Capo di Tutti Capi - III (Summaries and Notices)

[Seamus Fermanagh]

This thread will be used for announcements as well as a listing of the summaries concluding each day and night phase so as to assist in players making a quicker review of where things stand. Posts by others in this thread should be limited STRICTLY to rules questions.

Preliminary role assignments have been made.

Roles will be going out for the next several hours (some updating must still occur). I just thought up a new twist that I simply have to try....

I will start Capo a little later, at roughly 1600 Eastern (2000 GMT) and the first day phase will last for 24 hours.

Edited In

Below are the basic rules of play as well as a list of players.

Code of Ethics

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To begin with, all players are expected to adhere to the following code of ethics during play. The code has been annotated in a different color text to denote particulars relevant to CdTC-III.

Gameroom Mafia Player’s Code of Ethics

I will endeavor to adhere to the basic rules for good posting/participation expected of all members of the .org community.

I will not use screenshots relating to a mafia game during that mafia game. This includes my posts within the thread, my private messages, my individual e-mails or any other means of communication.

This is hugely important for Capo games. Part of the charm of Capo is the degree of ambiguity and the lack, for the most part, of absolute results on investigations etc. You are free to fabricate, connive, or otherwise finesse your way to success. Screenshots destroy this and make the game pretty much moot.

I will not use an alternate .org identity for any aspect of a mafia game and will restrict myself to the identity used in signing up for the game for all communication relating to that game. Note: multiple identities is against org policy and may draw unfavorable attention from moderators and administrators.

If I have additional abilities as a moderator or administrator on the forum, I will endeavor not to use those abilities as part of my participation in a mafia game, save where asked to do so by the game’s host in response to a valid moderator-related question or function.

As I have learned, it is impossible for moderators to "turn off" some features, such as their ability to see those who are "invisible." I am also well aware of the personal sense of honor moderators bring to the job -- players have nothing to fear regarding their mods in a game setting, as much history here in the Gameroom will confirm. Also, a moderator who did contravene such might fall afoul of TosaInu. The last to do so was....well, its hard to believe that in a country as small as The Netherlands, they still haven't found anything....

I will not quote from a private message or from a chat log in the main thread of a mafia game and will not do so in private messages, e-mails, or other communications with anyone who was not originally a party to that message or chat unless permitted to do so by the game host.

Such quotations ARE permitted in CdTC-III, provided that no screenshots are used and that none of the restricted information (noted in red on your role PMs) from your role PMs is discussed. Please remember that our creative group might also be fabricating this sort of thing.

I will endeavor to abide by the rules and conditions laid out by a host for her or his own game at all times.

If I believe that I have accidentally contravened this code, broken one of the rules laid out by the host, or believe myself to be on the receiving end of another who has done so, I will report my behavior to the host, attaching any relevant support information, and await the decision of that game host before continuing play.

Rules of Play

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Setting

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Fatlington, New Jersey, February 1951:

It’s a cool and -- for the Jersey Shore -- surprisingly snowy February. Fatlington has been isolated by federal authorities and the New Jersey guard and the locals are all but panicking at the isolation. To add to this pressure cooker, Commissioner Fermanagh has learned that the mafia -- thought to have been defeated -- is once again attempting to make a play for control of Fatlington. Mayor Tosa Inu, who is off visiting his Argentine mistress away on a hiking trip in the Appalachians, has instructed Fermanagh to reconvene the Committee of Vigilance to deal with this threat.

You are one of the city's "best and brightest" who will be part of the committee. As is usual with these sad affairs, some of those present are responsible for the town's troubles and it is your job to weed them out and save the town. Sadly, Fatlings (only snobbish New Yorkers say Fatlingtonians) are all too familiar with this process. It bodes well to be a "sickly season" for Fatlington.

It is Thursday, February 1st, 1951. The United Nations are fighting the "police action" in Korea, and have just recently absorbed the longest retreat in US history following the intervention of the Chinese "volunteers" in November of 1950. It is the winter of the "Frozen Chosin" and bitter fighting in North Korea. Europe is still a shambles following the Second World War and just beginning its recovery. Israel is less than two years old and enjoying a brief respite between wars. At home in the USA, Sen. Joseph McCarthy is in his hey-day hunting communists, Truman's popularity is waning, the Down Jones average is 269, a car costs $1800 and the average annual salary is $4200. Television is just beginning it's takeover of America. In 1948, there were only 350,000 TV's in operation. At the start of 1951, there were around 2 million (fully a third of them in New York City), but by the end of 1951 there would be over 7 million sets in the USA and I Love Lucy starts in October. But will Fatlington move into the modern era? If so, under whose control?

How to Win

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In general, the town wins when all the mafia Dons are dead – including any new Dons that have “hatched.” A mafia family wins when its members outnumber the remaining mafia & townspeople (which include any independent Wise Guys for this purpose) and all of the other family’s mafia dons are dead. A draw can occur if all of the mafia Dons have died and the numbers of remaining “townies” and Mafiosi are exactly equal.

Individually, each player will have the opportunity to earn a level of victory roughly parallel to that used in the Total War series. The specifics (subject to gamehost adjustment) for a Decisive, Clear, or Close victory will be spelled out in your role PMs, as well as the conditions for the degree of a loss.

Game Phases and Basic Gameplay

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At the outset of the game you will be randomly assigned a role, the role PM explaining the particulars will be sent to you, and shortly thereafter, play will commence.

For the most part, the usual sequence of 24-hour days and 24-hour nights will be followed. Some of these phases (notably nights 1 and 2) may be extended where necessary to account for outside events/unusual situations. In no instance, save for the first day phase, will the time period be decreased below 24 hours. Please note, however, the first phase of this game will be a day phase (Day One) during which no lynching will occur, only the initial Director’s selection (see roles below).

Day Phase: Each day the town may vote to lynch one suspect from among the list of players. Each townsperson save for the director can cast one vote (see below for procedure). On odd-numbered day phases, the town also votes to select a Director (see below for procedure). The game-master will write up the results of these votes and post them for general consumption, along with any juicy particulars about any executions. The game then proceeds to the next night phase.

Night Phase: Every role has something to do at night – even if your choice is to do nothing. Since every role can be active, with investigations attempted, murders, etc., all players should PM the game-master during each night phase to indicate their actions. The game-master will respond as quickly as possible, and will write up results that take effect immediately prior to the next day phase and voting. THe first two night phases will probably be lengthier than normal to provide coordination and discussion time at the outset of the game.

Night Actions: Every player has the option to “get some sleep” on any given night. Depending on roles, you may be attempting a kill, investigating someone, or protecting someone instead. Unless indicated otherwise by specific instructions in your role PM, most night actions aside from investigations require teams of participants. Note:

a) You may participate in one and only one killing attempt or protection attempt each night. Investigations MAY – depending on role – be done in addition.

b) Your PM's to me must indicate clearly your actions and provide all of the necessary information or you will be listed as "sleeping" that night. Feel free to provide whatever level of detail you wish (kill specifics etc). Within the constraints of playability I will endeavor to use all such material, but reserve the right to edit if necessary for game play.

PM Example:

Night 4: Working with Red Harvest and Divinus Arma, I will kill Strike for the South.

c) should one of the partners in your group fail to PM me, or should they PM me with different instructions (accidentally or on purpose), you group may not have the requisite numbers to perform a given night action successfully. The write up will indicate that failure, but may or may not reveal who did not participate.

Note: Townies participating in a “vigilante” killing who end up operating solo, by happenstance or betrayal, run a risk of being killed (1 chance in 3). Wise Guys or Mafiosi operating solo run a risk of being identified (1 chance in 6).

PM's and PMing

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As you have probably already noted, significant part of the game-play involves PMs sent back and forth between the Host and the players.

PMs are expected each night from all players so that I can write-up the actions for a given night and provide you with the results. Please be patient with this process, as there are a lot of folks, particularly in the first few rounds, with whom I have to exchange messages.

PMs will be sent notifying you of investigation results, night action results, changes in status, as well as your starting role in the game.

PLEASE get your PM to me by the deadlines posted in the thread. I will seldom be able to take a “late” PM and have it count as this is unlikely to be fair to the other players.

To familiarize you with the format I will use in PM’s here are two examples:

#1 A copy of the starting role PM that will be sent to all townspersons.

Role

Townie

Victory Condition

You achieve victory by voting to lynch suspicious individuals and/or participate personally in their removal until such time as: a) all of the Mafia Dons, original and created, have been killed and the remaining townies and unaligned WiseGuys outnumber the remaining Mafiosi OR until your character has died. Your personal survival, though it will add to the level of your victory, is secondary to the overall success of the town.

Powers & Responsibilities

A. General:

1. Townies have no special role-related qualities at the outset of the game – you are the “salt of the earth” of Fatlington.

2. Here is where information as to any whacky individual characteristics will go. They will NOT be for sharing with any other player, but may provide you some advantage. ANY information in RED on your rolesheets is to be held in strict confidence and NOT shared in any manner during the game unless specified by the role itself without the express prior consent of the Game host. You have been warned. Save it for your post-game write up.

B. Day Actions:

1. You can select/vote as can all players.

C. Night Actions:

1. In combination with 3 other townies, you can form a vigilante group (4 required) and attempt to kill one other player. More than 4 townies can work in the same group, though this does not provide any other benefit aside from participation credit. If only 2 or 3 townies participate in a kill effort, that effort automatically fails. If only 1 townie attempts a kill, that effort fails and the townie has a 1 in 3 chance of dying themselves in making the failed attempt.

2. After two such successful kills, you may elect to continue the game as a Wiseguy, or you may remain a Townie. You will be given this role-change opportunity only once.

3. In combination with 2 other townies, you can form a protection group (3 required) and attempt to protect one other player. If no attack occurs, nothing happens. If the target is attacked your group will save her/him and receive credit for the save. More than 3 townies can work in the same group, though this does not provide any other benefit aside from participation credit. If only 2 townies participate in a save effort and the target is attacked, that effort automatically fails. If only 1 townie attempts a save and the target is attacked, that effort fails and the townie has a 1 in 3 chance of dying themselves in making the failed attempt.

4. After two such successful saves, one of your group may be selected (randomly) to continue the game as a Doctor. If refused, the opportunity will be passed to another member of that group. You will be given this role-change opportunity only once.

5. If you: a) choose to continue in a protection group without becoming a doctor, b) have never participated in a killing, and c) you participate in a two additional saves, you will be offered the opportunity to become a Detective for the remainder of the Game. You will be given this role-change opportunity only once.

D. Investigations

1. If investigated by a Detective or a Made Gangster, it is most probable that you will be discovered as “innocent.” Remember, however, that a significant minority (20%) of townspeople will register as “unclear” rather than innocent if investigated by a Made and as “criminal” if investigated by a detective. These 20% minorities will not be the same for both categories. You will only register as “guilty” if you have participated in a killing.

2. You may not investigate another player.

Victory Conditions

Town win with 41+% of original townie roles surviving = decisive victory.
Town win with 21-40% of original townie roles surviving = clear victory.
Town win with fewer than 20% of the original townie roles surviving = close victory.
Neither side wins = draw.
Town defeat with fewer than 10% of the orginal mafiosi or wiseguys surviving = close defeat.
Town defeat 11-25% of orginal mafiosi or wiseguys roles surviving = clear defeat.
Town defeat 26+% of orginal mafiosi or wiseguys roles surviving = decisive defeat.
-- Your personal survival moves you one category up on this scale.

Role Changing

As noted above under night actions, it is possible for you to change roles. Once you change roles from Townie to WiseGuy, Doctor or Detective, however, you may not reverse the decision – you have made a permanent change. You may progress into other roles from there as appropriate to your new role. Victory conditions will be as for that new role.

#2 Results PM

RE: N4

AB, BC, CD: Protect Tosa Inu = Success!

As this is the 2nd success for all of you, one of you will be promoted to Doctor. The person randomly selected is BC (new role PM will follow shortly).

Clarity to Balance the Ambiguity

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Upon death, the local gendarmerie will launch a full investigation of that individual to try to determine the reason they were killed. Though slow (results reported on the 3rd morning after death), their then-current role will be revealed. Unfortunately, the specific actions of that individual -- what they did with their role -- will remain a mystery (until the post-game!).

Since investigations are imperfect in this game and since roles can be taken a number of different directions (or even changed), this provision gives the town some hope of a successful conclusion. Please note however, that this revelation will occur a significant period of time after the death of that player.

Lynch Voting and Director Selection

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There are two types, lynch voting and Director selection. Each living townie except the director may vote to lynch one townsperson per day. On odd-numbered days, each living townie may also vote for the next director (who gets a two-day term).

To lynch a suspect:

You may vote or not vote at your choice. Please be aware however, that persistently avoiding the voting process will result in your removal from play. While the game-master reserves the right to remove someone from play when/if needed at the host's discretion, as a “rule-of-thumb” missing 3 votes in a row or 5 overall is likely to result in your removal.

Legal vote choices include:
1. voting by name for a living fellow townie to express your preference for their lynching
2. voting “abstain” indicating you have no preference as to who is lynched
3. voting “no lynch” indicating that you want no one lynched that day
4. voting “present” to indicate your continued participation

To be counted, a vote MUST be posted in bold typeface using the following format:

e.g. Vote: Seamus

To change a vote, please post the following:

e.g. Unvote: TosaInu; Vote: Seamus

To select a Director:

You may:

1. “Select: Name” to select a given player as director
2. “Select: Abstain” indicating you have no preference
3. “Select: Vacant” to have the post vacant (filled by Chief Seamus)
4. “Select: Present” to indicate your continued participation

To be counted, a vote MUST be posted in bold typeface using the following format:

e.g. Select: Seamus

To change a vote, please post the following:

e.g. Sack: TosaInu; Select: Seamus

IMPORTANT RULE NOTIFICATION BY HOST: You may NOT edit a post containing a vote or selection. If you do this, you will receive a warning. Repeat it, and you will be removed from the game. It is important for players (and the host) to be able to track such changes properly. Remember, you are free to change your vote and/or re-post any other information in a new post, but do NOT edit the vote/selection post itself. Thanks.

Playing While Dead

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While there are no "hero closets" in CdTC, you ARE encouraged to continue play once your character has died so as to contribute to your family/side's victory if possible.

There ARE important restrictions than must be observed:
1. The dead may post, but not vote/select nor carry out any night actions.
2. Dead players may not reveal their roles publicly or privately until that role has been revealed as per section V and may not reveal their “familiy” or role particulars even after that time.
3. Dead players may not quote from a PM unless that PM has been posted in the public thread by a living player.
4.Dead players may not reveal, recount or allude to their previous night actions (or results thereof in the case of investigations) publicly or privately – even to confirm a previously made public or private reveal.
5. Unsure? Ask the host!

PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH THIS! Both previous iterations of CdTC came close to being scrapped because one or more of the recently dead was frustrated and posted material that should not have been. As this can spoil the play/chances of others, it is very important that you abide by the rules above. Frustration at your being betrayed is understandable, but remember that it is just a game and that others, including your team-mates and associates, are still at play. Moreover, moderators take a dim view of such antics and could suspend your Gameroom privileges -- please make this rendition of CdTC fun for all even if you are momentarily frustrated.

Screenshots and Miscellaneous Points

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No screenshots may be used, from or to anyone, for ANY purpose – this includes during PMs. Feel free to quote from the public portion of my Role PM’s to you or to fabricate as you see fit. Each role PM will also have an “eyes only” section that is never to be revealed, quoted, or alluded to in your interactions with others under penalty of removal from the game.

Chatlog conversations may be referenced/quoted, but may not be copied via screenshot. Note: it can be difficult to maintain role secrecy during chat conversations.

"Suicide" will not be allowed in this game (it is possible to create an unplayable game with nothing but suicide pact challenges going on. This is not the intended mode of play for this game).
Players who must remove themselves from play for schedule reasons should send me a PM. I will then write them out of play.

It is STRONGLY suggested that all players enable “invisible” mode so that technology is not used to trap you. If you remain visible while on the .org boards, your activity can be logged and compared against a "normal" profile providing clues as to your role, working partners, etc.

Game Roles

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Usually referred to in the male singular, no disrespect intended.

Townie Roles:

Detective:

May investigate two persons per night phase. The investigation will list the individual as innocent (Townie, Don), criminal (Luca, Made not killing, Wise Guy not having killed at all, and some townies), or guilty (Luca or Made on the night of kill, Wise Guy or Townie who has killed – you either get the current kill or their whole track record as well). Acts as a Townie in other respects. Always reads as “innocent” if investigated.

Doctor:

May protect one person from murder each night phase (this protection extends to multiple attempts). Acts as a Townie in other respects. After 2 successful protections (attacked, did not die), the Doctor becomes a Surgeon. Doctors display investigation results as for a standard townie.

FBI Detective:

May investigate two persons per night phase. Results, which parallel those of the regular detective but tend to be more accurate given the FBI’s greater resources, are delayed in comparison to a normal detective because of the need to interact with FBI bureaucracy. May not participate in any murders and always reads as “innocent” if investigated.

Surgeon:

Functions in all respects as a Doctor, but anyone attacking the Surgeon’s protectee not only fails to kill the target, but has a 1 in 3 chance of dying in the attempt. Unlike Doctors, surgeons always register “innocent” if investigated.

Townie:

A townie has no special abilities – at least at the start. Most Townies will appear as “innocent” if investigated by a detective, though 1 in 6-8 will appear “criminal” despite their innocence. If investigated by a Made, most will appear “innocent” though 1-2 in 6 will appear “unclear.” Townies may band together to kill one target per night phase, but must do so in groups of 4. If this strategy is chosen, you will appear “guilty/criminal” in subsequent investigations. Townies who have successfully accomplished 2 murders will all change roles to Wise Guy(Gal). Townies may also band together in groups of 3 to provide protection to one Townie (not in their group), functioning as a Doctor. 2 successful protections (attacked, did not die) allow them to select one of their group as a full Doctor. Each subsequent successful protection will result in another member being promoted.

Neutral Roles:

Director of the Committee of Vigilance:

On the first day phase, and then on each odd numbered day phase thereafter, the town elects the person who will direct the lynching effort. That person shall be director for the next two lynchings following their selection. [e.g. Elected Day 1, Director Day 2, Director Day 3, Elected Day 3, Director Day 4 & 5, etc.] That person will choose the lynching mode, carry out the lynching, and, in the event of a tie vote, the director will decide who among those tied for the most votes will be executed. The director can execute none, one, more, or all of those tied votees at the Director’s discretion. The Director is provided with a special goon squad to aid in the executions, and this squad also makes it impossible to kill the Director while they are in office. While directing the lynchings, the individual in question may not vote for anyone to be lynched, though they may help select the next director.

Wise Guy/Gal:

A wise guy/gal belongs to no criminal family…yet. They may be recruited by a family and start doing “wetwork” for that family; they may “go straight” functioning as a regular townie and not getting involved in crime, or they may attempt to operate in conjunction with a group of individuals sharing the same wise guy/gal role, creating their own “family.”

If investigated by a detective, the Wiseguy will appear “criminal” if they have not been involved in a killing and “guilty” if they have…even if that killing was a while back. If investigated by a made, they will appear either as “criminal” or “unclear.”

A Wiseguy becomes a “Made gangster” after having participating in 3 killings for a family and having received consent from the family Don. They may or may not be made aware of the Don’s identity, at that family’s discretion. They do assume the investigative powers of a Made gangster as well as their investigation status.

Wiseguys operating as an independent “family” have no Dons, Mades, or Lucas, and can perform only 1 killing for each 3 Wiseguys. Following their 3rd successful murder, these 3 wiseguys may choose one of their group to become a Made. Each subsequent killing will result in a further promotion.

Mafiosi Roles:

Don(na):

A Don is the leader of her/his crime “family.” Their objective is to eliminate all of the other dons in the game, and to have more members in their crime “family” than the total of innocent townies and opposing criminals, thus gaining control and becoming the “Capo de tutti Capi.” There will be 5 families: Corleone, Tataglia, Barzini, Stracchi, and Cunnio; bold for small game]

A Don normally cannot kill opponents during a “night” phase, and must work through others. Normally, however, they appear as “innocent” if investigated by a detective or made, so they can camouflage themselves well. Even the FBI detective is unlikely to spot them. If the Don has lost all the other members of her/his family, they may perform 1 kill per “night” phase. However, subsequent to any such killing they will be identified as “guilty” if investigated by a detective, and “criminal” if investigated by a made.

In addition, a Don is normally protected by their Luca, making them effectively unkillable. Should her/his Luca not be functioning in “protection” mode, the Don may be killed as would any other Townie.

Luca:

A Luca is one of the two initial “Made” gangsters in a crime family. The Luca’s objective is to protect their “Don.” This protection function is always “on” unless the Luca is undertaking other duties. The Luca is automatically aware of the identity of the family don.

A Luca does not normally kill opponents during a “night” phase, but may function as a Made gangster in this regard (no recruiting investigation), participating in a killing each night. If participating in a killing that “night,” the Luca cannot provide protection for the don. A Luca appears “criminal” if investigated by a Detective or Made, but “guilty” only on the night of a killing even if they have participated in killings before.

Made Gangster:

A Made is one of the two initial “Made” gangsters in a crime family. Their objective is to lead up the “wet-work” efforts on behalf of their crime family, eventually controlling the town. If investigated by a Detective or another Made, a Made gangster appears “criminal.” If investigated by a Detective during a “night” phase in which the made gangster is actively involved in a killing, they appear “guilty.” In addition, a Made gangster can conduct one “recruiting” investigation per “night” phase. This investigation will determine if the individual is “criminal,” “innocent,” or “unclear.” The initial made gangster of a family is automatically aware of the identity of the family Don.

If a family Don has been killed (or never existed), the Made may become a Don provided that:

There is at least one other Made in the family.
All the other Made Gangsters in your family agree to your becoming the Don.
You did not participate directly in the killing of the previous Don.

*General notes for the mafia:

A mafia family may, during each “night” phase, make one killing for every two made gangsters or sanctioned wise guys. It need not kill its entire quota each night. This does mean that, without recruiting, no kills can be made on the first “night” except by using the Luca as a Made and teaming up with the existing Made.

Made gangster investigations – given their lack of official resources – are a little chancy. “Innocents” may be regular Townies, Detectives, or a Don. “Criminals,” will include your potential recruits, the Wise guys/gals, but will also include the Mades or Lucas of another family. “Unclear” will usually indicate a Wise guy/gal, but a few of the regular Townies with a shadier past will be included in this label as well.

Secret Roles:

At least one, and potentially more, will be included. The particulars are…well…secret.

The first iteration of Capo featured: A Serial Killer who took violent objection to anyone voting for them to be lynched; A Rogue Detective who could investigate and then act as a vigilante; and The Wolf, who was a special “investigation spoofer” for the mafia. These roles may, or may not, repeat.

The second iteration featured: a Rogue Detective, Two serial killers with different motivations, a mafia counter-infiltration agent, and a team of "crusaders" who would hunt mafia and/or one another.

This will serve as the master set of rules to govern gameplay for CdTC-III. If you have any questions or comments please post them here in the sign up thread. Once this thread is closed, further queries should be made to the host by PM.

For your information, reading pleasure, and to help generate strategems...

Link for Capo di Tutti Capi and the Capo I information summary thread.

Link for Capo di Tutti Capi II and the Capo II information summary and story threads.

[Reenk Roink]

Read the rules and didn't see this covered. What are the exact WoG limits and participation minimums? Thanks.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Rule of thumb is:

Miss 3 votes in a row of 5 total and you could be gone.

Do not communicate with the host at all for 3+ phases and you could be gone.

Communicating with your fellow players is up to you.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Game start will be unavoidably delayed. Our newish PM system, which so kindly lists other recipients of the same message, requires that I send individual messages to all 75. This will take a bit, but will proceed as rapidly as possible.

Remember all information in RED cannot be discussed with others unless specified in that informaiton.

[TinCow]

Game start will be unavoidably delayed. Our newish PM system, which so kindly lists other recipients of the same message, requires that I send individual messages to all 75. This will take a bit, but will proceed as rapidly as possible.

I'm pretty sure you can avoid this by using the BCC option. As I understand it, people listed in the BCC section will not appear on PMs sent to everyone else. Thus, if you put everyone in the BCC list, they will not know who received the PM other than themselves.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Thanks Tincow, but GH beat you to it.


ALL: about 2/3 through the PMs, with more to follow later this evening and early tomorrow. I will probably not be able to start the game until tomorrow at 11am (?) Eastern. More work than I expected, and I am trying to minimize mistakes.

Thanks for your patience.

[Beefy187]

Game start will be unavoidably delayed. Our newish PM system, which so kindly lists other recipients of the same message, requires that I send individual messages to all 75. This will take a bit, but will proceed as rapidly as possible.

Remember all information in RED cannot be discussed with others unless specified in that informaiton.

Can we discuss red info in public?

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Can we discuss red info in public?

NO, unless the red info itself says so.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

All players have received their role PMs. Some follow up material is pending as is the Morning Day one Post.

I'll have it all up and running by 11am Eastern. That's now a hard target start time for Capo. I'll spell out deadlines and such in the OOC portion of the starter post.

Goodnight.

[The Stranger]

not my fault.

[TinCow]

Do protection groups still exist? and if not, why not?

From the Rules:

Townies may also band together in groups of 3 to provide protection to one Townie (not in their group), functioning as a Doctor. 2 successful protections (attacked, did not die) allow them to select one of their group as a full Doctor. Each subsequent successful protection will result in another member being promoted.

has the game started already?

Read the post directly above your own.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

THIS SPOT TO BE OCCUPIED BY COOL PICTURE SOON – Check Back Later


Morning Meeting, Friday February 1st 1951 (Day One):

The sky was gray and the day promised to be liberally sprinkled with light rain. Fatlington reveled in gray days, the only days where the weather matched the dingy outlook of the city itself. A collection of buildings of 10 stories or less, save for Mercy Hospital and The Hotel Abbatoir, Fatlington just hunched on the barrier island between the cold gray Atlantic and the cool dank salt marsh separating it from the mainland.

Fatlington had seen better days. Each election the voters were turned out with assurances that the “good times” would return. Each time they were disappointed. Fatlington hadn’t been part of “the scene” since Roosevelt was elected….Teddy that is.

Yet once again, history began to repeat itself. Fatlington, for all its tawdry and faded glory, held a certain “position” in the ambitions of many, and that ambition was about to be tested once again. It left many in Fatlington despairing, wondering just…

“…how in the can this always be happening HERE! What,” said Commissioner Fermanagh, “have we done to deserve this…again?”

[I]He looked out across the faces gathered in the small ballroom overlooking the boardwalk at the back of the convention center. The faces were guarded, and no one answered what had been, more or less, a rhetorical question. The Commissioner continued in a more subdued tone.

“This morning the Governor declared martial law in Fatlington and has mobilized the Guard to completely quarantine the city. In addition, all phone service off the island and all outgoing radio broadcasts have been blocked or had their signals jammed.”

The 76 people present murmured to themselves.

“The official reason the Governor is using is fear of another deadly flu outbreak. Nobody is stating the real reason for such a strong military response but Mayor TosaInu says his sources are hinting at some kind of concern coming from Washington.

Of course, this had to happen at a time when we’ve received information suggesting that the mafia is planning another effort to take over Fatlington. The last time, they ended up running the city for months and caused no end of problems for the police and the feds. I was…we were powerless to make a difference until the State authorities showed up in that crackdown.”

People were nodding throughout the room. The memories were recent and all too fresh.

“Since we’re already under quarantine and martial law, hizzoner is ordering me to re-open the Committee of Vigilance and charge you all, the best and brightest of Fatlington, with trying to weed out the mafia in our midst. Some of you know how this works, but let me remind you all. Today, you’ll discuss and then select a Director of the Committee. Each day thereafter, you will vote to lynch those among you who have proven themselves to be part of the mafia scum seeking to destroy us and we’ll keep lynching until we’ve ended the problem.”

The group greeted this pronouncement with silence. The recent history of Fatlington made everyone aware that this was not some joke. It was very…painfully…true.

“The director will get a squad of police to protect her or him during their duties – we will select a new director every other day – and of course the Director can’t vote except for their tie-breaking powers. My officers will pass around a sheet with the particulars on voting and the like.

Now, the town is going crazy, and with half my officers serving with their reserve units in Korea, I’ll be hard pressed just to keep the lid on this almost riot. Stopping the mafia will be up to you. Good Luck.”

The committee members waited with grim faces as the officers passed out ballots and set up the voting table.

“We’ll meet here every morning to review the events of the preceding night, pass along any information, and set up your discussions. We’ll then meet back here every evening to conduct the votes…and the executions.

“Mother Mary preserve us all….”

Fermanagh made the sign of the cross, then turned and walked from the room.

It was only moderately chilly outside, but Fatlington seemed to grow colder and colder.


OOC

Day One begins 1100 in main thread. This thread is now for summaries and rules queries only. Players will have until 1200 Eastern (1600 GMT) to lodge a vote for the initial Director. Night One will follow immediately and will probably conclude at 2000 Eastern (2400 GMT) on Sunday.

At the start, there are 76 players (listed alphabetically below):

a completely inoffensive name
A Very Super Market
AggonyDuck
Andres
Askthepizzaguy
atheotes
Beefy187
Beskar
Caius
Centurion 1
Chaotix
CountArach
Cowhead418
Craterus
Crazed Rabbit
Death is Yonder
Diana Abnoba
Discovery1
DisgruntledGoat
DJGingivitis
Double A
Dutch_guy
El Diablo
Gaius Scribonius Curio
GeneralHankerchief
gibsonsg91921
Glyphz
Greyblades
Haudegen
Ichigo
Imperator Invictus
Ironside
Iskander 3.1
Joe Monks
johnhughthom
Jolt
Jooray
Kagemusha
Khazaar
Kommodus
KurkriKhan
Leet Erickson
LittleGrizzly
Lord Winter
Moros
Myrddraal
Nole4694
Pannonian
pevergreen
Proletariat
Psychonaut
Quintus.JC
Reenk Roink
Rhyfelwher
Ricera10
Sasaki Kojiro
scottishranger
Shinseikhaan
shlin28
Sigurd
Skooma Addict
slashandburn
splitpersonality
SSNeoperestroika
The Stranger
TinCow
Tratorix
Truepraetorian
Twilightblade
Veronica "Trouble" Toluso
Warmaster Horus
White_Eyes:D
woad&fangs
Xehh II
Yaropolk
YLC

Replacement as needed:

Cultured Drizzt Fan (twin scimitars currently in shop for honing)

[Askthepizzaguy]

This might be a good question to have answered publicly, so I'm posting it here.

For protection groups, do people have to indicate who they are protecting with?
For example, Players A, B, and C all want to protect player Pizzaguy (bc he's awesome)
Does player A have to say "I protect Pizza with players B and C" And player B and C have to say the same thing? Or do they just say "protect pizzaguy"

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Lastly, If pizza picks players for protection per pizza policy, how many pizza slices per player must pizza promise?

[Seamus Fermanagh]

O Lithium sunset
And take this lonesome burden
Of worry from my mind
Take this heartache
Of obsidian darkness
And fold my darkness
Into your yellow light
-- Lithium Sunset

Sunset Day One

Fermanagh quickly totaled up the votes.

"Out of 76, 55 of you voted. With 22 votes, you've selected Reenk Roink as your initial Director of the Committee. We'll gather here in the morning to review events and remind you all of the procedures for tomorrow evening's vote. Mr. Reenk, if you would come up here and gavel this session closed."

Reenk Roink walked steadily to the front and took the gavel. He'd told stories of past efforts and caused many on the committee to laugh. It had been enough to put him -- and his veering sense of humor -- in charge of the town's effort.

As he gaveled things to a close for this session, the committee members began to file out of the room. Night was coming to Fatlington.


Selections:

Reenk Roink = 22 (Aggonyduck, Atheotes, Beefy187, Chaotix, Crazed Rabbit, Death is Yonder, Discovery1, GSC, Joe Monks, Joooray, Kukrikhan, Leet Erickson, Lord Winter, Moros, pevergreen, scottishranger, slashandburn, Tratorix, Twilightblade, White_Eyes:D, Yaropolk, YLC).

GeneralHankerchief = 11 (askthepizzaguy, CountArach, Double A, GeneralHankerchief, Haudegen, johnhughthom, Kagemusha, Myrddraal, Sigurd, Splitpersonality, Tincow)

Shlin28 = 5 (gibsonsg9121, Ichigo, QJC, shlin28, woad&fangs)

A Very Super Market = 2 (acin, avsm)

Numerous others with one vote, mostly auto-votes.

OOC

Night Orders for Night One due 2000 Eastern on 8/9/9. Earlier preferred as it speeds the writeup. Be sure to put "N1 Orders" in the subject line to ease screening.

Reenk, you'll have to give me info on execution stuff etc. in time for writing it up at the end of day 2.

EDIT: Reminder -- all night orders must match for the mission to be carried out successfully, and all participating in a group must submit coordinating orders.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

And it begins anew
The hatred of mankind
As it seeks to kill that which lives inside

Now we are dying,
Dying the slowest death
Held down by bonds that bind us
We breath our final breath

And it begins anew
The burning we endure
As we seek the srrength, strength to break the bonds…

From dust you were born,
And to the ashes you return….

-- Killswitch Engage


Summary of Events, Night One

As this gray day ended and the sky faded from comparative brightness of day to the growing dark of twilightt, The Stranger headed home, disappointed that his rhetoric had not captured the minds of his fellows. The Stranger mumbled to himself as he climbed the stoop to his door.

“I could have given them everything! If they sought entertainment, I would’ve given them that! If they wanted grit, I’d’ve done it! But they pick lesser men, who cannot offer either one or the other. What the deuce is a Wanax anyway? Harrumph!"

Fiddling with his keys, The Stranger opened his door and stepped through. The sap caught him neatly on the side of his head, leaving him in darkness.


Beefy187[I] always enjoyed his evening walks. Following the meeting, he chose to walk along the main street, Atlantic Avenue, to gauge for himself the mood Fermanagh had claimed for the Fatlings. From the murmurs and scowls he saw exchanged as he walked a half-dozen blocks, it grew apparent that Fermanagh had been right – at least about this. Beefy paused for a moment, his eyes resting on the strange pole-sword that transfixed the thin Elm tree just in front of him.

<>

Two kuni whirled in rapid succession out of the shadows under the trees of Seaside Park. The first, just missing Beefy’s neck, cut a thin line, like a shaving cut, along his jaw, thunking into the tree just below the ashenderei that Beefy had been admiring. The second, striking as Beefy began to drop prone, neatly snatched Beefy’s fedora from his head and pinned it – improbably enough – to the haft of the pole-sword itself. Beefy rolled as he dropped, but could do no more than catch a glimpse of a black-clad figure retreating quickly from the scene to the far side of Seaside Park. Only then did the Beefy’s legs turn to jelly and the shaking begin. His evening walks would never be quite so refreshing again.


Jolt, askthepizzaguy, Andres, and Dutch-guy had stopped off for a bite at a local Italian eatery near the convention center. Their tensions never quite eased as much as they had hoped, despite the excellence of the scallopini and liberal dosages of chianti. There wasn’t anything that you could point a finger at as being significant -- a periodic sense that others were nearby, a hint of something in the shadows as they’d walked to the ristorante, the unexpected convenience of 4 well-lit cabs waiting for them just as they exited the eatery – but all these little occurrences made it seem as though someone were watching over them. All’s well that ends well, but none of the four ever did totally relax.


Quintus.JC had opted out on Italian food, preferring instead to take his refreshment in liquid form at the bar at the Hotel Abbatoir. His suave style and chiseled good looks produced their usual benefits, but this evening, rather than taking up one of the proffered offers, QJC had given both of the room keys to the front desk attendant to be returned to their delightfully feminine hotel guests. Tonight his mood was too dark for such enjoyment.

Exiting the hotel, QJC turned to head up the block to where he’d parked his car. As he passed into the dimmer light beyond the reach of the hotel’s entrance, a group of trench-coated figures, hat’s low over their eyes and tommy guns held in their gloved hands stepped out of the shadows across the avenue and from between the cars parked on the far side of the hotel entrance. Qunitus ducked low and put some cover between himself and most of the shooters as long bursts erupted from the submachine guns. The firing seemed to go on forever.

All of the guns fell silent as their clips emptied more or less simultaneously, and QJC did not wait for them to have a chance to reload. He sprinted the remaining 20 feet to his car, hopped in and sped away almost before he’d had a chance to engage the ignition. Three point two seconds after turning the key, Quintus.JC was nearly half a block away and rapidly accelerating when the blast tore his car apart turning QJC and most of his car into a burning pile of junk. It would only be through dental records that his identity was formally confirmed at the autopsy.


With the pale light of “false dawn” barely brightening the sky, CountArach was already up and on the move. He intended to put his time to good use and refused to let fears get in the way of his efforts to save Fatlington. This early start was, at least this night, rewarded with horror.

As he reached the steps of City Hall on his way to the Convention Center, Arach was unlucky enough to be the first to find The Stranger.. L’Etranger, bruised and cut, was obviously dead from the single gunshot wound placed between his open eyes, locked now in a fixed stare. The Stranger had been nailed with railroad spikes to the raised plinth that held Fatlington’s statue of George Washington, his hands folded as if in prayer and the back of his trenchcoat tacked up as though they formed the wings of an angel. Two other bodies were at his feet, spiked to the steps in a position that seemed as though their corpses were bowing to that of The Stranger’s. Brownish crimson tendrils of blood connected the ghastly tableau into one coordinated scene. It took Arach a deal of effort to control his stomach.

As he fought down the urge to vomit, Arach noted a small diary sitting on the steps just below the corpses. He read the words carefully written inside in a small, neat hand.


I waited calmly as The Stranger went to his door, fiddling with his keys. Brightly they shone in the darkness, how lusterless in comparison where The Stranger’s thoughts as he mumbled to himself. Calmly, I took to my feet and laid him low, rendering the fool unconscious, and tied him up, and dragged him from his home, to the place in which he, and others, would await their judgment.

Part 2

Go forth I did again that night, to find Charlie Frick, busy ordering a burger and fries, and I entered the dinner and sat down across from him. At first, he was perplexed, and began to ask many questions, but I assuaged his fears and soon we began to speak quite plainly to one another. For an hour and so did we talk, until I invited him to follow me home, and so he did with much a glint in his eye and a smile upon his face.

As we walked arm in arm to my car, I paused but a moment to remove a scrap of cloth from my handbag and proceeded to cover Charlie’s face with it. But for a moment he struggled, finally succumbing to the vapors of the cloth, and I did drag his body to the car with some effort, so heavy was he.

And off I drove again to the appointed place, whence his judgment would begin.

Part 3

And so the final piece was to be collected, and it was from his slumber that Helmut Frack awakened to see me at the foot of his bed. Fear welled in him as he gazed upon my masked visage, and so did he scream and begin to put up a fight, but only become entangled in his own sheets. Falling to the floor, Helmut let cowardice overcome him and he began to cry for mercy and god.

In that moment, I was overcome with pity, and nearly left him there. But my duty overcame my pity, and it was so that I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him off, out into his hallway, through his parlor, and out his front door. Try as he might, he could not wrest himself from me and run to the safety of his home.

"Please, I beg of you! For the love of God, do not kill me! I beg forgiveness!"

At his words I could do naught but box him across the ears to silence him as I threw him into the back of my car, to drive him to the appointed place. His sobbing was the only sound to be heard as I drove into the night.

Part 4

I set about readying my captive’s judgment, waking them from their slumber. They were surprised to see each other, and remarked to one another that I, their captor was the last person they had seen. Before they could explore their captivity more, I made myself known to them from on high.

"Stranger, you promised death, chaos, and destruction, you spoke of harming the town as if it was a game. These minions of yours always cheered your words in the coffee house, deeming them “poetic” instead of blasphemous. You wished to set about events so that none could trust each other, and satiate their fears each day with spectacle. You all claim that which you shall not deliver, except unto yourselves. Before you are weapons of war, forged by man - it is with your own hand that you must now select one of those weapons, and kill those among you for the safety of the flock."

"He who has purged the others of life, shall be set free to live again, having earned their redemption. I shall watch from here, to insure that all goes as planned."

And so after a tense moment, those in the pit picked up the knives left for their use in the cargo hold, and attacked each other with much fervor. The fight lasted but for a few moments, until the screams of two men had died down, and the victor came into the light, awash with blood and eyes filled with shock and emptiness.

"And so you have won your redemption," I did say, "And so you will now understand what it means to be redeemed, and how lucky thou art - but many who are first now will be last, and many who are last now will be first."

A thunderous crack more, and my Mosin-Nagant M1930 settled as The Stranger fell to the deck, and then did I go and collect them from the interior of the ship.>

Fermanagh’s officers were able to quickly confirm the identities of the two victims who’d died, apparently at The Stranger’s own soon-to-be-dead hands. Both men were Fatlings of long tenure, though not members of the Committee, and were known associates of The Stranger in better times.

Morning Meeting, Day Two

“…and after CountArach showed us the diary he’d found at the scene we were able to quickly confirm their identities. We’re still looking for the ship where the events unfolded, but as you might expect, we’re not counting on any useable evidence.”

Commissioner Fermanagh paused and looked toward the committee. He continued.

“As you are aware, today is our first committee vote. I urge you to do you best – or we’re all in for more horror stories to come. I’ll now turn you over to Reenk Roink for his review of the rules and procedures for the evening session….”



OOC


Attacked: Beefy187 (n1),

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1),

Lynched:

Wogged:


1. Day Two session now begins. Votes for lynchee of choice must be completed no later than 1400 Eastern, 8/11/9 (1800 GMT). Please be careful of vote formatting etc. and a tally would be helpful.

2. My condolences to the quickly dead. PLEASE remember the correct behavior for the dead as noted in the rules as you seek your vengeance. Most of the problems in previous Capo games came from dead player miscues and I sincerely hope that we can avoid that this time. Thanks.

3. Investigation results etc. will follow by PM over the next few hours as time permits.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Sunset, Day Two

As the sun tired of presiding over the bickering committee and began to disappear under the trees of the mainland, One of the Director's guard banged the gavel and began to tally up the final votes. Oddly enough, the Director himself, Reenk Roink, was not present at the meeting, having presided quietly through much of the session but not returning from the last break...

The committee watched in uneasy silence as the Director's men did the count in hushed tones. They weren't announcing the results out loud, rather content with scribbling tallies on a sheet of paper.

Once they had finished, one of the Director's men came and approached the committee members. He went directly to Factionheir and handed him a business card.

"The Director wants you to go to this address immediately," the man said to Factionheir, pointing at the card.

As Factionheir looked at the card, he saw only a grape embossed on the front. Turning it around, he saw an address scribbled in a barely legible cursive: 732 Bay Street. Next to the address was a crudely drawn map.

Factionheir looked quizzically at the Director's man. He swallowed, nervous, not quite believing this was happening. "This is certainly a change from how we, how we used to do it in Fatlington. Do I even get a last meal?"

The guard shrugged and said flatly, "It's Reenkster."

So Factionheir put on his coat and began trodding through the slushy streets of Fatlington. After what seemed like half an hour he found himself back towards the bayside close to the docks -- well out of Fatlington’s center city and in the slums.

Beginning to get goosebumps due more to his surroundings than the cold, Factionheir pressed on, following the map until he found Bay Street, tucked away behind a run town tenement building. The street was more of an alley, complete with trash strewn about and the animals - and people - it attracted.

His throat swelled with fear as he realized that he would be shot and dumped in a trash heap like some filthy raccoon. However, as he continued to walk down the street, he could see a faint glow that stood apart from its dark and grungy surroundings.

When Factionheir got close enough, he could hear the faint sounds of people talking with a catchy bass line in the background. The now visible sign on top of the door read 'Club 30'.

Taking a deep breath, Factionheir opened the door and took in the sight of Club 30. It was as if time had stood still for twenty years here. Factionheir didn't recognize anyone at the club, it was a completely different crew.

The men were all dressed in dark suits, black, dark blue or brown, with top hats. The women - well, Factionheir wasn't paying much attention to what they wore...

At that moment, the front door opened again. The unusual sensation of air rushing out of the club was felt by the patrons. Making his entrance was a man who, unlike the other gents, wore a cream white suit over a satin blue shirt. He had a matching hat to boot and it was tilted forward so as to cover half of his face and leave a shadow over the other half. Unlike FH's own entrance, which had been met with indifference, the entire club's gaze fell upon the man as it fell quiet, allowing each one of the man's steps to be clearly audible.

For a moment, all was still. Then the man in the cream white suit reached inside his breast pocket as if to draw a gun. Hushed gasps were heard and Factionheir froze in terror. All for naught however, as the man in the cream white suit pulled out a dime and flipped it across the room. It went into the coin slot of the Wurlitzer 850 Peacock perfectly and a melody lick began to emanate that Factionheir had never heard before.

"Dance for the Director," were the words addressed to the committee’s designated victim by the man in the cream white suit. "If you're good enough, you're home free."

After some hesitation from the unexpectedness of the situation, a grin came across [victim's] face. If there was one thing he could do, it was dance.

So he began to dance - not the jitterbug that everyone and their grandmother could do - Factionheir performed moves on the floor that nobody had ever seen before, and it meshed perfectly with the music.

The club patrons had focused their attention on Factionheir and he received much applause for his innovative dance. His backslides, his spins, his crotch grabs all drew cheers of amazement from the crowd. Even the Director noted his approval by nodding, and when his head was moved up, a smile could be seen on his face. "Fred Astaire couldn't have done better."

At that moment, the Director had begun to join in the dancing himself. At first Factionheir was enjoying the company, as the Director would match every move he made, and the crowd was loving the performance. This amusement soon turned into anxiety as Factionheir realized he wasn't able to keep up with the Director. Factionheir wanted to stop but realized he wasn't even able to control his own movements. He had to match up with each of the Director's moves even though it was becoming physically impossible to do so.

Suddenly, the music began to segue into a blistering sax solo, and the Director stopped and stood erect. He lifted his hat, exposing his face, and nearly all the ladies and a tenth of the gents in the club swooned and fainted. He then began to lean forward, nothing of his body moving except his ankles. After a certain angle, it became clear that this was an impossible lean, but the Director continued on until he was fourty-five degrees to the ground. He hovered there for a bit and then slowly made is way back up, turning to face Factionheir as to indicate it was his turn.

Factionheir felt his body stiffen and then felt his ankles tilt. After he had passed the point of no return, he tried desperately to pull himself back up but no amount of strain on the calf and foot muscles would be of avail.

As he was about to fall, Factionheir heard the sound of a motor from underneath the floor. He got the feeling that his soon to be messed up face wasn't going to be his biggest problem. A rusted spike suddenly burst out from the parquet and ran him through the sternum.

As the spike retracted, FH's body eased the the floor. The Director tipped his hat back down and made his exit.

Back at the convention center, the remainder of the committee had witnessed the event via a state-of-the-art television broadcast. Entertained, appalled, bewildered – a mixture of emotions played across their faces. Then they filed out into the night.


OOC

Night Two begins. Please have your orders in by 1500 Eastern on Wednesday 8/12/9 (1100GMT). Earlier delivery is preferred as it speeds the write-up. Please put “n2 orders” in your subject lines for ease of handling.

ANYONE with concerns – and any now dead – should check the rules on play by the dead in the first post of the summary thread.

Final Tally:

1st
FactionHeir: 18 (Andres, Askthepizzaguy, Beskar, Chaotix, CountArach, Death is Yonder, DisgruntledGoat, DJGingivtis, GeneralHankerchief, Haudegen, Jolt, LittleGrizzly, Lord Winter, Sigurd, slashandburn, Tincow, Yaropolk, YLC)

2nd
Askthepizzaguy: 4 (Centurion1, Ironside, Sasaki, shlin28)

3rd & 4th
Beskar: 3 (Iskander, johnhughthom, Tratorix)
ricera10: 3 (Craterus, Kommodus, spL1tp3r50naL1ty)

5th (tied)
Jolt: 2 (Factionheir, Kagemusha)
Khazaar: 2 (Myrddraal, Pannonian)
Reenk Roink: 2 (El Diablo, Shinseikhaan)
Sasaki: 2 (Ichigo, pevergreen)

Others
AVSM: 1 (Double A)
Andres: 1 (gibsonsg91921)
Beefy187: 1 (Gaius Scribonius Curio)
DisgruntledGoat: 1 (psychonaut)
Double A: 1 (A Very Super Market)
Dutchguy: 1 (woad&fangs)
LittleGrizzly: 1 (White_eyes:D)
pevergreen: 1 (a completely inoffensive name)
spL1tp3r50naL1ty: 1 (Beefy187)
YLC: 1 (glyphz)

No Lynch: 1 (SSNeoperestroika)

Abstain: 7 (atheotes, Caius, Diana Abnoba, Khazaar, Moros, ricera10, Twilightblade)

Voted Late: 3 (Crazed Rabbit [for Sasaki]; shlin28's [vote change pizza to abstain], rhyfelwyr [factionheir])

[Seamus Fermanagh]

…kill the faith inside of you
watch the killing starts
after you accept the part
to redirect your mind
whisper the name
all is not so black and white

-- Skinny Puppy “Curcible”


Summary, Night Two


Gaius Scribonius Curio had exited the meeting quickly, going straight for his car and skipping dinner out in favor of a quick trip home through the drizzling rain and light sleet that Fatlington was “enjoying.” Just after parking the car, he noticed a shadowed figure clad in a glossy, black leather trench coat with collar pulled up to hide the person’s face.

GSC ducked immediately, so he didn’t quite glimpse the vial of golden liquid that arced out of the shadows to shatter on the car door behind which he’d just ducked. GSC did notice, however, the fact that the liquid burst into searing flames, immolating the door of the car and depriving Curio of one eyebrow and all of the hair on the backs of both hands.

Curio made it to the cover of a stoop across the street before his DeSoto exploded, and came out of the incident essentially unharmed. His last glimpse of his assailant was at a distance, standing in the shadows of a corner grocery silhouetted against the streetlights of Atlantic avenue two blocks off – the faintest gleam from the glossy leather marking him. The misting rain made it impossible to recognize the distant figure. The black-clad stranger then suavely tipped his hat to Curio and faded into the night.


Death is Yonder decided to play it safe, driving home on Atlantic to take advantage of other cars and passersby – and not zipping home on the much quicker, but also too quiet and empty, Baltic avenue.

As he waited at a red light, pondering the strange show he’d watched courtesy of the Reenkster, he never imagined that someone from the cross street would front end his car. Just as the car crunching his grill in front stopped, he felt a somewhat gentler bump from the rear.

The two masked drivers stepped out of their respective vehicles and moved quickly to either side of Death’s now trapped car. He tried to get a gun from the glovebox of his vehicle, but both masked attackers opened fire with their Johnson guns before he could do more than open it. Though the car was metal and solidly built, the gunners were close and they were not firing Thompsons. The relatively low speed .45 round of a tommy gun might not have penetrated – but Johnny guns used the famous thirty ought six. Death found himself well-named very quickly.

A yellow rose was placed gently on his corpse and the killers walked quietly away.


Across town, DJGingivtis was finishing a caffe corretto at the same bistro where pizza and the others had enjoyed the scallopini so much the preceding night. As he stood to leave, putting on his coat, a group of trech coat clad tommy guns entered the ristorante from the service doors and opened fire.

DJG was hit 3 or 4 times rapidly and knocked across his own table to the floor. As the gunmen moved forward make sure of their kill, several other persons fired through the front windows and door of the bistro. In the confused crossfire, none of the gunmen managed to hit one another or even get a good look at their targets.

When the hail of gunfire had cleared, all of the tommy gunners had escaped the way they entered and the shooters at the front of the restaurant had faded into the darkness or melted into the gathering crowd, their weapons re-concealed. Behind them they left a dead waiter, 3 dead patrons, and 6 more wounded. DJGingivtis was not one of the casualties. Though knocked unconscious by the impact of the rounds, the armor plates worked into the lining of his coat had saved his life, as had the timely intervention of the second group of shooters.

DJGingvitis was left to ponder only one thing – exactly who had armored his coat for him? He owed somebody, or several somebodies, a ‘thank you.’


Yaropolk was walking, warily, toward his apartment block, his hat pulled low against the faint sleet in the air. Every few minutes he would turn to look behind him, spotting nothing more threatening than a fellow carrying a loaded shopping bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. He was making sure that he would not be taken by surprise.
When the trench-coated man in the balaclava stepped from behind the building at the corner, Yaro had his gun out of his pocket and into his hand before the hooded stranger could do more than begin to get his clear of his pocket.

“You’ve got 2 seconds to start running or I’ll drop you where you stand,” said Yaropolk.
“Now make like Jesse Owens…Ouch!”

The abrupt change in Yaro’s tone was the result of the umbrella-wielding shopper bumping into him from behind, muttering profuse apologies as he grabbed a few dropped apples and re-packed his bag. During the silliness, the masked stranger had done as suggested and vacated the scene.

Yaropolk made it home safely after that, had a good scotch and went to sleep – just not feeling right. He would never wake up. A good autopsy would have revealed the poisoned pellet pushed under the skin behind his right knee from the tip of the umbrella as the two men had collided, and would have noted the traces of anesthetic that deadened the wound site a bit. Fatlington’s coroner wasn’t up to the task. Yaropolk’s cause of death was listed as Influenza.


In room 1066 of the Hotel Abbatoir, pevergreen was well and truly distracted. His companion, encountered only recently at the hotel bar, had shown herself to be both surprisingly energetic and physically incapable of drowning. Both qualities appealed to pever, who had paused to enjoy a Marlboro – he hated Camels – when the door to the room burst open and the gunmen came in in a rush.

Though they didn’t seem to have any clear plan and though none of their efforts were really coordinated with each other, there were four of them to pever’s one. He fought hard of course, but the assailants were using their guns as clubs and pever had nothing but a lamp and an alarm clock to use as weapons. In moments, both he and his companion were beaten unconscious.

Two of his killers lifted pevergreen out of the window of the hotel room, completing their work with the application of 80 feet of vertical distance terminating in a rapid deceleration at the moment pever crashed into the boardwalk below. His companion had been tossed into the bathtub and shot repeatedly. Despite screams from the boardwalk below and complaints about the noise to the front desk, none of the attackers were noticed leaving the scene.


Morning Meeting

Fermanagh recounted the deaths of the preceding night with a grim look on his face. Except for Reenk, who seemed strangely unaffected, the committee members had been as grim a set of listeners as had Fermanagh.

“You must vote the right ones into the graves!”

Fermanagh paused, calming himself.

“We can’t let this keep happening to our fair city….we just can’t…”

As Fermanagh’s request faded, Reenk Roink quickly reviewed the procedures for the lynch and for electing the Director for the next two days. He reminded them that the guards collect them for the evening meeting if they hadn’t made it in on their own. That session would, everyone thought, prove a stormy one despite the clear day that boded for Fatlington itself.



OOC

Results and investigation results might be a while – meetings and such to cope with.

Voting must conclude by 2000 Eastern (2400 GMT) on Thursday the 13th. Votes lodged later than that will be noted, but will not count. Remember, you will also be Selecting the Director for Days 4 & 5.


The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2),

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2),

Lynched: Factionheir (d2),

Wogged: None so far, so get active and keep it that way.

[seireikhaan]

Sunset Day Three

The committee session was eventful this day, with loads of accusations being thrown and evidence being unearthed. Even the normally aloof Director joined the fray, upset that his good friend pevergreen was killed.

However as the day drew to an end, the Director slipped out and the Director's squad brought the discussion to a close with a few good whacks of the gavel.

It took some time to get a count of the votes. Though the suave Director's re-election had been a virtual landslideas, the writing on the lynch ballots bore witness to the many changes in opinion during the day. Finally, the Director's men finished and called out not one but two names: CountArach and GeneralHankerchief. There was a tie!

Both men were handed business cards and ordered to proceed to the mysterious Club 30 immediately, while the Director's men began setting up the closed circuit feed.

GeneralHankerchief arrived promptly and saw the Director waiting outside the door of Club 30, wearing the same cream white suit he had been seen in during last evening's execution. The Director raised his hat to reveal a smirking and winking face. For a moment GeneralHankerchief was faced with many questions considering his sexuality, but he got over himself and dropped on the ground, begging: "I strongly suggest you not lynch me. In the return, you will see the total collapse of Askthepizzaguy's empire and maybe a mafia family or two farther along the line."

He continued, "If this doesn't sway you, as I suspect it won't, I at least request you have me die like a proper gentleman."

The Director tipped his hat back down and said nothing, GeneralHankerchief got the impression that he was waiting for the second condemned man, CountArach, who had not yet shown.

Thirty minutes passed and the Director began pacing around and looking at his watch, shooing off pretty women with a stern "later." Though his face remained hidden due to his tipped hat, his body language betrayed impatience.

Finally, CountArach approached the Director and a silently weeping GeneralHanckerchief with a sloppy gait.

"You're late," remarked the Director annoyedly. "Do you realize how many offers of barney-mugging I had to turn down?"

CountArach shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, I got distracted by one of them street puppet shows. It was about some stranger who was worried about the Mafia so he hired a hit group to kill him and a posse to protect him."

"Let's go to the bathroom," said the Director, "I don't want to bother the ladies."

Both condemned men walked into the bathroom and the Director followed, locking the door behind him. The Director then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small candy wrapped in a gold foil.

GeneralHankerchief's eyes opened wide. "OH MY GOD!"

CountArach blurted out, spitting everywhere, "IS THAT A BUTTERSCOTCH?"

The Director, somewhat taken aback by the enthusiasm, replied "um, yes..." as he began to unwrap the treat. But it was not fast enough for the salivating CountArach who lunged at the Director's hand and made a grab for the candy. The Director, not wanting to be touched by the drooling maniac, jerked his hand away, causing the butterscotch to fly out of the wrapper and plop into the toilet. Wasting no time, CountArach dived head first into the toilet, frantically trying to get the butterscotch into his mouth. The Director looked on with amazement and disgust.

Evaluating the situation, he soon decided against simply waiting for the poison in the laced butterscotch to kill CountArach and took a more direct measure. The Director slammed the toilet seat on CountArach's neck and held it there with one hand, while the other hand started to repeatedly flush the toilet. This failed to deter CountArach from being able to scoop the candy with his tongue into his mouth. It was the best ****** butterscotch ever, well worth dying for.

A few minutes later, CountArach met his swirly demise though it was unclear whether he died of strangulation or drowning.

The Director was so fixated on CountArach that when he got up from the toilet, he turned to a see GeneralHankerchief, laying dead on the floor. Examining him more carefully, the Director saw the gold wrapper of the butterscotch lodged in GeneralHankerchief's throat. Perhaps he had choked, though the Director wondered whether the trace amounts of poison on the foil could have killed so fast.
The Director leaned down and looked at the dead GeneralHankerchief. Feeling a sense of pity, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out another butterscotch. "You know I had one for you too..."

Getting up, the Director fixed his tie and left the bathroom. Before he left Club 30 he went to the bar and had a couple of drinks...


OOC (and Seamus himself this time)

Computer problems continuing, so lets have this next night phase run to 2200 Eastern on 8/14 (0200 GMT 8/15). Be sure to have things labeled "n3 orders" so I don't get lost.

Tally as noted.
Two lynchees, GH & CA.

Final Tally

1st place

CountArach: 21 (askthepizzaguy, Beskar, Craterus, Diana Abnoba, DisgruntledGoat, DJGingivtis, Double A, El Diablo, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, johnhughthom, Jolt, Jooray, Lord Winter, Proletariat, Psychonaut, Sasaki Kojiro, shlin28, Sigurd, slashandburn, White_eyes:D)

1st place

GeneralHankerchief: 21 (A completely..., Andres, atheotes, Beefy187, Chaotix, CountArach, Discovery1, GSC, Ironside, Iskander3.1, Kagemusha, Kommodus, Kukrikhan, Myrddraal, ricera10, scottishranger, Split', Tincow, Tratorix, woad&fangs, YLC)

3rd place

woad&fangs: 1 (LittleGrizzly)
Saskai Kojiro: 1 (shinseikhaan)
askthepizzaguy: 1 (Joe Monks)
shlin28: 1 (Crazed Rabbit)

Others

abstain: 3 (AVSM, glyphz, Moros)

[Seamus Fermanagh]

bad chance and circumstance
left the hollow ache
of sweet loneliness
and sour frustration
thanks for everything
thanks for everything
my one regret
the missing layer
of our failed protection
of our missed connections
take up a collection
a new army of salvation
of the leftovers and extras
of that longlost harvest season
of sweet loneliness
and sour frustration
thanks for everything
thanks for everything

-- Dirtminers (R.Worrick) “Sweet Loneliness”


Summary of Events, Night Three


Had things gone according to plan, Myrddraal would have been heading out of town already on a week-long trip. Fatlington’s closure and the return of the Committee had put a stop to all that. He wasn’t happy about it, but was grimly determined to see things through.

As he pulled carefully into traffic, Myrddraal was careful not to get himself into a situation where he could be sandwiched – he and Death is Yonder hadn’t really been close, but Myrddraal was the type of person who tried to learn from mistakes – especially other people’s. When the car in front of him slammed on its brakes, Eyeless had enough space to swerve into the oncoming lanes. One quick bootleg turn later and he was zipping back toward the Convention Center and looking in his rearview at the other car heading off the wrong direction.

He never expected the panel truck he was now following to be the real source of his trouble…until the back doors popped open to reveal a couple of trench-coated Johnny gunners. Long stereophonic bursts stamp paid to Myrddraal’s windshield, radiator, and any hope he had of controlling the vehicle. He was knocked out when the car collided with a telephone pole, bringing it to a complete stop. He never felt the single bullet administered as a coup-de-grace by the first killer, nor could he have seen the single long-stemmed yellow rose tucked gently under the windshield wiper by the second.


When Lord Winter saw the circle on the sidewalk in front of him, he stopped cold. Predicting his route wouldn’t have been a challenge – he stopped at the same coffee shop more nights than not on his way back to his brownstone – but he had no idea what this contraption could be.

A circle of golden sand six feet across lay in the middle of the sidewalk – oddly dry when compared to the puddles and ice scuts that marked most of the rest of the walkway. In the very middle of the circle was a dullish grey metal spike about 3 feet in height. Hanging above it was a weather balloon, distorted in shape as though it were filled with some heavy liquid or with sand.

In Fatlington, when you encountered the unusual, you prayed quickly to whatever God or gods you might still believe in and went for your gun. Winter had barely cleared his weapon when a flash of silver – the swift blade of a kunai – knocked it from his hands.

“No, no guns please.”

Winter stared at the dark figure at the far side of the circle, arm throbbing from the impact of the kunai on his colt, concentrating on not making any sudden moves.

“That was Curio’s, but it somehow didn’t get used in all the hustle and bustle.”

Lord Winter looked carefully at the second kunai held poised in the dark figure’s hand.

“And that’s mine?”

The figure stepped back a couple of steps. As he did so, and left the partial cover of the distended balloon, it was apparent that he was dressed in a long gloss-black leather trenchcoat that gleamed wherever light hit it, collar pulled way up and a black hat pulled low over his face. The only color relieving this was a small splash of reddish purple just above the brim of the fedora. Incongruously, the dark figure wore dark sunglasses that obscured what little of his face wasn’t covered by hat or coat.

“You get a gold star. By the way, why aren’t you wearing sunglasses?”

The man’s hand snapped forward in a blur, releasing the kunai as Winter dropped to one knee and went for his holdout weapon. The kunai went true, neatly severing the cable holding up the balloon and dropping it on the spike. The balloon burst, showering the golden powder which instantly combusted. This in turn ignited the magnesium in the metal spike producing a blinding actinic glare.

Winter had been far enough from the flash of fire to avoid being burned, but the glare of the burning magnesium was too much for his eyes. He never saw the dark figure make his escape as the throbbing after-image of the magnesium spike blotting out his vision. It would be mid-afternoon of the next day before he would see more than the vaguest of shapes.


Double A was heading for his car when the attack came. A quartet of Tommy gunners opened up from behind him and from across the street when he was only 30 feet or so from his car. Just as the gunmen behind him opened up, the thick door of a cab was opened immediately behind him, absorbing the shots that would have hammered into his back.

AA ducked low, using the car behind his as cover from the gunners across the street. His car was armored for protection – this was Fatlington after all – and he’d make it if he could get there. As he reached the side of his car, both of the Tommy gunners chasing him from behind made it around the outstretched – and obviously armored -- door of the now empty cab. Both of them were tackled by a masked figure hurtling out of the alleyway between two of the buildings, knocking their guns under the cab.

It was not enough. The remaining pair of Tommy gunners, unmolested, managed to get around the front and back of Double A’s armored car just before he could get the special lock open. Both yanked on their triggers almost in unison to release a hail of…nothing. Both bolts had jammed at exactly the same instant – defying all the odds in the book. The four assailants and the masked man fled in different directions as Double A pulled the 10-gauge pumper from his passenger seat. It would be hours before his pulse calmed enough for sleep.


Beskar had been varying his routes home since the troubles began. Tonight it was along the boardwalk, past the Hotel Abbatoir, and then a couple quick blocks to his apartment. He moved warily, ready for some threat, so when he saw the glint of metal on the roof of the beach bungalow a block ahead he dropped instantly.

The shot cracked through the air, head-high, where he would have been only a half-second previously. The second shot came from behind and nearly took him out. Beskar managed to turn his drop into a roll and kept going sideways just enough for the second shooter to miss. He kept rolling off the side of the boardwalk, dropping to the sand 7 feet down.

Instead of 7 feet it was 15 feet to the bottom of the watery hole that had been prepared for him. The two gunmen had been nothing more than the distraction. The third shooter could simply walk out from the shadows under the boardwalk and dispose of Beskar as neatly as shooting the proverbial duck swimming in a barrel. Nobody ever came. With police sirens coming closer to investigate the shots, both shooters simply faded into the night.

It took Beskar quite a while to work his way out of the two feet of sand and water at the bottom of the hole, even with the help of some of Fatlington’s finest. He was soaked and thoroughly miserable when the officers dropped him off at his apartment.


Morning Session, Beginning of Day 4

Reenk sat at the head table almost insolently, both feet up on the table and his fedora low over his eyes. Fermanagh wondered if he actually had heard a little light snoring coming from the director as he concluded his briefing.

“…anyway, that’s the best we can reconstruct the events of last night. Now, I also have the results of our first post-mortem investigations.”

“Both Quintus.JC and The Stranger were exactly what you’d have expected, just normal everyday Fatlings. We weren’t able to turn up any rumors of mafia involvement or anything else that seemed out of order. It appears we lost two good citizens that night.”

Fermanagh paused and wiped his brow.

“You’ve got to keep up your efforts folks, or Fatlington is doomed.”

“If you’re quite finished Commissioner?” Asked Reenk.

“Yes, Ree…er…Director. It’s your show now.”

“Of course,” Roink responded, in a tone that Fermanagh had announced something as obvious as that the sun sets in the West. Reenk shook his head ever so slightly. “Well, that’s a relief. I have to get down to Club30 and see to things with the day staff. Ever stop by the club, Fermanagh?”

“Well no. You see the cover charge is a little…”

“Yes, of course,” Reenk paused a moment. “and your wardrobe lacks a certain…pinache.”

Reenk then ignored the sputtering Fermanagh as he turned to the committee to remind them of the procedures for today’s lynch vote.


OOC

I’ve got family commitments tomorrow evening, so we’ll make the vote deadline 1300 Eastern on Sunday (1700 GMT). Remember to follow the procedures and get your vote counted. Lynch only on Day 4.

Investigation results and success/failure notifications will follow as quickly as possible, but not tonight as it’s late and I want to sleep. Selfish of me, but there it is.



The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2), Beskar (n3), Double A (n3), Lord Winter (n3),

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2), Myrddraal (n3),

Lynched: Factionheir (d2), CountArach (d3), GeneralHankerchief (d3),

Wogged: None so far, so get active and keep it that way.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

I will sure survive the night
there was a sleep when I come alive
I'll make it run towards the city light
it always keeps me on the right side

When we come alive
We never stop we won't give in
When we come alive
We keep it up until we win

-- E-type "Eurofighter"


Evening Session, Day Four.

After what seemed to be an unusually long session, redness began to appear in the dimming sky and the committee was brought to attention by loud gavelling. Unlike yesterday's meeting, there wasn't a sense of a close race, discovery1 had been fingered by many and was a clear cut choice. He did not even take comfort in the late surge of votes on Andres. As usual, Reenk -- despite participating in the discussions throughtout the session, had slipped away half an hour before the final tallying.

The formality of the Director's men tallying up the vote only served to heighten discovery1's anxiety as his imagination ran wild concocting the terrifying ways in which he might meet his end at Club 30. When he was called to take the fateful business card, discovery1 was almost ready to soil himself.

All along the way to Club 30, discovery1 couldn't help but think about what would happen to him. Furtive glances over his shoulder confirmed that the Director's guards were shadowing him -- there would be no side-trips on the way to the club. When he finally reached the door, he noticed a new sign had been put up: 'In honor of pevergreen.' <> Hesitant to even touch the doorknob, he heard a calm voice called from inside.

"Do come in disco, no need to be nervous."

The voice belonged to a man dressed in a cream white suit, his face covered by his tipped top hat - the Director. After shaking discovery1's hand, the Director calmly led him into the club, walking through to the bathroom, reminiscing about times past, though discovery1 was in no mood for small talk.

Reaching the bathroom door, the Director abruptly stopped and turned to face disco. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a polished black gun. Bracing himself for the shot, discovery1 instead found the gun placed in his hands.

"W-what is this?"

"You will be the master of your own fate disco. You will die a gentleman's death at your own hand..." the Director calmly replied.

"Why?"

The Director lifted up his hat and smirked, "Because I like you. Now please, go in the bathroom and..."

"NO!" discovery1 shouted as he aimed the gun point blank at the Director. "I'm tired of your games! You are going to let me out of here, or I'll blow your remarkably handsome face off your head!"

Though he was the one with the gun, it was discovery1 that was trembling violently and perspiring profusely, while the Director remained as calm as ever. As he reached into his breast pocket to pull out a cigarette, discovery1 pulled the trigger.

Waves of electricity coursed through his body making his earlier tremors seem like nothing to the convulsions he went through. After about twenty seconds, discovery1 dropped dead, smoke still emanating from his body.

The Director knelt over the body and covered the face with a silken handkerchief. He softly remarked, with an ever so slight hint of sadness in his voice, "disco, disco...I'm disappointed in you. How could you not know that a black gun simply doesn't match a white suit?"

Still 'tsking' over discovery1's faux pas, the Director stood up and proceeded to leave, but was stopped by a very pretty woman who pleaded he stay with her for a bit. He shook his head and said, "Miss, please stop by Commissioner Fermanagh's house tonight. He has been very busy lately, and I hate to see him put work before play."

Reenk paused as he walked from the club to head to dinner at Iron Felix's, noticing a chill in the air and the scent of sleet on the wind. <> Night had come to Fatlington again.


OOC

Night Four begins, please have night orders in by 1300 Eastern on Monday the 17th (1700 GMT).

Please marke all orders "n4 orders" for clarity.


Lynch Vote Tally

1st place:

discovery1: 17 (askthepizzaguy, Beefy187, Beskar, Caius, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Ironside, johnhughthom, Jolt, Joooray, Kommodus, LittleGrizzly, Sasaki Kojiro, slashandburn, spL1t', SSNEoperestroika, YLC)

2nd place:

Andres: 14 (Aggonyduck, Atheotes, Centurion1, discovery1, DisgruntledGoat, Joe Monks, Kagemusha, Kukrikhan, Leet Erickson, Psychonaut, shlin28, Skooma Addict, TinCow, XehhII)

3rd place:

askthepizzaguy: 4 (Chaotix, Crazed Rabbit, Rhyfelwyr, shinseikhaan)

4th & 5th place:

Beefy187: 2 (andres, woad&fangs)

Double A: 2 (gibsonsg91321, scottishranger)

Others

abstain: 3 (Proletariat, Tratorix, twilightblade)

[Seamus Fermanagh]

What do we need, what do we hunger for
Who holds the secrets, who will know
Temples of greed in ruins on the riverbed
Wastelands that lived before the snow

Time stands still as we race through the universe
On our way to the sun
As we arrive at the house of the water sign
We are living in strange times

Strange times, strange times

-- Lodge & Hayward (Moody Blues) "Strange Times"



Summary of Events, Night Four


After the long and contentious session culminating in discovery1's lynching, Andres was anything except calm, cool, and collected. Still seething at how close it had come to being himself who took a trip to Club 30, Andres went for a quick bite to eat and more than one stiff drink to calm his mood. From there, it would be a fairly quick drive home.

Arriving home without any difficulties, Andres had quietly mounted the 3 steps up to his townhome, opened the door, and then stepped back one step to give things a quick 'once-over.' As he paused, the kunai whipped over his shoulder out of the darkness behind him and through his doorway.

The silver flash of the blade going by was terrifying, but Andres had little time to be frightened. The kunai severed a single thin rope, which in turn allowed a long thing shelf to drop away, which in its turn allowed a dozen vials of golden powder to dump their contents into the convenient sluices set up in front of the vials. In the time it took the vials to pour their contents through the channels and onto the puddled water left on the floors of Andre's townhome, Andres managed to turn and catch a glimpse of the knife thrower.

A tall figure, hat low over his eyes and the collar of his gleaming black leather trench coat pulled all the way up, stood in the street only 20 feet away. Andres goggled as the stranger actually waved.

"This has been my most expensive show thus far..."

As the powder ignited the entire first floor of Andres' home more or less simultaneously, the blast from the sudden flash of ignition dropped him to the pavement at the foot of the steps, stunned.

"....I hope you appreciate it."

The leather-clad stranger walked off into the night, whistling "Runyonland" from Guys and Dolls. Andres rolled over and watched his home burn.


Diana Abnoba had just stepped out of the Hotel Abbatoir when they came at her. A pair of shooters, each bringing up a double-barreled 12-gauge into firing position, were only 20 feet away. She froze.

In the split second before the shooters opened up on Diana, two surprising things happened. The first was a fully masked man in a vey heavy coat jumping between her and the shooters and pushing her back through the door she'd just left. The second surprise was the lobby candy cart man -- also masked? -- who rolled his cart between Diana and the doors and kept it there while chivvying her toward the rear exit.

Diana quickly exited the hotel...only to be confronted with a second pair of masked shotgunners. Again she froze, silhouetted against the metal fire-door she'd just jogged through. Both shooters had twin-barreled shotguns and both cut loose with both barrels.

Nobody would ever quite explain it -- a freak swirl of Winter wind? poorly loaded shells? -- but all 4 spread patterns missed her at a range of 15 feet, slamming into the wall and doors with deadly force. Both she and her would-be killers were stunned that all the shooting had accomplished exactly nothing -- but Diana was a split second faster to recover and much faster on foot.

Neither the candy-cart man nor the fellow whose thick coat had apparently carried enough armor for a light tank stayed long enough to answer questions. Having missed their opportunity, none of the shooters hung around for long either. Diana was in her apartment in near Olympic time -- but it would be a long time before her adrenalin slowed enough for her to sleep.


Jolt sat at his table, waiting for coffee and dessert after what had been a simply wonderful repast. Rabbit wasn't a common menu item in a New Jersey restaraunt, but Jolt had always enjoyed the tasty lean meat and had taken advantage of this evening's special. Only the rabbit's having been served to him 20 minutes late had marred the otherwise impeccable meal.

The team of waiters arrived with his dessert -- a red tart -- and coffee. Jolt quickly sipped the steaming beverage, grimaced....and then spat it on the table. He jumped up.

"TEA! I didn't order tea! What is the meaning of this?"

The wait staff suddenly became a restraint team as the two underwaiters grabbed Jolt by the arms and roughly shoved him back into his chair. The waiter himself grabbed Jolt in a half Nelson, shoving a napkin into his mouth as he began to shout, and then turned it into a full Nelson, immobilizing Jolt entirely.

"Curioser and curioser..." said the 4th man as he stepped into the alcove where Jolt had been dining.
This 4th man produced a large purple tophat -- a caricature of a real opera hat -- and jammed it down over Jolt's head, covering his eyes. He then produced a long steel hat needle, carefully placed it at the back of the too-low hat, and forcefully punched the sharp needle forward. The needle secured the hat to Jolt's head and punctured his medula in one motion. Jolt died like a pithed frog, quivering and jerking as the waitstaff held him still.

The team of killers closed the curtain on the alcove and quietly left the restaraunt.

It had been a late night, and the dark figure had started to grow cold from sitting and watching the Commissioners house. The front door opened at last, spilling light out into the darkness, and warmly illuminating Commissioner Fermanagh and Director Reenk Roink in contrast to the chilly gloom of the evening.

Letting a puff of breath escape into the night, the figure waited as Seamus and Reenk talked and exchanged good-byes, the Director tipping his hat sauvely as he left and Fermanagh closed the door. Reenk waived forward the woman he'd re-directed at Club 30 hours ago.

"Give it 10 minutes or so, then knock."

The redhead nodded, a look of quiet adoration on her face. Roink waited as his men brought his car around, and bodyguards sitting to either side of him in the back seat of the big touring Packard. The car backed out of Fermanagh's drive and turned onto the Boulevard. The dark figure watched, caressed the gun at it's side, and without a further moment's hesitation, started the Indian and followed the Director's car into the night.

Pulling up alongside the vehicle, the stranger pulled out an M12, and before the driver could react, blew out both the side window and his brains, splattering the director and those in the vehicle with him. The armored car nearly flipped into the nearby ditch, but was saved but the timely reflexes of the forward passenger who righted the vehicle. The motorcyclist took aim again, but the new driver pulled a hard left and nearly slammed into the stranger, who had throttled the engine and let it fall back.

Pushing the dead driver out of the vehicle, the guard riding shotgun took the drivers seat while the four bodyguards in the rear with Director Reenk pushed him to the floor and got their Tommy guns out and levled through the windows on each side, prepared to fire at their attacker. As soon as the rear-most right side bodyguard's head stuck out, a trench knife seated itself into the man's eye socket, causing the second right side guard to flinch back. Quickly grabbing the coat of the dead policeman, the dark stranger opened up the throttle and used the added momentum to pull the dead guard from the car to land tumbling on the road.

Seizing the opportunity, the driver swerved at the assailant, sending the motorcycle into a spin, but not before the stranger leapt onto the car and held fast. The motorcycle, riderless, fell underneath the vehicle and tore the right rear wheel to shreds, sending the car into a fish-tailing spin that soon ended with the vehicle bouncing off a wide oak tree at the side of the road. The Packard rebounded off the tree, catching the left wheels on their edge, and gently rolled onto it's left side.

As Director Renk crawled from the wreck, one of the bodyguards who had been in the back with him lifted him up and carried him to safety as the car began to burn. Neither the driver nor the front left guard cleared the vehicle before the bursting fuel tank doused them with burning gasoline. Their sudden screams also drowned out the blast of the shotgun that crippled the guard who'd carried Reenk. The guard fell, one knee shot through, scrambling to get his revolver out as he rose painfully to one knee.

Before he could even fire it, the dark stranger, who's masked silhouette now seemed distinctly female, raven hair having slipped from under her hat and grey eyes peering over the facemask below, knocked it out of his hand and kicked him to the side like so much trash. She leveled her pistol at the stunned Director, cold barrel pressing against his forehead just between the eyes.

"Tol'ko bog banka konsyervov byt' nevinnyy."

The last remaining guard, staggering toward the burning car from where he'd been thrown during the wreck, fired his revolver at Roink's would-be executrix as rapidly as he could pull the trigger. He didn't hit her at all, despite being only fifteen feet away...but in emptying his gun in her general direction he did manage to hit her pistol, denting the action as his .38 slug ricocheted off into the sky.

The assassin pulled the trigger on the now-useless pistol, then shouted "neha" in frustration and whipped the pistol across Reenk's head, knocking him unconscious. She turned to the guard, still fumbling to load a fresh cylinder into his revovler, and began to draw her shotgun from it's over-the-shoulder holster. She had almost cleared the weapon when she saw the lights and heard the many sirens of the approaching police. She stepped forward quickly, kicking the still-unloaded gun from the hands of the last guard and following it with a roundhouse kick that knocked him against the still-burning Packard. With one last shout of frustration, she disappeared into the shadows.


Morning Meeting, opening of Day Five

"...so anyway, Director Reenk will be here in time for the afternoon session to administer the Lynch vote and to oversee the next Director's selection. I'm not sure if he plans to continue after last night..."

Fermanagh looked haggard, and his briefing had even less energy than usual. He continued.

"Well, here are the results of the post-mortem investigations on Death, pever, FactionHeir, and Yaro.

Death is Yonder and pevergreen both appeared to be wiseguys. Sources haven't suggested anything about either of them being unusual and we have nothing to indicate that either of them was trying to work with the mafia against us. It's hard to say if the town is better off or not....we just don't know.

FactionHeir, however, was a real success. Some of our snitches have confirmed, now that he's dead and can't take vengeance, that he was a Made gangster in one of the families. Apparently he only came to town very recently, so we don't know which family he was working with, but his death is proof that Tosa's lynch system can save us, no matter how harsh it may seem.

Finally, I have to acknowledge that we lost out as well. Yaropolk was an innocent townie, and we have no indications that he was turning toward crime or represented any sort of threat to the town.

All-in-all, I think we might be winning, however harsh the cost."

Fermanagh grimaced. Clearly he felt that the cost had been high.

"Commissioner," asked one of the committee, "why are you dragging so badly today?"

Fermanagh scowled.

"Some redhead was banging on me door at midnight last night and when I open it to see what her problem is, she waltzes in and starts pulling off her dress. While I'm standing there wandering what in Mary's sweet name is goin' on, Mildred walks downstairs to see who was calling so late. Mildred starts screamin' and Red starts saying she'll take care of us both and I start shoutin' that I've no goddamn idea what's going on and...."

Fermanagh paused from re-living the exasperation of the preceding evening.

"Anyway, suffice to say Mildred had me doon to the parish rectory and I spent all evening telling Father Lonigan why I really didn't do ANYTHING and don't need to be heading off to Lourdes and...I didn't get much sleep.

Despite the tense nature of these morning sessions, more than a few chuckles were aimed at the Commissioner. Sheepishly, Fermanagh finished up.

"Well, I've assigned a new squad of guards to the director. With 4 killed an 2 hospitalized I had trouble with volunteers, so I ordered a few of our tougher lads to take over, like it or not. Hopefully, they'll quell anything else before it gets that bad again."

The committee reviewed the rules and procedures, then filed out to their work before returning that afternoon to vote and to select.



OOC

Voting will conclude at 1600 Eastern Tuesday (2000 GMT).

Investigation results will be late as I am still reconstructing that part of the database. I'll try to have them out by midnight tonight.

Vote for lynchee and Select director for days 6 & 7.



The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2), Beskar (n3), Double A (n3), Lord Winter (n3), Andres (n4), Diana Abnoba (n4), Reenk Roink (n4)

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2), Myrddraal (n3), Jolt (n4),

Lynched: Factionheir (d2), CountArach (d3), GeneralHankerchief (d3), discovery1 (d4),

Wogged: None so far, first woggings will be soon I fear.

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Evening Meeting, Day 5

The Director presided over the committee meeting as was his duty, but he took a passive role in the discussion as compared to the previous two days -- perhaps he was a little sore after last night's festivities. The only things keeping him from dozing off were a futile attempt at his elected position by Askthepizzaguy and the dozens of telegrams he kept receiving with a marked annoyance.

About 30 minutes before the meeting was gavelled to an end, the Director got up and walked out of the room, taking a copy of the selection tally from one his men beforehand.

"Not the unanimous victory of last time when no challenger was present, but still doubled up like GeneralHankerchief before," he remarked.

When the meeting did finally end, the ballots were tallyed up, and many of them betrayed two scribbled out votes before the final vote, as the committee's opinion on who should be sent to Club 30 swung from A Very Super Market to gibsonsg91921 before the settlement on atheotes as the most worthy choice.

The usually quiet atheotes had been a bit more vocal in trying to refute the cases against him in the waning hours of the meeting, but to no effect. He solemnly took the business card and proceeded to Club 30.

Entering the club, atheotes could not help but pause to take in the gaudy sights. The patrons of the club on the other hand, could not bear to look at him too long, his attire being so atrocious and inappropriate, and he was pointed to the bathroom.

Inside, the Director stood, cigarette in mouth, and atheotes marveled how his presence made a washroom seem so classy. The Director reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a polished black gun, which he handed to atheotes. However, atheotes had watched the execution of discovery1 the evening before, and jumped back in terror.

The Director simply shrugged and placed the gun on the floor, remarking flatly, "I had favored you because you do not capitalize your name in honor of pevergreen. It is either that or perishing in the inferno."

With that, he took his leave, and as he opened the door to exit, the Director turned around and flicked his cigarette. The moment it hit the floor, four walls of fire boxed in atheotes.

atheotes looked around frantically and saw no escape. Looking down at the gun on the floor, he reasoned that even if it wasn't going to kill him with a bullet, it would probably be better than burning to death. Picking it up, atheotes pointed it at his head. Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger. Instead of feeling hot lead in his brain, he felt cold water dripping down his temple. Looking more closely at the pistol, he saw "waste a drop and you won't escape the blaze" engraved.

atheotes desperately squirted at the increasingly close fire, but it was not enough as the gun had said.

With the muffled screams of atheotes in the background, the Director proceeded to leave Club 30, stopping by the bar and informing the attendant,

"Tell the manager I'll take care of the bathroom remodeling."


OOC

Night Five Begins. PM's due no later than 1700 Eastern (2100 GMT) tomorrow. Please mark as "n5 orders."


Tallies:

Lynch:

1st Atheotes = 17 (panno, 'khaan, rice, pizza, ylc, CR, gly, Jooo, WE, SSN, split, tinc, gibs, DJG, woad, goat, trat, jht)

2nd Gibs = 10 (Sig, DIana, Haud, beefy, Kage, KK, Psyco, AA, andy, ducky)

3rd avsm = 5 (El D, rhyf, gsc, x2, acin)

4/5th beefy187= 1 (lw)

4/5th craterus = 1 (craterus)

4/5th ironside = 1 (shlin)

Abstain = 5 (blade, moros, isk, khaz, ichi)

Selection:

Reenk = 23 (ichi, psycho, kage, we, goat, ducky, cent, Joe, griz, lw, reenk, prole, blade, tinc, khaan, s&b, kommo, trat, gsc, cr, beef, andy, khaz)

pizza = 13 (pizza, besk, el d, ylc, chao, aa, split, diana, kk, isk, leet, sig, shlin)

acin = 1 (acin)

abs = 6 (moros, rhyf, blade, x2, can't read own notes, crate)

[Seamus Fermanagh]

But now I'm on, I'm on my own again
Thinking you will never show
you won't be home again

And it's gonna be a long night
And it's gonna be cold without your arms
And I`m gonna get stage fright caught
in the headlights
It's gonna be a long night
And I know I'm gonna lose this fight

-- The Corrs “Long Night”

Summary of Events, Night Five


Psychonaut had just stepped out of the corner drugstore with his evening paper and a lollipop when he was confronted by a 6’6” rabbit in plaid waistcoat with fob wielding a double-barreled shotgun. Psycho’s momentary pause was understandable really – after all, however “guarded” the citizens of Fatlington were, the possibility of attack by giant rabbits wasn’t really high on the threat list.

The pause was long enough, unfortunately, for the rabbit to unload both barrels into Psycho’s mid-section, saying “I’m late,” as he did so. The hare’s more conventionally dressed partner repeated that phrase as he also unloaded two barrels rapidly at Psycho’s back from the door to the storeroom. Pscyho dropped to the ground, hammered from both directions at once.

The trench-coated second shooter clubbed the druggist insensible and moved toward the door. The rabbit, suspecting Psychonaut would be armored, quickly loaded another shell while muttering “for a very important date.” The shotgun blast tore through the unconscious Psycho’s head, splattering the rabbit suit with gore.

When Psycho’s body was found moments later, a piece of paper with the typed line: ‘T’was Brillig and the slithey toves’ was found lying gently on his chest.


Proletariat had been expecting trouble, so she made sure she traveled on Atlantic with lots of people around and ate in a diner with a dozen others…and her back to a brick wall. When the three Tommy gunners came barreling through the front door, firing as they came, she slipped to the floor and rolled quickly past the counter and into the kitchen.

Unfortunately for Prole, there was only the one back door – a bit obvious as retreat routes go. Shoving a bread rack through the door first, Prole chanced it and went out the back, trying to keep ahead of the shooters out front who would be slowed but not stopped by all the commotion.

To her happy surprise, no shots were fired and nobody barred her path. She made for her apartment as fast as she could go.


Lord Winter was headed home at about that same time – though he wasn’t using the same route as before and hadn’t, for that matter, used the same route twice since the other attack. It wasn’t precaution enough.

Winter turned the corner and moved two quick steps only to hear a faint hissing sound from all around. He stopped, now finding himself on a 2-foot wide twisting path….lined thickly on both sides with a golden-yellow powder on the strangely dry pavement.

Stepping into the light was the gleaming black leather figure who’d attacked him before, a gleaming kunai held loosely in one hand.

“What I’d like to know, Winter, is whether or not you now have a fear of fire?”

The shadowed figure threw the kunai before Winter could do anything, the blade whirling into a small level attached to the spigot of a fire hydrant. As the lever fell, the spray cap covering of the hydrant was opened up with the fantastic pressure driving the spray of water everywhere in seconds.

As the water hit the powder, it flashed into flames, searing Winter’s clothes and face and leaving him with a narrow tunnel-like gauntlet through which he had to weave to avoid the flames. He made it, panting with fear and dripping with sweat despite the otherwise cool temperature of the evening. His attacker was long gone.

As the fire died, it was learned that both Nole4694 and Truepraetorian had been immolated in the flash-fire. The just happened to be waiting for a jitney when the powder/water combination had roasted them like weinies – wrong place, wrong time.


Confident that he was on the side of the angels, johnhughthom walked very purposefully home after finishing up work late downtown. He was headed for a bungalow – normally rented only in Summer – that he’d picked because it was a little isolated but accessible and in a well-lit neighborhood.

He went through the ritual of checking the area around his home and scanning to see if anything had been moved or disturbed. Seeing nothing, he went to the door. The first sniper’s bullet crashed directly into the lock just as he was about to put the key in. He jumped back, straightening up in shock – a natural enough reaction – but this silhouetted jht’s head perfectly for the second sniper. One shot went ear to ear and johnhughtthom was dead before he hit the porch.

Fermanagh’s police found the bullets – the classic .30 ’06 – as well as a single playing card – the queen of hearts. On the back of the card had been written: ‘Did gyre and gambol in the wabe.’


Proletariat would have trouble getting in her front door as well. She lived in a 3rd floor flat not quite at the top of the stairs in a quiet block of apartments about 3 streets toward the bay from Atlantic Avenue. She’d just reached her front door when two men burst into the hallway – one from an apartment to her left and the other from the window to the fire escape at her right – both of them bringing up silenced forty-fives.

Prole dropped her keys and went for her gun, knowing it would be useless but reacting immediately anyway…when her apartment door flung open and a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her into the darkened apartment. When the shooters arrived at the door it was locked and a quick couple of rounds proved that the door was now armored. The would be killers quickly exited the building.

Prole had landed roughly, and behind the couch, so she never got a good look at the person who had grabbed her and hauled her in. She was stunned to find a steel plate now backing her apartment door and deflector plates blocking lines of fire through her windows as well. Despite two attacks, Proletariat actually felt rather safe – though a bit bruised up by her sudden entrance. All-in-all, she thought it the perfect time for a good glass of Burgundy.


Craterus hadn’t felt very good all evening, so when he got back to his apartment he locked up and went right to bed. He never woke up. As he slept, a chloroformed cloth was held tightly to his nose not just long enough to render him unconscious, but long enough to nearly kill him. His attacker wanted him nice and still. He barely moved as the cutting began.

The heavy blade of the kopis worked like an axe, slashing into each of Craterus’ arms and legs in turn. Not being made of folded steel, the bones themselves required several hacking blows to sever. Long before all five major appendages had been severed from Craterus’ torso he had exsanguinated, with most of his blood splashed liberally around his bed and bedroom.

While the police couldn’t identify the torso itself, the killer had thoughtfully deposited the limbs and head on the sidewalk in front of Fermanagh’s home, arranged so as to create a number “5” when viewed from the front door. Mildred screamed herself silly and Fermanagh’s day began on a very sour note.


Leet Erickson was driving towards an all-night diner. Despite the late hour and the tension of these last few days – or maybe because of it – he had a real hankering for blueberry pie. He parked right in front – not much traffic to get in the way – and quickly walked up to the counter, already ordering his pie and a cup of coffee to chase it.

The counterman brought the pie – a thick double slice of deep-dish blueberry pie nicely warmed – and set it in front of him. As he sat there, two men walked in the front door while two others walked up to the counter from the back of the diner.

“What is this? Don’t I see enough of you guys as it is?” asked Leet.

“You’ve seen enough of us indeed,” said one of the men behind the counter as he grabbed the boiling coffee from the counterman and threw it in Leet’s face.

Leet screamed and the two men on his side of the counter grabbed him and immobilized him. The fourth man walked closer, grabbing him by the head and forcing his head down into the pie while the man who’d flung the coffee rudely shoved the counterman into the back of the diner.

“So long mafia-boy,” said the fourth man, keeping the pressure on Leet’s head. “Fatlington will be better off without you.”

It took a few minutes and a bit of struggling, but Leet learned it was possible to drown in blueberry pie.


Iskander3.1 was prowling around late as well. Too much happened at night for his liking, so he’d taken to napping between committee meetings and keeping up and moving at night.

Even as late as it was, some people were out doing the Lord’s work. The Sally had accosted Iskander, asking if he could help, maybe take him down to the Army mission on, and insistently pressing a pocket bible into his hands. Frustrated and more than a little worried that this was a decoy, Iskander flipped the pages of the bible briefly, stuffed it in the inner pocket of his trench coat and went on his way.

A half dozen short blocks later, Iskander stopped suddenly when a masked man in a tan trench coat stepped out of the alley just ahead of him – the deadly gleam of the Buntline Special capturing Iskander’s entire attention. Iskander inched his hand toward his right coat pocket.

“Don’t,” said the masked gunman. “You’ll only die harder, criminal.”

Hearing his death-knell in that last phrase, Iskander went for his gun anyway – suddenly re-thinking his ‘body armor is for wimps’ attitude, knowing that there was no way he was going to win this particular race. He was right.

The Buntline barked just once, sending a nearly half-inch lead slug dead square into Iskander’s chest. Iskander dropped like a stone, a faint tendril of blood leaking from where he cracked his head on the pavement. The shooter walked calmly back into the dark shadows of the alley and off into the night.

Iskander wasn’t a particularly religious fellow – but when he awoke 20 minutes later he quickly began to think that an appearance next Sunday at least might be in order. The small Salvation Army bible he’d absentmindedly tucked into the coat’s breast pocket had been just enough to stop the soft lead slug from puncturing his heart. The bullet barely cut through and the blood from the wound, though convincing enough in the dark, was barely a trickle.

<> though Iskander3.1, shaking his head and walking – a bit painfully – back to his apartment to get ready for the day. <>


Morning Meeting, Opening of Day Six

"...so anyway, Director Reenk will be here in time for the afternoon session to administer the Lynch vote and to oversee the next Director's selection. I'm not sure if he plans to continue after last night..."

Fermanagh looked haggard, and his briefing had even less energy than usual. He continued.

"Well, here are the results of the post-mortem investigations on Myrddraal, CountArach, and GeneralHankerchief.”

Fermanagh made a deep slow exhale before starting into the specifics.

”Myrddraal and CountArach were both hidden detectives, working for the FPD. As a routine, we followed up on both of them and while I acknowledge some discrepancies with Arach, I feel that Cee-Ay was clearly too deeply into his cover or something. We’ll sort that out by next session. I guess that’s what got one of my cops lynched by you…people….”

Fermanagh glared at the committee.

“Omelettes and eggs, dear Seamus; replied Director Roink as he checked the manicure of his left hand, “omelettes and eggs.”

Fermanagh scowled, the continued..

“I was thrilled to learn, I’ll admit, that the other choice in that lynch was a winner for the town. GeneralHankerchief was a mafia Luca – one of their special protection enforcers. His death clearly helps us achieve our mission.”

The committee reviewed the rules and procedures, then filed out to their work before returning that afternoon to vote and to select.


OOC

Voting (Lynch only) will conclude at 2200 Eastern Thursday (0200 Friday GMT).


The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2), Beskar (n3), Double A (n3), Lord Winter (n3, n5), Andres (n4), Diana Abnoba (n4), Reenk Roink (n4), Iskander3.1 (n5), Proletariat (n5, n5)

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2), Myrddraal (n3), Jolt (n4), Craterus (n5), johnhughthom (n5), Leet Erickson (n5), Psychonaut (n5)

Lynched: Factionheir (d2), CountArach (d3), GeneralHankerchief (d3), discovery1 (d4), atheotes (d5).

Wogged: Nole4694 (n5), Truepraetorian (n5)

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Little piece of lint in the breeze;
Why is it you make me sneeze?
You're not very pretty.
This is true.
When you're around
I go ahchoo.

To the garbage you must go;
Don't cry on my shoulder
Or ask to stay when the answer's no!

My allergies should give you a hint
That I want to discard you little piece of lint

-- Steven West


Evening Meeting, Day Six

The meeting had started off with a bang, as Kagemusha had anticipated that he was the target of suspicion and had prepared his response to his many interlocutors.

Meanwhile, Reenk Roink, who had piped up a couple of times early in the afternoon from his chair (which was looking more like a throne) seemed preoccupied with other matters, and excused himself from the meeting earlier than usual.

As the afternoon proceeded however, Kagemusha seemed to accept his fate and quiet down. The committee, on the other hand, had decided that one man was not enough for this evening’s lynch, and quickly pushed for someone else to join Kagemusha at Club 30. A Very Super Market was the one pulled from the backburner for the... honor.

However, the fact that Kagemusha had purposely withheld his ballot had members of the committee uneasy that he would simply vote at the last minute and save himself, so they went ahead and made sure the lead was on Kagemusha.

By sunset, the Director's men banged the gavel and counted the votes and Kagemusha never bothered to make a last minute move. He simply walked up and took his business card, and proceeded to Club 30, turning to scowl at the committee before exiting.

When Kagemusha arrived at the club, he saw the Director in his signature cream white suit standing outside, waiting for him. Though his hat was tipped forward, Kagemusha could make out a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth.

"Moro Kage, miten voit?"

Kagemusha was not expecting to be addressed in his native language, but it was not surprising either, given that the Director was a man of culture. Kagemusha did not have time to respond to the warm greeting as the Director began speaking again, though the question was purely rhetorical anyway.

"Please do come inside, I have dinner with Fermanagh and his wife in thirty minutes at Iron Felix’s so I prefer to keep our business…."

Stopping mid-sentence, The Director suddenly tipped his hat upward. Sneering in disgust, he snapped, "Excuse me, did you come to Club 30 with LINT on your suit?"

Kagemusha glanced down at himself, then looked back up at the Director apologetically.

"Oho, tota noin!"

The Director reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a lint brush. Kagemusha glared at it with some hesitancy, but soon realized the futility of refusing it. Taking it, he began to roll it over the lint covered areas of his suit, all while the Director simply watched intently.

Suddenly, the Director took his cigarette out of his mouth and lightly tapped it, sending sparks in the direction of Kagemusha. A few sparks landed on the now lint free suit, which immediately burst into flames, engulfing Kagemusha, who dropped to the ground, rolling around frantically, howling in pain.

Taking his hat off and waving it to disperse the odor of burning flesh, the Director tried to make some more conversation.

"No Kage..." he began to inquire, "onko totta, että suomalaisessa jouluperinteessä joulupukki oli lapsia syövä villisika?"

Not receiving any answer, he stepped over Kagemusha's smoldering corpse and walked back inside the club to find a lady to accompany him to dinner with the Commissioner. His search lasted only a moment before he spied a familiar face.

“Anne, how delightful to see you! I had no idea you were stuck in Fatlington when this all started…”

Anne turned, a smile lighting her face as she saw Reenk.

“…you were marvelous as Eve, Kudos to you! Have you had dinner yet?”

Reenk paused, noting the arrival of A Very Super Market.

“What took you? Oh, excuse me Anne, just a moment.”

Reenk swept AVSM into a gentle but firm grasp leading him to the restroom hallway.

“LINT! A Very, this will simply not do!"

Seemingly producing another lint brush from nowhere, Director Roink quickly brushed the sleeves, lapels and back of AVSM’s jacket. A Very Super Market was flabbergasted – this behavior wasn’t at all like what he’d been dreading. As he finished, Reenk held open the door to the rather smoky men’s room.

With a powerful shove, AVSM – who simply wasn’t expecting something so simple and direct – was pushed into the men’s room. Stumbling, he fell down on the still-smoldering body of Kagemusha, whereupon the chemicals now imprinted on his jacket as well burst into flames, turning him into a human torch.

Reenk gently closed the sound-proofed door of this “special” men’s room and quickly straightened his immaculate, lint-free suit coat. He returned to the bar, to the fair Anne, and to pleasant thoughts of chef Kerensky’s sauce béarnaise.


OOC


Night Six begins. It will run through 2200 Eastern on Friday.


Vote Tally for Lynching:

1st Kagemusha: 14 (Aggonyduck, Andres, Beskar, Centurion1, Chaotix, DisgruntledGoat, Iskander3.1, Kommodus, Proletariat, Sigurd, shinseikhaan, shlin28, spL1tp3rsonality, TinCow)

1st A Very Super Market: 14 (askthepizzaguy, Beefy187, Diana Abnoba, gibsonsg91921, Ironside, Joooray, Kukrikhan, Littlegrizzly, Sasaki Kojiro, slashandburn, Tratorix, White_eyes:D, XehhII, YLC.

3rd a completely inoffensive name: 1 (scottishranger)

3rd scottishranger: 1 (a completely inoffensive name)

Others:

Abstaining: twilightblade, woad&fangs

Present: Gaius Scribonius Curio

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Strolling down the same old sidewalk
Move in for the kill and forget my name
All this time I knew that this wouldn't suffice
Make no mistake, she always knew I wouldn't break

I'd steal your eyes (I'd steal your eyes)
Just so you can never see me fall (see me fall)
I'd steal your tongue
And I'd steal your tongue
Just so you could never tell me to let go again

Who's Killing Who
Tell me again

-- Bleed the Dream “Who’s Killing Who”


Summary of Events, Night Six


Kommodus thought he saw a glint from a 3rd floor window across the street at the other end of the block, so he was already falling and rolling before the of the .30 ’06 round went by. If he could make it to the dumpster behind the store he’d just been passing he would have hard cover.

Kommo jumped up, moving quickly to the side, surprising Dutch_guy by nearly running into him on the sidewalk. Dutch-guy’s surprised face blew outwards from the impact of a second sniper bullet, spraying the back of Kommodus’ coat as he reached the safety of the dumpster.

As he stood there, catching his breath, a thin loop of wire whipped out of the open door on the side of the dumpster, looping over Kommodus’ panting head. The man inside quickly tightened the wire garotte by bracing his knees against the inside of the dumpster and allowing his upper body to fall backwards. The wire ripped into Kommodus’ neck, virtually decapitating him in a spray of blood.

When Fermanagh’s officers found Kommodus’ body a few minutes later, they noticed a queen of hearts had been tucked into the hatband of his fedora. On the back was written: ‘All mimsy were the Borogroves.’


TinCow expected trouble, after all this was Fatlington. When the 6-foot rabbit stepped out of the corner taproom he’d been only a few steps from entering, TinCow didn’t wait for him to level the double-barreled shotgun, but charged full bore at the bunny. He put his shoulder into the rabbit’s belly in a hit that would have done credit to an NFL linebacker. The rabbit’s gun flew out of his furry paws and into a storm drain as the rabbit – TinCow riding him – crashed to the ground.

Both men were a little stunned by the force of the blow. TinCow managed to get to his feet first, only to stop still when he felt the twin muzzles of a second shotgun gently poking him in the back of the neck.

“We’re all mad here,” said a slightly muffled voice behind him, “meow.”

The man behind TinCow pulled both triggers, only to be rewarded with two little sounds as both shells turned out to be duds. TinCow spun to attack but was clubbed down with the gun by the fellow wearing the grinning cat mask. Sirens blared close by as the police responded – no doubt called in by the other patrons at the taproom.

Groggy and bleeding from a cut to the temple, but still defiant, Tincow shouted , “Aren’t you going to try to finish the job, you freaks!”

“Eat me!” said the cat.

“I’m late…I’m late,” said the rabbit.

Both would-be killers escaped into the darkening night.



Beefy187 was walking along the damp streets, collar of his coat turned up against the persistent drizzle, when he spied the too-familiar gleam of a glossy black leather trench coat coming out of the shadows in front of him. Beefy froze, looking around for signs of golden powder, balloons; for anything weird.

“Do you like seared beef?” said the shadowy figure. “I’m serving it up ‘old-school!’”

The shadowy figure threw a large glass bottle into the air toward Beefy, intercepting it with an even more quickly thrown kunai. The bottle shattered, scattering its golden powder into the drizzle and creating a cloud of flame. Beefy, dropping flat, was spared most of the heat and searing flame – the powder had combusted too quickly and too thoroughly in the drizzle and mist of this particular Fatlington evening.

Beefy sat up, noticing without surprise that the shadowy figure had vanished, and wondering why he still smelled something burning when there were no flames visible. A split second later he figured it out, whipping off his new fedora and tossing the flaming hat into the street. Beefy had survived both attacks, but always at the cost of a fine hat.


Iskander3.1, now sporting the latest in body armor, made his way warily to his car. He paused, checking the door to see if his tell-tale had been moved and crouching down for a quick look under the body of the car. Nothing was out of place.

As he straightened to open the door, the first bullet crashed into his left knee. He half fell, catching himself with one hand and reaching for his piece with the other. The second bullet caught him in the right forearm, shattering both bones. A figure walked slowly out from between the parked vans across the street.

“If at first you don’t succeed…”

The Buntline was particularly steady in the figure’s outstretched hand.

“Try…”

A third bullet slammed into the armor over Iskander’s heart, slamming him up against the side of his car.

“Try, again.”

The final shot went straight through Iskander’s left eye.


Preferring the boardwalk because of the relatively open visibility it provided, scottishranger was reasonably secure. Like everyone these days, he wore armor and carried a handgun and like most he made a habit of not moving in a straight line or at a consistent speed. You had to make them work for it at least.

The motorcycle roared up the ramp from Glade Place and straight onto the boardwalk. Like some kind of toreador, scottishranger pirouetted and let the motorcycle race past him, crashing through the railing and onto the beach as its rider jumped clear.

But it did take his eyes off the buildings next to the boardwalk. One painful on the back of his head and scott saw nothing for a while.

He awoke, hog-tied, at the bottom of a 6-foot deep sandpit. Staring down at him were four faces – all with grim expressions and each person clutching a shovel.

“You maniacs! Why are you doing this? “I’m not one of the one’s you’re after.”

None of the expressions changed. No face showed a hint of remorse.

“Now what? You mentals just stand around and watch the surf drown me?”

They did not wait for the tide – they just filled in the hole. The roar of the surf made the screams inaudible more than a few feet away and nobody was watching the little scene in the dim drizzle that cloaked Fatlington. By morning, all signs that anyone had been there were erased by the high tide.


Khazaar, though relatively new to Fatlington, was quickly adapting to his environment. He was driving warily, wearing his armor, and had a handgun in easy reach. When he saw the two men pushing around the attractive blond – just a bit too underdressed for the weather – he didn’t stop to play the hero. Instead, he zipped up to the nearest police callbox (he’d picked up a key from a buddy in the FPD) to phone up the precinct.

His car never got there. Halfway up the block, a quick burst from a Browning heavy machine gun tore his radiator apart and cracked the motor block. He hunched down, trying to keep the heavy motor between himself and the gunner. He knew the gunfire would attract the police quickly.

A figure leaned in from the far side of the car, his hand holding a Smith and Wesson .44 “New Century” revolver extended towards Khazaar’s head. Khazaar turned, sensing something was wrong. The hollow point round, hand-loaded according to meticulous directions of Elmer Keith, made a hole just under 44 hundreths of an inch in diameter between Khazaar’s eyes. The hole in put in the far side of his skull was an order of magnitude larger. Khazaar was dead before his eyes could blink closed.


Morning Session, Day Seven


“So as you can see,” said Commissioner Fermanagh, “last night was our bloodiest yet. You MUST bring an end to this vicious attack.”

“As requested, I have also brought along the results of the post-mortem investigations we’ve conducted on Jolt and discovery1.

Jolt had a criminal record and was probably what is colloquially called a “wiseguy,” but had no recent arrests or known mafia connection. On the other hand, discovery1 was a Mafioso – one of the Luca protection types – and his death will be of direct benefit to our town.”

"I also have one horrible point to relate. Despite having been a Fatlington detective for more than a year, CountArach was, apparently, a Red and actively working for the overthrow of the United States. Unknown to us, he'd been in the Lincoln Brigade and spent time during the war assisting the Reds in China, not Chiang's government as we'd been led to understand. I am sorry for this and I am initiating a review of all FPD personnel. I never thought McCarthy's warnings would hit quite so close to home."

Fermanagh stepped away from the podium, looking briefly at the immaculately turned out Reenk Roink, and shaking his head with an odd expression (awe?) on his face. Director Roink calmly began to review the procedures for the lynch voting and for selecting a new director.



OOC

Voting and Selection will conclude at 2200 Eastern Saturday (0200 Sunday GMT).

Having originally signed up, but withheld from play by travel, Cultured Drizzt Fan is added to play immediately.


The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1, n6), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2), Beskar (n3), Double A (n3), Lord Winter (n3, n5), Andres (n4), Diana Abnoba (n4), Reenk Roink (n4), Iskander3.1 (n5), Proletariat (n5, n5), TinCow (n6),

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2), Myrddraal (n3), Jolt (n4), Craterus (n5), johnhughthom (n5), Leet Erickson (n5), Psychonaut (n5), Iskander3.1 (n6), Khazaar (n6), Kommodus (n6), scottishranger (n6),

Lynched: Factionheir (d2), CountArach (d3), GeneralHankerchief (d3), discovery1 (d4), atheotes (d5), A Very Super Market (d6), Kagemusha (d6),

Wogged: Nole4694 (n5), Truepraetorian (n5), Dutch_guy (n6),

Added: Cultured Drizzt Fan (d7)

[Sigurd]

[Helping Seamus here]

Far off in sunlit places,
Sad are the Scottish faces,
Yearning to feel the kiss of sweet Scottish rain.
Where tropic skies are beaming,
Love sets the heart a-dreaming,
Longing and dreaming for the homeland again.

-- Cliff Hanley


Evening, Day Seven


The meeting had featured its usual discussion, along with the usual acrimony, and had ended, yet again with the early departure of the Director and the tallying of the votes.

Having announced that he was not seeking the Directorship in order to spend a bit more time with an out of town guest, the selection balloting had been fairly heated. When the final tally was made askthepizzaguy had been selected as Director of the Committee for days 8 and 9.

Votes regarding who should be lynched had been far slower in coming. Finally, after several names had been bruited about, Rhyfelwher had been chosen to face the vengeance of the Committee. Rhyfelwher was handed the business card with the Club 30 address – re-used, featuring a slightly singed upper right corner – and was then ushered out of the convention hall for the walk across town to Club 30.

Taking advantage of a momentary lapse in the watchfulness of the guards, Rhyfelwher cut quickly into an alley and made his way to the safety of his mother’s house.

Mom greeted him warmly, fussing over his suit and confirming he had on clean underwear -- Rhyfelwher now remembered why he hadn’t visited for some time – while ushering him into his old bedroom upstairs. She started sponging off his suit coat.

“You’ll need to look your best for the Director, Rhyfelwher.”

“I’m going nowhere near that madman, OR his crazy club!”

“But you promised, dear,” said his mother, smoothing his collar and beginning to adjust his necktie to remove and twists and to insure a perfectly centered knot. “You swore to participate in the Committee honorably.”

“This is insane! You can’t be serious?”

“I know dear, I know. It’s just that…”

Rhyfelwher’s mother suddenly grasped the necktie and spun it behind him using the quickly tightening knot to strangle him. He gasped and sputtered, too surprised to react. He fell to his knees, vision already fading, strength sapped by the lack of oxygen.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” said his mother. “I know this is hard, but it’s for your own good. We can’t have you not keeping your promises.”

Rhyfelwher’s mother sobbed a bit as she spoke, sad to be the one to bring things to a close. After a few painful minutes, it was all over. Director Reenk Roink entered the room, resplendent in his cream-colored suit, and moved to comfort the quietly crying woman.

“There, there, dear,” said Reenk soothingly, “I know that was hard, but it was all for the best.”

“I know you’re right,” she said, still crying a little.

“Of course I am,” said Reenk, “now let’s go downstairs and you can make us a nice cup of tea.”


OOC

Night Seven now begins. PM’s are due no later than 2200 Eastern on Sunday (0100 Monday GMT).


Vote and Selection Tallies


For the Lynch:

1st Rhyfelwher: 8 (askthepizzaguy, Crazed Rabbit, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Kukrikhan, Ricera10, spL1tp3r50naL1ty, woad&fangs)

2nd Centurion1: 5 (haudegen, slashandburn, SSNeoperestroika, White_eyes:D, YLC)

3rd Moros: 3 (a completely inoffensive name, Cultured Drizzt Fan, Tratorix)

4th/5th/6th
askthepizzaguy: 1 (Shinseikhaan)

Proletariat: 1 (Lord Winter)

Sasaki Kojiro: 1 (TinCow)

Other:

Abstain: 3 (Chaotix, DJGingivtis, Moros)


For Director:

1st askthepizzaguy: 10 (askthepizzaguy, Beskar, Cultured Drizzt Fan, Diana Abnoba, DJGingivtis, Double A, gibsonsg91921, haudegen, spL1tp3r50naL1ty, White_eyes:D)

2nd Proletariat: 9 (Beefy187, Crazed Rabbit, Joe Monks, Kukrikhan, Proletariat, shlin28, SSNeoperestroika, TinCow, YLC)

3rd slashandburn: 5 (Chaotix, Moros, Sasaki Kojiro, slashandburn, Shinseikhaan)

4th a completely inoffensive name: 3 (a completely inoffensive name, Tratorix, woad&fangs)

5th Lord Winter: 1 (Lord Winter)

abstention: 1 (ricera10)

[Sigurd]

Take nothing for granted in life
Nothing goes as planned but it all works out in the end
Live each day as if it were your last
We think we understand until everything gets out of hand

There comes a time in all our lives when we must choose
It’s always for the best, sometimes we win even when we lose
Only time will tell if it’s too late to clean this slate
It’s just as well, you’ll have to live with the choice you made

-- Matthew Staley


Summary of Events, Night Seven


Proletariat was walking down the middle of the street – more space to react if something happened – when something did happen. She was walking down the last block to Atlantic when she noticed something odd. All of the cars were the same make and model, and each had a large glass bottle atop it. Prole slowed her pace and came to a stop about halfway down the block.

A figure stepped into the middle of the street right where it joined Atlantic avenue. Hat low and collar of his gleaming black leather trench coat turned up to shade his face. “Two for second place,” he said, cryptically as a pair of kunai flashed one from either hand.

The knives went the length of the block, shattering each bottle in turn and cascading the golden powder inside over the cars themselves and into the street. Prole stood still. The gleaming dark figure tipped his hat…and then the rains lashed down.

Instantly there was a maelstrom of flame. All of the cars were covering in fire which sent tendrils of flame into the street near Prole. Windshields shattered from the sudden contrast of heat and cold and further down the block behind her one gas tank exploded, knocking her to her knees. Before the flames could wash over her, a jet of high pressure water shoved the flames backward – intensifying them but pushing them away from Prole. It was all over in a minute, save for the rain and the one burning car behind her. Still a little stunned, Proletariat got up slowly. She took care to avoid the shards of glass littered everywhere and the little guttering flames as hidden pockets of powder flared up, then made her way quietly to her apartment.

It was only later that the police found the body of Warmaster Horus lying on the curb next to the burnt out car. He’d turned the wrong corner at the wrong time.


Shinseikhaan was the last person in the corner taproom aside from the bartender. It was early, but Fatlington didn’t seem as “festive” as it normally would be. ‘khaan was halfway through his last beer when the 6’ rabbit, blood stained legs and all, walked into the tappy. The rabbit pulled back both hammers on the double shotty.

Shinseikhaan leapt off the stool as the rabbit fired. Some of the shot hit him, but he had an armor vest under his coat, so though he spun along the bar and it hurt like bejeebers, he didn’t go down. The rabbit began to reload when ‘khaan got a burst of energy and leapt across the bar heading for the back.

Much to the rabbit’s surprise, there was nobody waiting for him. Shinseikhaan made good his escape. Shortly thereafter, the bunny did too. He didn’t hop.


As she reached the door of her apartment and gently swung it open, Proletariat paused, instantly noting that something was out of place. Placed throughout the apartment were crystal bowls filled with a golden powder. From her spot just outside the door, she could see all the way to the half-bathroom at the end of the short hallway which bisected her large apartment. The water-pipes below the sink were festooned with some kind of putty to which wires had been attached – a veteran would have told her instantly that she was looking at small blocks of composition c. Crystal decanters of water were scattered about the apartment, also wired to explode. Proletariat began to back away toward the top of the stairs.

“Now, now, after all my hard work, you wouldn’t want to miss the show, would you?”

The dark figure in the gleaming black trench coat was almost at the top of the stairs, a kunai in either hand. Proletariat stopped in her tracks. The two kunai whirled past either ear on a converging course into her apartment.

“See, I only used two,” said the man as the blades thudded into their target…perfectly angled to touch together and make a circuit connection. Instead of a series of explosions shattering water pipes and spraying the powder to generate a flameblast, however, the circuit now connected powerful spotlights that flooded the hallway with light, negating any shadows.

“Twilightblade?” Proletariat said, incredulous. She was stunned, but had a clear view of him.

Twilightblade looked almost sheepish, said “I’m not REALLY here,” and pulled a bottle of powder and a bottle of water out of his coat pockets, backing slowly towards the fire escape. Prole hesitated, but then charged after ‘blade. ‘Blade threw both bottles, missing Prole as she leaned forward, but bouncing them off the open door of her apartment and into her front hall. Whoever had re-wired the charges into a new circuit had not had time to neutralize the powder or remove the explosive. The flash from the quick fire as the bottles Twilightblade had thrown shattered was just “fast” enough, in chemical terms, to ignite the closest of the plastic charges. The quick chain reaction gutted Proletariat’s apartment in the blast Twilightblade had hoped for originally.

Twilightblade and Prole were both knocked sprawling. ‘Blade got to his feet just a little bit faster stepping away from Prole and through the gathering smoke to the fire escape window exit at the end of the hall. Turning, he doffed his fedora and made a sweeping bow like some cavalier from a bygone era and then leapt onto the fire escape.

Proletariat stood and ran after him, screaming his name and inhaling entirely too much smoke in the process. She didn’t catch him since he’d jumped on the escape ladder and ridden it down as it deployed. Having to climb down the ladder herself, she just couldn’t keep up with him as he ran into the dark and the continuing rain – though several people watched him as he ran from the scene, attracted by her repeated shouting of his name. A fire engine crew was already pulling up to the curb.

“Here,” said a firefighter who came up to the coughing Proletariat, “take a blast of this oxygen to clear your lungs.”

Proletariat gratefully drew deep breaths from the mask – and then everything went black.

She awoke quickly after the injection. She’d been gagged and strapped to a bed, her arms and legs handcuffed to the Iron bedposts at each corner. Her eyes, framed by blinders so she could only look forward, widened in horror as she beheld the masked man before her, smiling at her with an evil grin as he lifted the heavy kopis blade. Her scream was too muffled to carry.

“I mixed a paralytic in with the stimulant, Prole. I don’t need you thrashing about but I didn’t want you to miss anything. My last guest didn’t provide enough energy.”

The man proceeded to tighten tourniquets that had been pre-placed high up on her arms and legs. Then he lifted the sword.

He never brought it down for the first strike. At the apex of his swing, a heavy bullet crashed into the kopis, knocking it from his hands. A second heavy slug would have killed the masked butcher, but he was already falling from the impact of the first shot taking the blades from his hand.

Prole’s savior pushed through the bathroom window at the back of the motel room, but not in time to prevent the would-be killer from rolling out of the room’s door and into the parking lot. Closed for the Winter, there was no one around to impede his escape.

Without the added “stimulation” the masked man had intended to provide, the paralytic had put Proletariat out. When she awoke, the tourniquets and restraints had been removed and an extra pillow was neatly fluffed and placed under her head. She never saw her guardian angel.


Morning Meeting, opening of Day Eight

"...so anyway, your new Director askthepizzaguy will take over the administration of today’s Lynch vote..."

Fermanagh paused briefly.

"Well, here are the results of the post-mortem investigations on Craterus, johnhughthom, Leet Erickson, Psychonaut, and atheotes.”

“Craterus was a wiseguy, but had no recent run-ins and nothing incriminating regarding connections to our current problems. There were successes for us this time as well. Leet Erickson was a Made gangster and atheotes was a Mafia Don! That was an excellent lynch choice by the committee and Leet will be no loss. Well done gentlemen.”

Fermanagh paused, then continued.

“Psychonaut was an innocent townie with a clear record, we’re sadder for his loss. And johnhughthom was worse – he was our hidden FBI Agent-in-Charge. Director Hoover has been more than clear in expressing his anger.

Fermanagh began to pack up. The new Director looked up, vaguely surprised.

“Isn’t there something more?”

“Mr. Director?”

“Further information about Yaropolk?”

Fermanagh shook his head no, then he filed out. The committee reviewed the rules and procedures, then filed out to their work before returning that afternoon to vote and to select.


OOC

Voting (Lynch only) will conclude at 2200 Eastern Monday (0200 Tuesday GMT).


The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1, n6), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2), Beskar (n3), Double A (n3), Lord Winter (n3, n5), Andres (n4), Diana Abnoba (n4), Reenk Roink (n4), Iskander3.1 (n5), Proletariat (n5, n5, n7, n7), TinCow (n6), Shinseikhaan (n7)

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2), Myrddraal (n3), Jolt (n4), Craterus (n5), johnhughthom (n5), Leet Erickson (n5), Psychonaut (n5), Iskander3.1 (n6), Khazaar (n6), Kommodus (n6), scottishranger (n6),

Lynched: Factionheir (d2), CountArach (d3), GeneralHankerchief (d3), discovery1 (d4), atheotes (d5), A Very Super Market (d6), Kagemusha (d6), Rhyfelwher (d7)

Wogged: Nole4694 (n5), Truepraetorian (n5), Dutch_guy (n6), Warmaster Horus (n7)

[Sigurd]

The last of england’s spoiled brats
Grand order of the gutter rats
A big fish in a public house
You’re never going to learn to shut your mouth
A silly pseudo lager lout
With nothing much to shout about
Spent hours looking in the mirror
Trying to perfect the perfect pout

Now take the spotlight
And pause for your applause
Well my oh my you’re such a big boy
On a saturday night
You try but there is always something
Something not right inside
There’s always someone
Somebody else to take
The power and the glory
All for themselves

-- Kirsty Maccoll & Mark Nevin "Big Boy on a Saturday Night"



Evening Session, Day Eight


The new Director observed the committee meeting, the first since his predecessor left office. There appeared to be some productive and lively discussion, and he was encouraged by this. As the day faded into night, a sudden revelation made the choice for the lynch clearer for many – despite some calling for another “twofer.”

The votes were counted, and the lynchee was chosen. Director Askthepizzaguy was informed immediately, and he began to suit up. Meanwhile, Ironside was told that he had recieved the most votes, and was given the fateful business card, and was told to proceed to Club 30.

Ironside wondered why he should bother going to Club 30 at all; perhaps he could simply escape. As he tried to leave the meeting in the wrong direction, a group of townspeople noticed and chased after him. Ironside ducked into an alley and tried to climb the chain link fence to the other side, but the path was blocked by a trio of Rottweilers. Seeing a nearby fire escape, Ironside quickly scampered up to the roof and looked for a suitable escape route. From the south, Ironside could already hear the sounds of police sirens, and so he headed in the opposite direction, jumping from rooftop to rooftop.

The townspeople down on the street level attempted to give chase (with all the turmoil anything resembling a riot or mob attack had its appeal), but the path around the buildings was not as direct as simply moving over them. After several minutes of sprinting and death-defying jumps, Ironside was far ahead of the mob. He spotted a flagpole near the edge of the building, and used it as a handy slide back down to the ground level. After checking to see if the coast was clear, Ironside tried to catch his breath and act casually as he walked down the street.

When he turned the corner, he could not believe what he saw. Somehow he had gotten turned completely around and now he was right across the street from Club 30. He turned up the collar on his trench coat and tried to sneak past the Club, which was packed with Fatlings. Most of the people on the street paid him no mind, so he began to relax his guard. Heading to the club was an assortment of Fatlings of all kinds, from the very well-dressed young couple, to an elderly woman with a cane. A number of business men arrived in long black stretch limousines. Across the street, a couple of movers were attempting to hoist a piano into the upper floor of an apartment building. A news stand was closing up for the evening. Ironside noticed that his shoelaces had come untied during the chase, so he bent down to tie them. As he did so, a bullet whizzed past his head. He immediately rolled out of harm's way and began to sprint down the street as fast as he could, glancing back only for a moment to see who might be shooting at him.

The shooter threw off his disguise, and from underneath the old woman's shawl appeared a man in a dashing black suit, black shades, and a red tie. He was wielding a gun that looked exactly like a cane. The Director took aim and fired at a trash can near Ironside's location just as he was running by, and the trash can exploded, knocking Ironside off his feet and into the street. The Director dropped the cane gun and reached for his .38 Colt Special, and approached his target. He took aim, and then fired several rounds. Ironside had brought a bullet proof vest, so it was not surprising that the first several shots didn't kill him. What was strange is that he didn't feel the impact of the bullets at all. Not wasting a moment, Ironside pulled out a large black handgun of his own and pointed it at the Director.

The loud blaring noise of a horn from a furniture truck startled Ironside and he dove out of its path. The truck's tires had been blown out from the Director's .38 and it had nearly killed Ironside as it lost control and swerved toward him. The Director aimed his .38 once more and fired in the general direction of his target. Ironside wondered where he had been hit, but he didn't feel any pain. He looked up and saw that the grand piano, which had been suspended by rope over the sidewalk, was now hurtling toward his head. Ironside tried to jump out of the way, but he had been standing on his untied shoelace and he fell flat on his face, just as the grand piano fell on the rest of him. Askthepizzaguy calmly adjusted his tie, and then cracked his knuckles. He then proceeded to play "Chopsticks" on the shattered piano. The two movers gave the Director a round of polite applause.

He bowed gracefully, and then hopped into his nearby blue Jaguar XK 120 (one of the original 200 with the aluminium body), placed his white fedora on his head, and drove off into the night. The bumper sticker on the rear of the vehicle read 'Don't tread on me'.


OOC

Night Orders for Night 8 will be due no later than 2100 Eastern on Tuesday (0100 Wed. GMT)



Lynch Tally

1st Ironside: 15 (a completely inoffensive name, Caius, Chaotix, Crazed Rabbit, Diana Abnoba, DisgruntledGoat, Ironside, LittleGrizzly, Reenk Roink, Shinseikhaan, slashandburn, TinCow, Tratorix, White_Eyes:D, woad&fangs)

2nd Lord Winter: 11 (AggonyDuck, Beefy187, Beskar, Cultured Drizzt Fan, Joooray, Kukrikhan, Moros, Proletariat, spL1tp3r50naL1ty, SSNeoperestroika, YLC)

3rd shlin28: 2 (shlin28, Lord Winter)

4th/5th AggonyDuck: 1 (Andres)

4th/5th Cultured Drizzt Fan: 1 (Sasaki Kojiro)

Abstain: 1 (Twilightblade)

Votes changed/lodged late by: glyphz and prole for Ironside

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Summary of Events, Night Eight


Twilightblade walked up to the transfixed tree near which he had attacked Beefy187. With a single hand, he gently removed the ashenderei from the tree -- for him it proved easy though nobody had been able to budge it since it had been thrown there before -- and walked towards the Hotel Abbatoir. He reached the entrance just as Sasaki Kojiro exited the hotel bar. 'Blade grabbed him gently by the arm -- Sasaki staring at the long polesword strapped to his back -- and steered him to an outdoor table. Though not normally used at this time of year, the table was ready with a lit candle, several bottles, two glasses, and a small bowl of cracked ice.

"Sasaki, let's have a drink together," said Twilightblade. "I want to thank you for being the only one to express any real appreciation for my efforts."

Sasaki was a little nervous. Despite his earlier comments, being confronted by 'blade in his gleaming black leather and readily-accessed sword was at least a little disconcerting. Nevertheless, the ritual of scotch and ice proceded peacefully enough, both of them chatting about pleasantries and the weather -- studiously avoiding committee discussion. At last, Twilightblade put down his drink.

"That was enjoyable, Sasaki. A quiet interlude in our troubled city."

'Blade stood and bowed to Sasaki.

"You said you've enjoyed my little 'entertainments' so far. I hope you'll enjoy tonight's."

'Blade stepped quickly to the side, drawing a tarp off several chairs and kicking a couple of carefully placed seltzer bottles to smash on the ground. Sasaki was now surrounded by a dripping wet circle.... and a half dozen bottles filled with gray powder. He covered his face while jumping to his feet.

Twilight blade stepped rapidly backward and quickly threw two kunai into the strategically placed bottles. As the released powder flared into gouts of flame, Sasaki was roasted on all sides but strangely untouched by the flames themselves. As the flames died back, leaving only a few chairs and a small, burlapped palm tree burning gently. Sasaki uncovered his face, looked briefly down at his soot-stained and slightly charred trench coat, and turned to face 'blade.

"A good show, yes? And at no cost to you save for a little dry cleaning..."

"'Blade, I'm going to...," said Sasaki, starting forward.

"Oops, forgot one," said 'blade, pointing at a bottle of golden powder, tied to the burlapped palm and now bending down quite close to Sasaki. Saski saw it and stopped.

"Oh well, no matter..."

Twilightblade drew the ashenderei over his shoulder in a single motion, arcing the blade laterally in a quick swing that shattered the bottle and dropped its powder onto the still wet pavement. Sasaki was already backing away, so he escaped this flame blast as well...mostly. He would be in need of a new fedora -- it had been spritzed and powder had got on it from the dangling bottle. The burning fedora quickly flew into the gutter as Sasaki tossed it away. Twilightblade was already gone.


Across town, sitting at the counter of a diner and waiting for Sasaki to join him for dinner, glyphz was gently stirring a second lump of sugar into his tea. When he saw the hatted man in the trench coat make his way through the door, he turned, expecting to see and greet Kojiro.

"Oh hi," said glyphz. "I was expecting Sasaki."

"What am I, chopped liver?"

glyphz chuckled.

"No, no. I just didn't expect to see you, that's all."

"From what I saw, he stopped off with 'blade for a drink at the Abbatoir."

"Oh well, I may as well go ahead and..."

He never finished the sentence as the fellow in the fedora pulled a silenced .28 Baretta from his pocket in one neat motion and rapidly shot glyphz twice in the left eye. The small rounds of the .28 didn't mass much, nor did they have a lot of penetrating power, but the skull at the back of the eye socket is almost paper-thin. glyphz was dead before his body remembered to fall off the stool.

The shooter gently swung the pistol towards the counterman, who stood staring stupidly at this scene while holding a glass coffee carafe -- filled with hot water to 'heat up' glyphz' tea. A second double tap, this time to the right eye, and the only witness with a clear view of things was also dead. The shooter let the gun fall slowly to his side, then let it drop to the floor. He withdrew a violin bow from his coat, leaving the bow on glyphz' body. He then took a mint from the bowl on the counter, depositing his nickel in the saucer beside it -- the cafe had an honor system for the mints -- and quietly walked off.


Cultured Drizzt Fanwas finally feeling better. After a week spent in hospital, suspected of having the Spanish Flu, he'd been released and had immediately taken up his duties with the committee. He strode purposefully down Atlantic, calm and assured of himself.

When the packard swerved up on the sidewalk and raced towards him, however, he wasn't quite sure what to do. Fortunately, he didn't have to do much of anything. A De Soto drove quickly out of the alley between two stores, blocking the Packard and -- with a crunch of tortured metal -- brought it to a stop. A second figure ran from behind CDF, slamming shotgun shells into the windshield of the Packard as fast as the jogging man could pump shells into the chamber.

CDF never wasn't looking behind him, but whoever was driving the Chevy clearly had Cultured Drizzt Fan in his sights. CDF took the grille right in the back of his legs and was tumbling through the air. He hit the trunklid of the Chevy at the same time as the chevy plowed into the shotgunner. The chap with the shotgun HAD heard the car coming, so he was up and moving, only getting clipped by the Chevy's fender. He landed on the hood of the De Soto, which quickly reversed up the alley.

The driver of the ruined Packard got out of the wrecked car and walked quickly to CDF. Not taking any chances, he rolled CDF over, placed his shoe firmly on CDF's neck, and crushed his larynx. He then reached inot his pocket and put a Double Eagle on CDF's tongue. Neither killer was seen clearly and the Chevy got them clear of the area before they dumped it in the bay.


Beskar was heading for his house at the end of a long evening when he saw the figure huddled in the shadows near his front stoop. Rather than continuing he stepped back, turned, and into the corner taproom at the end of the block.

One step into the tappy, he caught a pool cue across the bridge of the nose. He went down like he'd been poleaxed.

He was found dead the next morning, laying in front of the stoop to the entrance of his house. He'd been killed 'execution' style, and a Double Eagle had been placed on his tongue.


Centurion1 wasn't simply expecting trouble, he was almost avid to meet it should it happen. Not that he had any intentions of harming anyone, but if they came at him, he made sure that the .38 snubbie in his pocket would be ready to answer back.

When the fellow stepped from the front of a darkened store in front of him, shotgun at the level, he didn't hesitate but went for his gun.

"DIE MAFIA SCUM!" Shouted the Tommy gunner as he cut loose with a burst. Centurion1 took two slugs in the belly and went down hard, his one shot going wild into the night. Unused to the weapon's recoil, the tommy gunner also went down...and then it was quiet.

A few minutes later, sirens woke Centurion1. His armor had stopped both slugs, though he'd ache for days anytime he moved -- or breathed. Still, he was breathing. That was more than could be said for his would be killer. Knocked back a step by the recoil of his weapon on full auto, the Tommy gunner had tripped on the curb behind him and fallen at an odd angle, breaking his neck at exactly the same point a hangman would have. He'd been dead most of the time Centurion1 had laid on the street unconscious. When the police arrived and removed his mask, both they and Centurion1 were surprised to see the surprised face of shlin28.


Aggonyduck had been drinking a final cup of tea before bed when he felt incredibly sleepy. He sat down, woozy, and then....

...woke up with a gag in his mouth. He screamed into the gag and tried to free himself. It was to no avail. He'd been shackled to a four poster bed, near the shore from the sound of the surf, with tourniquets high up on his arms and legs. Ducky stared in horror as a man came into sight, holding a syringe.

"Here we go," said the man. "I think I have the mixture just right this time. Paralytic, strong stimulant, you being about 165 pounds...."

He injected ducky, quickly tightened the four tourniquets, and then brought out the bent, but still sharp, kopis blade.

"Since we're at a closed boarding house at the South end, THIS time I do not believe we will be interrupted."

The kopis came down on his left wrist, half severing Ducky's hand. He screamed into the gag. The paralytic left him almost immobile, but the pain was indescribable.

"Wonderful! Let's enjoy the rest of this properly..."

The cutting continued, Aggonyduck having far too long a chance to live up to his name. He lasted until partway through the 3rd limb's severation. In the morning, the limbs and head were found in front of the convention center, carefully arranged to form the number five.



Morning Session, Day Nine


"So that's what happened, as far as we know."

Fermanagh rifled through his notes.

"The post-mortem results on A Very Super Market, Iskander3.1, Kagemusha, Khazaar, Kommodus, and scottishranger (n6) were overall pretty encouraging."

"AVSM, Kagemusha, and Khazaar were all wiseguys. We have no specific evidence of their linkage to the mafia, but there are rumors regarding all three. Even better, Iskander was a Made Gangster and scottishrange a mafia Luca. All in all this was great luck for Fatlington, and good work by our committee."

"We did lose a good citizen in Kommodus, who was a townie and actively involved in the fight against the Mafia."

"I wish you all continued success."

Askthepizzaguy then reviewed the vote and selection procedures before calling the morning session to a close.


OOC

Voting (Lynch and Director) will conclude at 2100 Eastern Wednesday (0100 Thursday GMT).

Results/Investigations likely delayed until tomorrow during the AM.


The Cost of Life in Fatlington:

Attacked: Beefy187 (n1, n6), DJGingivtis (n2), GSC (n2), Beskar (n3), Double A (n3), Lord Winter (n3, n5), Andres (n4), Diana Abnoba (n4), Reenk Roink (n4), Iskander3.1 (n5), Proletariat (n5, n5, n7, n7), TinCow (n6), Shinseikhaan (n7), Centurion1 (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n8),

Killed: Quintus.JC (n1), The Stranger (n1), Death is Yonder (n2), pevergreen (n2), Yaropolk (n2), Myrddraal (n3), Jolt (n4), Craterus (n5), johnhughthom (n5), Leet Erickson (n5), Psychonaut (n5), Iskander3.1 (n6), Khazaar (n6), Kommodus (n6), scottishranger (n6), Aggonyduck (n8), Beskar (n8), Cultured Drizzt Fan (n8), glyphz (n8), shlin28 (n8)

Lynched: Factionheir (d2), CountArach (d3), GeneralHankerchief (d3), discovery1 (d4), atheotes (d5), A Very Super Market (d6), Kagemusha (d6), Rhyfelwher (d7)

Wogged: Nole4694 (n5), Truepraetorian (n5), Dutch_guy (n6), Warmaster Horus (n7)

[Seamus Fermanagh]

"The Kilkenny Cats"

There were once two cats of Kilkenny.
Each thought there was one cat too many;
So they fought and they fit,
And they scratched and they bit,
Till, excepting their nails,
And the tips of their tails,
Instead of two cats, there weren't any.

-- traditional


Evening Meeting, Day Nine


The committee of vigilance was full of bickering and accusation, but in the end, the democratic process yielded the name of another criminal that needed to be put to justice. DJGingivitis was not even there to hear his name being called out, for he had bolted from the scene long before the final tally was announced. The people of Fatlington searched high and low for the missing suspect, but to no avail. Indeed, was busy sipping coffee and reading a newspaper on a rooftop cafe in downtown Fatlington, far away from the prying eyes of the crowd. DJGingivitis was far too clever to simply go down like a sucker, and if he was going to live his life as a fugitive, he might as well do it in style. He checked his wristwatch and noted that this was about the time he would be killed, if he hadn't had the presence of mind to take cover. He chuckled to himself, but it was merely for show. In reality, the supposed time of his own death made a cold shiver run down his back, and his hands became clammy. As long as he could avoid the Director, he should be fine...

But then he saw her... a creature of such beauty he could scarcely imagine. A woman of impeccable style and taste, and a look of danger about her face which made DJGingivitis's heart flutter. If he was nervous before, he was now simply in awe. She wore a black hem dress, a modified bandolier around her left leg with several 7.62x25mm Tokarev magazines, and a leg holster with what appeared to be a C-96 Bolo. She wore a black headband, black shades, and her lips were blood red. She had a look of cold, calculating murder... and seductive charm that would drive any man crazy for her affection. She could probably make a man do just about anything for her. She walked over to DJGingivitis, took a drag on her cigarrette, and asked if she might join him, as all the other seats in the cafe were taken. DJGingivitis sputtered out something along the lines of "sure... the seat is welcome. Uh, I mean, you're welcome. I mean, please, go right ahead". And so the woman in the black hem dress slid herself down into the chair and crossed her legs. She spoke in a delightful eastern european accent that DJGingivitis couldn't quite place.

Dark-haired woman: "I understand you have big problem. It seems the Director is after you. What are you going to do about him?"

DJGingivitis: "Askthepizzaguy is a nobody with an overinflated sense of self-importance. He's being set up for a big fall... mark my words, someone is going down in flames very shortly."

The woman in black laughed at this, and replied; "Ah, such confidence. I like that. But maybe you don't understand... he is already on his way here. I would offer you my services as protection... but I don't think you could afford me."

DJGingivitis: I'll take my chances... but thanks for the offer. Say, perhaps after we finish with these coffees you'd like to come back to my place... I happen to be a gentleman who knows how to treat a lady.

She shook her head and laughed again. "Something around here is certainly overinflated." Then she walked away.

DJGingivitis was disappointed to see her go, and found that he had too much on his mind to go back to reading the news; his hands were now shaking. It must have been all the caffeine. But then he noticed several people looking up into the sky, and heard commotion all around him. Many of the patrons were picking up their items and leaving quickly. DJGingivitis was filled with dread, and couldn't resist the urge to look up and behind him, especially as the shadow creeped across his table. Something was hurtling off of the rooftop several floors above DJGingivitis, and it was heading straight toward him. DJGingivitis quickly stood up and fumbled for his weapon, only to feel the blunt force of a heel smashing him in the face, knocking him across the table and causing him to drop the gun. The Director had arrived, swinging down from the above rooftop, and released himself from his rappelling gear. For some reason, he was also wearing thick black gloves. DJGingivitis scrambled for his weapon, aimed it at the Director, and fired.

The Director opened his umbrella like a shield, and the bullets were easily deflected. This one was obviously meant for keeping more than just raindrops off of one's body. Frustrated, DJGingivitis dropped his gun went for the next best thing... a long combat knife that he kept strapped around his leg for just such an occasion. Pizzaguy smiled and closed the umbrella, and then pushed another button, releasing a sword from the umbrella tip. DJGingivitis's menacing grin turned into an annoyed grimace. <> he thought, but he advanced on Pizzaguy just the same.

Pizzaguy kicked a table out of his way and swung the sword, but DJGingivitis grabbed one of the deck chairs and used it to deflect the blow. The chair shattered, and DJGingivitis decided that it was time for plan B. He started moving backward, knocking the tables and chairs out of his way, and moved over near the edge of the rooftop, where there were several nearby power cables just within reach, connected to a transformer. He daringly hopped up onto the edge of the building, and invited the Director to follow. Askthepizzaguy soon joined him, and as they teetered on the edge, they tested one another's skill with a blade, each attempting to kill the other or knock him to his death. DJGingivitis moved closer and closer to the power cables, and just as a lethal swing of the 'brella sword was aimed at his head, DJGingivitis rolled out of the way and jumped across several cafe tables to safety.

The Director's blade sliced right through the suspended power line, and the exposed metal cable dropped dangerously onto the cafe patio. DJGingivitis expected the Director to be dead, but as he turned, he saw that only the umbrella itself had caught fire, and the Director was unharmed. This might have been due to the gloves. He dropped the flaming umbrella before it melted them, and jumped down off of the ledge. DJGingivitis saw his chance. The director had no weapon... no pistol, no amazingly unfair umbrella which could apparently do everything, and even better... it did not appear as though he was wearing any body armor. Perhaps he could finish him off once and for all. DJGingivitis wielded his combat knife and charged the Director at full speed.

Askthepizzaguy grabbed the exposed power cable with both hands, and swung it at the metal blade of his opponent. The resulting shock blasted the knife right out of his hands, and knocked DJGingivitis forward toward the edge of the roof, stunned. As he turned around to face his opponent, Askthepizzaguy stabbed him clean through the chest with the sharp, exposed metal cable.

"POWER!!!!!!" The insane director roared with glee. Electricity crackled, pulsing through DJGingivitis like a continuous bolt of lightning. He convulsed in the throes of death; his hair caught fire and his skin began to burn. This only caused the Director to laugh hysterically. "...UNLIMITED POWERRRR!!!!!!"

After several long moments of watching his victim writhe in pain, the Director withdraw the metal cable from DJGingivitis's chest and delivered a swift kick to the side of his head, sending the flaming corpse down to the street far below. The street cleaners would be none too happy when they saw the resulting mess, but those are the breaks. At least while Askthepizzaguy was handling the lynches, they would have job security!

Fatlington was indeed a magical land of peace and love.



OOC

Due to a visit to my mother's in Florida (and the concomittant family commitments and internet limitations), Capo will be on a break. After 3 weeks of hard play, please use this time to clear your heads a bit....and do a little scheming. Thanks for your patience with me.

Night Orders will be due for Night 9 at 2100 Eastern, 9/4/9.



Lynch:

1st DJGingivitis: 8 (gibsonsg91921, Sasaki Kojiro, DisgruntledGoat, Ricera10, Chaotix, woad&fangs, Lord Winter, Crazed Rabbit)

2nd Lord Winter: 6 (Moros, Tincow, Beefy187, Sigurd, Proletariat, Joooray)

3rd Crazed Rabbit: 5 (Reenk Roink, Diana Abnoba, Shinseikhaan, Andres, slashandburn)

4th/5th Beefy187: 1 (Kukrikhan)

4th/5th Moros: 1 (a completely inoffensive name)


Selection:

Slashandburn: 15 (LittleGrizzly, Reenk Roink, woad&fangs, beefy187, twilightblade, Crazed Rabbit, Lord Winter, Moros, DisgruntledGoat, slashandburn, Centurion1, TinCow, proletariat, SSNeoperestroika, Chaotix

Askthepizzaguy: 14 (Askthepizzaguy, spl1tpersonality, gibsonsg91921, Xehh II, Diana Abnoba, White_Eyes, El Diablo, Andres, Sigurd, Kukrikhan, Shinseikhaan, Joooray, Ricera10, Tratorix)

a completely inoffensive name: 1 (a completely inoffensive name)