No kindness goes unpunished in “John Henry,” a thug-life thriller so frequently preposterous that it almost resembles a parody. Like “John Wick,” its action is juiced by the killing of a dog; unlike that movie, its titular character (played by the likable Terry Crews) is stoically disinclined to vengeance. A gentle giant with shoulders like an ox, he’s so determined to escape his gangbanging past that when he finally lumbers into action, his weapon of choice is a sledgehammer, not a gun. And his first victim is a car windshield.

The plot — which distractedly follows John Henry’s attempts to protect a Honduran woman from his former gang — is burlesque and the dialogue is a trip. Ken Foree, as John Henry’s salty, disabled father, has a blast delivering a sentimental paean to his character’s once-legendary penis, and a pair of bangers debate the relative merits of being the front, back or center victim in “The Human Centipede.” Gritty home video from the 1990s outlining John Henry’s back story interweaves with scenes of bad guys talking trash and playing cards, while dazed-looking women hang out in the background like dessert. For some reason, all the gang members wear impractical snow-white sweatsuits, probably to enhance our appreciation of the gore when they inevitably get plugged.