and training. That's what will make you better, not the logo on the receiver."
"Thank you for the lesson," I thanked him sincerely. He really had opened my eyes. Frank nodded and summed up.
"This set covers all your needs. A reliable pistol. An accurate carbine. An indestructible assault rifle. And a tool to solve problems at a distance. Learn to master this perfectly, and you'll be more dangerous than 99 percent of armed people on this planet."
"About that 'learn'..." I decided to take a risk. "Could you recommend anyone? A good instructor."
I expected him to give me a business card or a phone number. Но he just looked at me.
"Me," Frank replied without hesitation, surprising me considerably. Seeing the unspoken question on my face, he explained. "This shop is for those in the know. Strangers don't come here. And my markup isn't high. So in parallel, I set the foundation for beginners. Like you."
"And how long will it take to master the basics? Keeping in mind I want to do it as quickly as possible."
Frank thought for a moment, evaluating me.
"Pistol—one hour. AK and AR—three. Remington—another three. Но that's exactly the very basics." He named a price without the slightest bargaining. "Three hundred dollars an hour. In four hours, you'll leave here capable of protecting your life in back-alley gunfights, not just punching holes in paper."
"It's not like I need to shoot my way out of back alleys," I muttered, "but I'll gladly pay for your services as an instructor."
"Then let's go," he said, heading for the exit.
"Right now?"
Frank stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.
"Time is a resource. I don't have much of it. I need to be home by six."
So do I, by the way.
"Then we'll only have time for the pistol and the rifles," I quickly calculated. "We'll deal with the Remington another time."
We didn't delay. I got into my Honda and followed him. Frank's car turned out to be a black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. An old, perfectly restored muscle car whose low, guttural roar seemed to make the asphalt tremble. He led the car through unremarkable streets in Queens, and soon we turned into a deserted industrial alley, stopping at an inconspicuous metal door in a warehouse wall.
The range was a huge basement room. The smell of gunpowder and gun oil here was orders of magnitude thicker than in the shop. Cold gray concrete, walls lined with sound-absorbing tiles, and dim light that was just enough to see the targets. The atmosphere was oppressive, functional, and absolutely devoid of any fluff.
"My task isn't to teach you to enjoy shooting," Frank said, noticing my evaluating gaze. "But to hammer into your muscle memory the skills that will allow you to survive."
"I actually kind of like it here. Atmospheric," I shrugged.
Frank ignored my bravado. He silently laid out two copies each of the Glock, AK-47, and AR-15 on a wooden counter.
"To start with—four fundamental rules. This isn't empty noise. This is your new religion. Memorize them. Rule number one: ALWAYS TREAT A WEAPON AS IF IT IS LOADED."
He picked up a Glock, removed the magazine in one fluid motion, then racked the slide back, visually and tactically checking the chamber.
"There is no concept of 'unloaded'. There is 'loaded' and 'unchecked'. Every time you pick up a weapon, the first thing you do is check the chamber. No exceptions. 'I thought it wasn't loaded' is what they write on the gravestones of idiots. Got it?"
He handed the Glock to me with a clear hint. I nodded and tried to repeat the procedure. I removed the magazine, began to rack the slide... and at that moment, my inexperience showed. For a split second, just one clumsy movement, the barrel of the pistol shifted toward Frank.
His reaction was lightning-fast. He didn't just step aside; his body seemed to blur in motion, instantly moving out of the line of fire. In the next second, he barked, and his voice hit my ears like a gunshot:
"Rule number two: NEVER POINT A WEAPON AT ANYTHING YOU DO NOT INTEND TO SHOOT!"
I froze, turning cold. The silence in the basement became deafening.
"The barrel points either at the target, the floor, or the ceiling," he continued, calmer now but with an icy coldness in his voice. "You'll be pushed, you'll stumble, your finger will slip—the bullet will fly out. And it won't care that you didn't mean it. This is burned into your reflexes. One more time—and I'll break your arm. Understand?"
I swallowed hard and nodded. The lesson was learned. And I really didn't want to check if the "break your arm" part was true.
Frank picked up the second Glock, demonstrating his grip. His index finger lay perfectly flat on the frame, far from the trigger.
"Rule number three: KEEP YOUR FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO SHOOT. Your finger stays on the frame, straight as an arrow. It touches the trigger only at the moment your sights are on the target and you've made the decision to fire. Not before. This is the most common mistake for beginners. And the most deadly."
He put down the Glock and pointed to the far wall with the targets.
"Rule number four: ALWAYS KNOW YOUR TARGET AND WHAT IS BEYOND IT. In the city, there are no 'safe shots'. Bullets penetrate walls, cars, and people. Behind your target could be anyone. Every time you press the trigger, you are responsible for the entire path the bullet takes. No certainty—no shot. So, did you record that?"
I straightened up, looking him straight in the eye, and recited clearly, without a single hitch:
"Always treat a weapon as if it is loaded. Never point it at anything I do not intend to shoot. Keep my finger off the trigger until I am ready. And always know my target and what is beyond it."
The rules were engraved in my brain. Frank nodded silently. The theoretical part was over.
"That'll do," Frank threw out briefly, and there wasn't even a hint of praise in the word, just a statement of fact. "Let's get to practice. We'll start with assembly and disassembly."
He picked up the Glock. His movements were economical, fluid, without a single extra gesture.
"The Glock—as I already said, simple as a brick. There are only five main parts you need to know: the frame, the slide, the barrel, the recoil spring, and the magazine. It comes apart in three seconds." He commented on his every action as if dictating an instruction. "Remove the magazine. Check the chamber. Pull the slide back slightly. Pull down the slide locks. Remove the slide. Done. You must be able to do this blindly, in total darkness, under fire."
Repeating the process once more, this time lightning-fast, he gestured toward the second pistol. The signal for me. I ran the instruction through my head, which was already imprinted in my memory, and picked up the weapon. To my own surprise, I managed it on the first try. My fingers moved with such confidence and precision, as if I had done nothing but disassemble and reassemble Glocks my whole life. The Master Clockmaker's magic worked perfectly, turning any mechanical device into an intuitively understandable system.
Frank stared at my hands in silence for a long time, and his gaze was heavy, analytical.
"You catch on fast," he finally said, and this was the highest degree of praise he was apparently capable of. He immediately picked up the AK. "Now let's move to a weapon created for war, not for an exhibition. The clearances between parts here are such that you can pour sand in there, and it'll still fire. The disassembly is primitive. Press the lock, remove the receiver cover. Take out the recoil mechanism. Pull out the bolt carrier with the bolt. Done. The parts are large and sturdy. This weapon forgives mistakes."
I repeated after him, and again everything went perfectly. The thought of high school basic military training classes made me smirk. Back then, my hands were clumsy, and I mixed up the sequence. Now they moved with a grace and understanding that I didn't fully control. Frank gave a curt nod, his gaze becoming even more studious, and moved on to the last weapon for today.
"And this is a different philosophy. Accuracy and modularity. AR-15. It comes apart into two halves—the upper and lower receiver. Push out two pins, and the rifle 'cracks open'. The bolt group is removed from the back. The parts are smaller, the tolerances are tighter. It requires attention and cleanliness. If dirt gets into an AK, it'll 'spit it out'. If it gets in here—it can jam. Keep that in mind."
Assembly and disassembly didn't take much time. Having made sure I mastered the mechanics, Frank moved to the next stage.
"Now—the basics of combat marksmanship. Your body is the machine that holds the tool. And this machine must be perfectly tuned."
He approached me and harshly, without ceremony, began to correct my posture.
"No relaxed poses. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, body weight—forward, on the balls of your feet. The stance must be aggressive, ready for movement. Hold the pistol as high as possible. The grip—deadly. You must 'crush' the handle so the weapon becomes part of your body, not a separate object."
"What about breathing? That's supposedly important?" I asked, trying to get used to the uncomfortably tense pose.
"In sports competitions—maybe. They'll tell you about holding your breath on the exhale there," there was contempt in his voice. "In a fight, there's no time for that crap. Your heart will be pounding like crazy; 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 an island of calm in the middle of a storm and work from there."
After practicing the stance, practice with the pistol began. Frank explained the difference between two types of reloading.
"Emergency. The fight is in full swing; the slide is locked back. You're empty. Your task is to get the weapon back into action as quickly as possible. The movement is one, continuous: the finger drops the empty magazine; it falls to the ground—forget about it; it won't save your life. Simultaneously, the other hand is already flying to the pouch, getting a full magazine, inserting it, you slap it with your palm and hit the slide release. The weapon is back in the fight. The standard—one and a half seconds."
Even with the Master Clockmaker, my best result after dozens of repetitions was about two seconds. The muscles needed practice.
"Tactical. The fight has quieted down. A few rounds are left in the magazine. Starting a new fight with a half-empty magazine is idiocy. You take out a full magazine, bring it to the pistol. Then carefully remove the partial one and stow it. Only after that do you insert the full one. Do it all naturally at the maximum possible speed, but even so, it's slower; but you preserve ammunition and are always ready for a new skirmish."
I did better with this. The more complex and precise sequence of movements fit my skill perfectly. Frank noticed this.
"More complex means better for you. Like a clockmaker," he muttered under his breath, but I heard.
I also tactfully kept quiet about what kind of fights I was expecting. That would have been stupid. This is the Marvel world. You don't need to look for danger here—it will find you itself.
The last hour of training was the most intense. Frank ran me through drills with the carbines until I was sweating bullets, and his praise, however sparse, for my accuracy was the best reward.
"Look at the rifle," he said, picking up the AR-15. "The sight is here," he tapped the red dot, "and the barrel is here, two and a half inches lower. At fifty meters, it doesn't matter. Но if the target is three meters away and you aim for the head—the bullet will go into the chest. Aim for the eye—you'll hit the chin. This is called height over bore. In close combat, you must instinctively aim higher. We'll practice this until you start feeling it at the level of reflexes."
And we began to practice. I shot... I shot a lot. The recoil, the smell of gunpowder, the ringing of shells—it all merged into a single stream. The climax was the transition drill. When Frank barked: "Empty!", I was already automatically dropping the rifle onto the sling, drawing the pistol, and continuing to fire. As Frank said, this is a drill that saves lives. And I absolutely agreed with him.
By the end of the fourth hour, I felt every muscle. My legs were aching, and my hands were shaking from the strain. Но they remembered. They remembered how to disassemble a Kalashnikov blindly, how to change a magazine on a Glock in two seconds, how to instantly switch to a pistol when the rifle ran out of ammo. I left Frank not as an expert, but with a solid foundation of combat skills. I had bought not just pieces of lethal metal, but understandable and predictable tools. And now, on this foundation, real combat mastery could be built. Six thousand dollars were not spent in vain.
Driving home in the Honda, I thought about Frank. One difficult question was nagging at me: was he already the Punisher or not yet? Remembering his manner, his speech, his dry, grim humor, I concluded that no. There was life in him. There was rage, there was discipline, but there wasn't that dead, scorched emptiness I had read about in the comics. The original Punisher is a deeply sad and broken character who has cast aside humanity. And this Frank was alive. Which meant he had something to live for.
There was a 90% probability that his family was fine. And it would be damn good if it stayed that way. Not out of pure altruism. A stable Frank Castle is a valuable and reliable contact. The Punisher is just a natural disaster. So yeah, someday, when I have enough strength, I'll need to think about how to safeguard his family. Но those are thoughts for the future...
Arriving home, I looked at my already beloved wristwatch. 6:11. Twenty minutes remained before Lucas's courier arrived. I quickly took a shower, washing off the sweat and gunpowder soot, and changed clothes. My muscles had a pleasant ache. Frank had said that despite my innate (acquired, but he shouldn't know that) accuracy, I'd need to spend a couple of hours a week at the range. Zeroing in, honing my skills.
Exactly at 6:30, an inconspicuous cargo van pulled up to the house. Two silent guys in work clothes quickly and professionally unloaded everything I had bought. My garage instantly turned from a relatively spacious workshop into a warehouse of high-tech equipment. Some of the boxes even had to be taken into the house—space was catastrophically lacking.
When the van left, I was alone in the middle of my new arsenal. It was nearing seven in the evening. I looked at the vacuum chamber, at the industrial mixer, at the rolls of aramid fabric, at the crates of chemicals.
All the parts were in place. All the tools were ready. The question now was what to do...