[CENTER][b][H1]ＫＩＮＧＰＩＮ[/H1][/b] [hr] [img]https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/archive/6/6a/20160216060329!Kingpinm.png[/img][/CENTER] [i][b]NAME[/b][/i] Wilson Fisk \\ The Kingpin of Crime [b][i]MORAL ALIGNMENT[/i][/b] Villain [b][i]AFFILIATION[/i][/b] The real question is who is Fisk [i]not[/i] affiliated with? When it comes to the criminal underground, Fisk has made a name for himself uniting a small army of gangs and underground organizations. From the Owl Gang to the Hand to the Russian Mob, many of the crime organization on the eastern shores of the U.S. pay their respects to the unified banner of Fisk's coalition. Whilst Fisk's empire is not as rugged as it once was, his name still buys respect in the criminal underworld, and many gangs would be happy to associate themselves with him. Fisk's illegal misgivings are masked by his legitimate investments in business ventures through Fisk enterprises. Notably, Fisk is also rumored to have ties to Hydra, but the validity of these rumors is in dispute. [b][i]ORIGINS / BACKSTORY[/i][/b] Wilson was the son of a New Jersey native, a man who was born and raised in New Jersey by his two Italian parents. It was on a hot and humid New York summer night that Bill Fisk met his soon to be wife in a hazy, smoke-filled hookah bar. Marlena Fisk swore that Bill was a good man when she met him; a genuine sweetheart. But as time passed so did his affection and warmth, with each passing year one another becoming more and more displeased by their entrapment in a marriage in which neither of them felt endearment any longer. Bill was fast becoming a dire alcoholic, and doctors discovered Marlena was slowly becoming schizophrenic, showing primitive stages of the disorder. The only thing that kept them together, the last threads binding them, was their child, Wilson. As Bill Fisk's alcoholism grew, his abuse on his family grew with it; both verbally and physically. Rows plagued the house, and Wilson's father's unpredictable rage and volatility ruled his life. His mother grew more and more schizophrenic as Wilson entered his early and premature teenage years. His father refused her care -- [i]"Do you know how much money that slick shit cost?"[/i] -- and her condition grew worse. It was muggy and sultry August evening when Wilson was 15, when his father came home. He had spent the last of his cash on liquors and gambling it all away at Italian owned casinos. In a spurt of ill-tempered fury, his father began battering his mother with unkempt anger. Fisk attempted to block out the sounds, cowering in his room. However, it was in vain; the screams of his schizophrenic mother, who could no longer make sense of the world around herself, slithered their way into Wilson's head. It was this time, the pre-natal X-Gene, oft said to manifest itself to the beholder of the gene in situations of high stress, emerged within Wilson's body. His muscles swelled, his bones expanded, and his height sprung upward. The gene had mutated him into a giant of a man, seven feet of pure and unadulterated brawn. With anger in his heart for the years spent under the iron fist of his abusive father, he beat him to death with his bare hands, half in act of protecting his defenseless mother and half in act of pent up rage against years of oppression and angst. His mother, no longer recognizing her hulk of a son, cowered in fear from him, any sight of him conjuring up visions of the bloodbath of that fateful August eve. Wilson fled out of state, partly in escape from the law, but also to escape the deep remorse and sorrow he linked with his family home. Perhaps by chance, after a long series of short stints in other cities, Wilson Fisk found himself in the Bronx at the age of eighteen. He may have been just old enough to grow bare whiskers on his chin, but his freakish size and strength offered the luxury of being able to mask his age. Fisk always believed as a kid that strength and power was the key to affording others' respect. Never had the statement rang as true as it did in the underbelly of the Bronx. Wilson used his gifts of considerable size and strength as a weapon, but also as a universal tool to unite those under him. He began a small gang, after all, all criminal masterminds have humble beginnings. He slowly grew his group, whether it be through large recruitment campaigns or whether it be through the assimilation of other gangs, whose facets would be absorbed into Fisk's gang. Slowly but surely, Fisk was building a criminal empire. Fisk's rise to the king of the criminal underworld was slow and steady; it's like they say, the road to top of the mountain is steep and prolonged, but the way down is a sharp, fast drop. Fisk was atop his game, entrenched in his prime if you will, when he met his wife Vanessa. She was a foreign woman, and her perfume gave off a slight hint of oak. She had a mysterious aura to her, one that ultimately became Fisk's weak spot, as he met the love of his life. He met her at an art gallery at which she worked, courting her through his gentility and chivalry. There was a time when Wilson Fisk believed he needed no one else to be content; that he was happy alone. His perception changed as his love for his wife Vanessa grew, and he began to know the true depths of the emotions he was capable of. Emotions which he had suppressed since his childhood, which he had locked away, in an attempt to make himself not feel for anyone anymore. It should be no surprise that when his wife grew sick with something the doctors could not diagnose, Fisk's heart was decimated. He left his crime empire in the hands of one of his associates, and devoted his time to his wife. He threw large amounts of assets and sums of money at doctors, in order to figure out what was causing her illness. A doctor named Dr. Zhoria diagnosed and cured his wife almost miraculously, and in return Fisk promised that if Zhoria ever needed anything Fisk would be at his beckon call. Rival gangs saw this as a moment of weakness. They saw a crown on pedestal, sitting there, beckoning to be taken. Like tide on a beach, Fisk's empire was receding in his absence. But the Kingpin of Crime was back, and ready to take back what was rightfully his. [b][i]POWERS / ABILITIES[/i][/b] The X-Gene in Wilson has afforded him tremendous size and strength. He has become 450 lbs of pure muscle. His stature gives off the visual of blubber; however, his body weight is not as it seems. He can lift things from cars, trucks, and buses to things as large as boulders. He is able to hurl such objects, although not without his fair share of strain. Things such as battleships or other large aircrafts are out of Fisk's weight range, and he is incapable of lifting them. Coupled with his enhanced strength, is his enhanced durability and endurance levels. His ability to resist external blows and attacks his heightened, his thick skin and muscle acting as a pseudo-armor of sorts. This mutation affords him some agility, not superhuman agility, but more agility than you would expect from 7 foot 400 pounder. X-Gene aside, Fisk has many skills, attributes and tools which he can put to work. He is a skilled martial artist, trained in the forms of Sumo. Fisk is multilingual as well. He knows English, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, and Mandarin. Fisk often carries a diamond encrusted walking stick which contains a concealed laser beam piece that fires a quick pulse of 300 watts, which, in case you were wondering, is about enough energy to vaporize a handgun into ashes. Fisk's diamond stickpin also contains a small, highly compressed container of sleeping gas which is effective when fired directly into an opponent's face at close range. But perhaps his most dangerous weapon is his influence in the criminal underworld. His criminal empire is vast, and with it comes an eclectic collection of hitmen, middlemen, thugs, weapons, and allies. Fisk has associates in every alleyway, paid cops in every division, bribed judges in every court, and contacts in every organization. There's a reason they call him the Kingpin of Crime -- it's because New York is [i]his[/i] kingdom. Many gangs in New York rally under Fisk's banner, whether it be the fierce Russians or whether it be the noble Japanese, and it's this aspect of the Kingpin that makes him all the more dangerous. [b][i]SAMPLE ARCS[/i][/b] [i][b]Return of the King:[/b] After spending a year tending to his sick wife, Wilson Fisk is back in the game of crime, and he is not happy to see his kingdom being ransacked by bandits and marauders. Fisk begin's the "hero's quest" to retake his dominion, and reinstate his monopoly on crime. (I'll most likely be using this as my introduction arc) [b]The King's Men:[/b] Fisk amasses a coalition of super villains (whoever is interested) to participate in a crime wave the likes of which New York has never seen. Where there is smoke there is fire, and Fisk uses the distraction of a conglomeration of super villains wrecking down town New York to steal a live Warhead from a military base. [b]All That Glitters is not Gold:[/b] Fisk grooms his prized burglar (The Black Cat) and a group of highly skilled thieves to break into Fort Knox. Oddly enough, it is not the gold that Fisk wants from the government treasury, it is the weapon of mass destruction which the government has tried to stash away inside the fortified walls.[/i] [b][i]SAMPLE POST[/i][/b] Fisk sat at the refined mahogany oak desk which had been custom made for his height. Behind him, a penthouse view unfolded like a pop-up book through large, pristine glass windows. The city churned below, the sounds of engines, car horns, and people fluttering up, barely gasping it's way to audibility so high above the ground. Fisk twirled a pen between his fore finger and thumb as he stared coldly at the man who sat across from him. The man was wearing pinstripe suit and pants, a red tie, and a midnight black fedora. The man's jet black hair was slicked to his left, and a deep gash ran through his cheek. "Money is a callous thing, is it not? Mr... Mr. Belcastro was it, yes?" began Fisk, his voice scratchy like gravel on concrete. "Uh, yes sir-r-r-r," stammered the Italian "businessman" with a heavy accent. "I find that so often it has so much power. It's rather odd when you think about it, that a scrap of green paper holds so much leverage. It has the leverage to turn a man of principles into a man of lies and deceit. Honor and respect smolder, brotherhood and fellowship are cast aside... and it's all just for something as inconsequential as a slip of paper. You wouldn't happen to know what I am talking about, would you?" said Fisk. Before the man had a chance to respond, Fisk continued, "No, I thought not." "Honest, Mr. Fisk, we didn't know! We thought you were gone and -- and, we thought maybe -- " "You know what they say Mr. Belcastro, life and death are but phases of the same thing, the reverse and obverse of the same coin. Death is as necessary for man's growth as life itself. And boy, do I think you're going to sprout and spring, arms stretched towards the sky like a beanstalk," said Fisk, before abruptly standing up, dusting off his trousers. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said, stepping forward from behind his desk. "Please Mr. Fisk, please, I'll do anything, you gotta believe us! We didn't mean for this to happen, honest -- " pleaded the Italian mobster. "James will see you out Mr. Belcastro," he said, nodding at the body guard across the room. Fisk began to walk out of the room, with the man still yelling after him, begging. He stopped and turned to James and saying in a low tone, "Try not to get any on my carpet this time." Fisk barely heard the gunshot on his way out, muttering to himself, "The song is ended, but the melody lingers on... I've got work to do."