The doe grazed in a grassy clearing. She was healthy and intelligent, and as such was perfectly suited for the languageless world of the great outdoors. She strolled calmly around under the orange, cloudy sky. The wind had picked up, and it was still very chilly outside. She shivered as she pushed towards the woods. She picked up her pace for a moment, eager to get back to the safety and comfort of the heavily tree-laden sanctuary that was home.
Her simple brain didn't allow her to enjoy the beauties around her for any reason other than familiarity, but the woods provided a gorgeous backdrop to any human observer. However, in this upstate area of New York, it would be dangerous at night for most people. Hunters only searched for prey during the day, and certainly not in the freezing winter.
A robust branch sounded like a gunshot as it cracked above the doe; she attempted to flee, but was crushed before she could save herself. Foot steps approached from a previously hidden position. The man creating them stood tall and almost handsome, if it weren't for the multiple grizzly looking scars on his face. He was in his late forties, but the plastic surgery he had been addicted to in years past had finally left him with the visage of a young man. He smiled as he bent over and looked in to the confused deer's eyes. Tears of pain and a moan of agony formed from her body. The man mercifully slit her throat with a bowie knife, and she quickly escaped the horror she faced in her final moments.
The man was still learning, but he was already at a stage of moderate skill; he bagged and tied the deer. His muscles were much larger than they used to be, and he was no longer the lean and light boy he remembered from his days of gang violence. He pulled the deer through the woods, and the strong sack he had purchased in town was doing its part to ensure he'd still have his prize when he returned home. As he pulled the doe along the dirt road to the small house he was renting under the name of John Mirra, he passed by the objects he was using to train himself to peak efficiency. Straw dummies stood broken, bits of them blowing across the woods by this point. Targets with circular scoring zones were filled with holes, while others were clean and ready to be fired upon with the various short-range arms that the man was re-connecting with on a regular basis.
Long range weapons were of an interest to him as well. The house sat above a several acre field, and the upstairs window served as a suitable perch for a scoped weapon. The cans and bottles crushed and smashed in the grass suggested the effort had been made countless times to master a sniper weapon's aim, and the man had acquired some skill. The man dragged the deer inside of the house, and looked at the walls. Images of Frank Castle from newspapers, surveillance photos, and even a TV with old news footage of Castle murdering a corrupt cop named Blackwell played. He said to himself, "Some people might say you're obsessed. You're a real piece of work.. Jiggy."