Capo di Tutti Capi IV -- Information and Story Summary Thread.

Main Thread #1

Prologue to Capo di Tutti Capi IV

– 2:00pm Eastern – A hotel suite in New York

“Call Moretti again, Dean.”
“No answer, Jerry. I think he’s gonna be ticked…”
“I know, I know; but how in heck was I supposed to know the Doctor’d say I had mumps this morning. Of all the crazy things. I didn’t even remember our lunch with Willie until just now – you know that. Try him again in another ten.”
“Okay. I called the guy at NBC radio about the rehearsal already so…”
Both men turned to the TV in the suite when they heard the name “Moretti” from the newscaster. They watched, stunned, as the anchor relayed the news: Willie Moretti, reputed crime boss, gunned down at lunch at Joe’s Elbow Room in Cliffside, New Jersey. There was an uncomfortable silence at the end of the news announcement. Martin was the first to speak.
“All in all, Jerry, I’m not too sad you got the mumps….”

4 October 1951 – 8:00pm Eastern – A hotel suite in Cuba

Lansky cradled the phone gently and walked out on the balcony.
“It’s confirmed.”
“Well, I didn’t think the news guys were making it up, but thanks. Crap. Frankie was against it, and I hadn’t made up my mind yet.”
“Anastasia didn’t want to wait. You and your omerta tradition, you know. Willie mouthing off at the hearings didn’t sit very well.”
“I know. I agree even, but I figured his brains were for mush anyway so it wouldn’t matter. Well, I don’t think the Commission will take any action, do you?”
“It’s the way they were leaning anyway…the penalty will be minor.”
Luciano nodded his agreement. He swirled his glass briefly before taking a drink. He looked meaningfully at Lansky.
“Since we’re speaking about Jersey…”
Lansky paused, and then what Luciano was leading up to came to him in a fully realized whole.
“Again? Didn’t we get enough people killed the last time?”
“Bruder, you know the numbers better than me, so you can answer your own question, no?”
Meyer paused in thought, fixing Charlie with a measured stare. There was no real anger in that stare – they had shared too much, achieved too much, together for that – and Luciano was correct about the numbers.
“I get it, Charlie, I really do. Profits in narcotics and Russian furs tripled for the 4 months the Pentangelis ran Fatlington. It’s a squalid little Jersey Shore town with a port large enough for our purposes and if we’re running it – however unofficially – it becomes a cash cow for the whole Eastern Seaboard. But the chaos, Charlie, it’s like the whole place is meschuge. Vegas doesn’t have that kind of margin but at least the people there aren’t maniacs….”
Luciano just looked at his friend, waiting. Meyer was anything but stupid. A brief pause was enough time.
“I see.”
Luciano nodded.
“Well then, paisan, since the Commission has already decided, my role is pretty simple. I’ll get the contacts rolling. So be it. “

4 October 1951 – 8:15pm Eastern – A hotel suite in Fatlington, New Jersey

The cool breeze felt good on his face after the hot, smoke-filled session of poker. This game, though technically illegal, wasn’t likely to get Fatlington’s top cop in trouble – after all the other players included a federal judge, two city councilman and His Honor TosaInu. Commissioner Fermanagh, looking out over the railing of the suite at the Hotel Abbatoir, staring over the dark Atlantic.
A cold chill ran down Fermanagh’s spine, causing him to straighten in surprise as he shivered. He felt himself quivering with…fear? Shaking off the feeling, he muttered to himself:
“Just the wind, you old mick, just the wind – nothing to worry about.”
As he turned back to the game, though, he didn’t – just couldn’t quite – shake the feeling he’d had. A cold October wind was blowing toward Fatlington.

[Congrats Gibbo, I'm turning your post into something useful - GH]

Capo di Tutti Capi IV Game Rules

A Special Note for Those New to the Gameroom:

Newcomers to the .org or orgahs who've never mafia'd before, the staff has prepared the following brief orientation for you.


For all of you Gameroom recidivists and those who are now up to speed on things orgah:

Here are some of the particulars relevant for capo including the code of ethics and rules.

Code of Ethics

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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-IV.

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: This does not include those game-specific alternates made available for mafia play. Otherwise, the use of multiple identities is against org policy and may draw unfavorable attention from moderators and administrators. Gameroom alternate accounts will not be used for Capo.

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.

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-IV, 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. :beam:

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

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Setting

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Fatlington, New Jersey, October 29, 1951:

The temperatures are moderate, but it has been a surprisingly wet Fall. 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. Former mayor, now Governor Tosa Inu, though now largely “distant” from the affairs of Fatlington, has left a varied cadre of successors to handle Fatlington’s affairs. With yet another crisis looming, this leadership group has decided to resort to the Committee of Vigilance used in the previous crises.

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 is Monday, October 29th, 1951.
• The UN “police action” in Korea continues, with Chinese and North Korean forces pushing back the UN troops under MacArthur and Walker. UN forces would not stop this offensive until the end of the year. At the end of 3 years of conflict, the two opposing forces faced each other more or less exactly on the same line wherefrom things had begun in 1950 – but with 3.5 million dead among the participants.
• Winston Churchill has just been elected Prime Minister.
• The official conclusion of World War II is made with the treaty of San Francisco (Sept.) and Truman’s declaration of the cessation of hostilities with Germany (oct.).
• The Cold War and McCarthyism are in full swing.
• The USA has, only months ago, detonated the first ever Thermonuclear device (H bomb) on Eniwitok.
• I Love Lucy has just this month debuted on television. It’s debut is watched by an unsurpassed 10,6 million viewers.
• Telephones are now able to dial directly from coast to coast.
• Bobby Thompson, earlier this month performs the “Miracle of Coogan’s Bluff,” but the Dodgers go down to defeat at the hands of their cross-town rivals, the New York Yankees, who win the “subway” series in six games.

The question for you is, who will win things in Fatlington?

How to Win

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The game ends when one of the following conditions obtain:

1. The Dons of all the mafia families (including replacement Dons and Dons of newborn families) are dead and the total of town-aligned players exceeds that of the mafia (unaligned wiseguys, and most “individualist” roles are counted as town-aligned for this purpose but third party “secret factions” and some “individualist” roles are not counted as being part of either faction. This is a townie win. Traditionally, the last Don is depicted as leaving town rather than dying, mostly for narrative purposes.
2. A single mafia family removes all other Dons aside from their own and also outnumbers the total remaining number of Mafiosi of the other families (or unaligned) , townspeople, and unaligned/neutrally aligned players. This is a mafia win for that family and the Don of that family becomes Capo di Tutti Capi.
3. If the specific victory conditions of a secret “third” party faction have been met. These conditions typically involve the domination/outnumbering of the remainder of Fatlington. This would count as a third party victory.
4. All mafia Dons are deceased, as in number one above, but the number of Mafiosi and Town-aligned players are equal. This constitutes a draw.
5. All Mafiosi, Town-aligned, and Third Party players are deceased, with the only survivors being “individualists” with special roles/victory conditions. In this instance, such individualists are NOT counted as Town-aligned and the game is judged a “no contest.” In practice, this would probably be a serial killer win.

In addition to these general victory conditions, most players also have individual objectives that will modify the magnitude of their own victorys/defeats. This should be noted on your role sheet. It is possible for your larger faction to “win” but you personally to suffer a defeat because of the modification of your results. Many of the “individualist” players are solely assessed on their individual victory conditions.

Remember, Capo being Capo, it is entirely possible for you to be unsure of your faction’s victory even as you remove the last known enemy from play. Many (most?...ALL?) players may have ulterior motives and all may not be quite as it seems. This is, of course, a way to make the final writeup more fun!

Game Phases and Basic Gameplay

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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.

This is the basic format that will be used:

PM #1

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Seamus Fermanagh

Role: Townie

Alignment: Town

Summary: You are the “salt of the earth” of Fatlington. You start with no particular abilities save for any individual secret traits you may have. In Fatlington, however, nobody has to be an inactive player and no townie is required to remain so for the entire game. How and for what cause you craft your future is up to you.

Victory Conditions: 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.

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.

Abilities:

Daytime:

1. You may vote to lynch or select as can any other player.

Nightime:

Active Actions

1. 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 (limit 5), 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 6 chance of dying (50%) or being revealed by name (50%) in that failed attempt.

2. In combination with 4 other townies, you can form a vigilante group (5 required) and attempt to kill one other player. More than 5 townies can work in the same group (limit 7), though this does not provide any other benefit aside from participation credit. If fewer than 5 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 6 chance of dying (50%) or being revealed by name (50%) in that failed attempt.
Passive Actions: Townies have no passive actions unless so specified in their secret abilities PM.

Secret Abilities/Traits:

These are listed in your second pre-game PM and are not to be revealed or discussed during play…only used.

Regarding Investigations

1. If you are investigated by a detective, it is likely that you will be evaluated as “innocent.” A minority of townies, however, will register as “unclear,” while an even smaller percentage will register as “criminal” because of a mis-spent youth or poor choice of associates.

2. You will register as “guilty” only if you participate in a successful killing, and will continue to register as “guilty for the remainder of the game or until you change roles.

3. If investigated by a made gangster, it is likely that you will be evaluated as “innocent,” though a minority will register as “unclear” and a very few as “criminal.” Made Gangsters cannot scan for guilt.

4. The result you display for a detective may differ from the result a Made would get on you, but will be consistent for all detectives and for all mades.

Role Changing

1. After two successful saves during protection efforts, one of your group will be offered the opportunity to become a Doctor. If you so choose, you cease being a standard townie and will be given the Doctor’s role sheet and objectives. Subsequent saves by the same group members will produce two doctors at random. Any player who participates in four successful saves will also be offered the Doctor role. You will be given this role-change opportunity only once.

2. After two successful kills, one of your group will be offered the opportunity to become a Wiseguy. If you so choose, you cease being a standard townie and take on the Wiseguy role and objectives. Any townie with three successful kills will be offered the Wiseguy role. You will be given this role-change opportunity only once.

3. If you earn and are offered both Doctor and Wiseguy roles but decline them both, you will be given the opportunity to become a Rogue Detective instead. Rogue detectives have both an investigative ability and a solo-kill capability.

---

Phase Rotation:

For the most part, the usual sequence of 24-hour days and 24-hour nights will be followed. A timer will be used to keep things on pace (and thanks to Tincow!).

The first day phase (opening phase of game) is usually shorter than 24 hours as it serves mostly as a time for player communication and the only “business” being conducted is the selection of the initial Director of the Committee of Vigilance.

The first two night phases are usually extended to allow players to coordinate effectively. Recidivists will recall the system pretty well, but newcomers are given a little extra time to get in the swing of things.

Phases falling on weekend days (East Coast USA) will probably be extended as well, in order for the host to discharge family duties properly.

Basic Phases of Play, Night Actions, Night PMs, Failed Action Results

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 host 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.

Certain traits or roles may allow for a specific daytime action, but these will be infrequent. Any such abilities will be explained in the individual role PM.

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.

Night Actions:

Night Actions fall into two general categories: active and passive.

Active night actions include kill and protection attempts, as well as any other action that may directly exert influence on another player. Each player is limited to only ONE active night action per night unless specifically outlined in your role PM. Most players will have to coordinate night actions with other players in order to be effective.

Passive night actions include most investigations and can often be carried out in addition to the single active night action attempted by the player. However, each individual should be careful to note how the particulars of their role/traits influence passive actions. It is often the case that passive actions are restricted based on any Active actions undertaken. Passive actions are usually individual.

Your choice of Night Action(s) should be sent by PM to the host. Please note that failure to do so within the time limit or failure to properly coordinate messages among Active action teams will result in their failure….or worse. Attached is an example of a night action PM.

PM Example: (A team of two sanctioned Wiseguys and one Townie (gone bad) attempt to kill another player)

Quote:

---

Night 4: Sanctioned by Don Pentangeli and working with Red Harvest and Divinus Arma, I will kill Strike for the South.

In addition, I will use my “sleuth” trait to investigate Sasaki Kojiro.

---

This is a good example in that it clearly spells out all of the team members and their action. However, if Don Pentangeli fails to send in a pm sanctioning the effort, then the team will fail as two Wiseguys and one townie cannot make a successful kill (Fun note, if all three are wiseguys, then the kill would work, but would not count towards any of those wiseguys becoming Mades as the kill was unsanctioned, Capo being Capo, a failure could reveal that someone had different abilities then they were letting you know about…). The same failure result would occur if either Red Harvest or Divinus Arma failed to send in orders or sent in orders that differ significantly from those in the example above. In any case, the individual passive action using the sleuth trait would function normally.

Failed Night Action Consequences

Any failed mafia-sanctioned hit is just listed as an attack. The write up will usually suggest the numbers involved, allowing players to determine – mostly – that this was a mafia attempt. The write up will also indicate the source of failure: protection, luck, or poor coordination.

Any failed townie vigilante hit or independent wiseguy hit is just listed as an attack. Again, the write up may reveal the number of attackers and allow players to estimate what was happening. The write up will also indicate the source of failure: protection, luck, or poor coordination.

Any townie who ends up, through poor orders coordination or betrayal, making a solo attack, will not only fail, but will have that solo attack narrated in a way that indicates others were expected to be present. In addition, that townie runs a 1-in-6 chance of being killed (50%) or revealed by name (50%).

Any wiseguy who ends up, through poor orders coordination or betrayal, making a solo attack, will not only fail but will have that solo attack narrated in a way that indicates others were expected to be present. The wiseguy will also run a 1-in-6 chance of being revealed by name.

Please note that these basic consequences for a failed night action may be modified by the abilities possessed by certain “individualist” roles or advanced role status (e.g. Surgeon-level doctor).

As with day actions, all night actions – successful and otherwise – will be written into a narrative write up covering the events of the preceding night. You should mine this information for clues, but be careful as some things are accidentally… or purposefully,,, misleading. Players engaged in mayhem of any form are STRONGLY encouraged to provide specifics as to method/style of action or even to write up their own efforts. While I reserve the right to edit or change as needed, I will make an effort to use any such material in writing up the results.

Investigation results will be communicated by private PM following the write up. Notifications of status change or role changes will also be made following the write up. Feel free to remind me if you think I missed something, but give me an hour or two after the write up first as I might have quite a few PMs to send out.

Everyone:
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.

Concerning Investigations

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Information may be the single most valuable commodity in Fatlington. Virtually every game has centered on the acquisition of information about other players’ roles and actions….by fair means and foul.

The basic model for investigations is as follows:

1. The targeted player’s name is submitted by night action PM to the host.
2. Following the writeup, a results PM will be sent to the investigator.
3. The results will indicate both basic status and any discovered information as to player role.

The following basic metric will be used:

1st investigation = reveals current status with a one in two hundred sixteen chance of learning role.
2nd investigation of same target = starting status; one in thirtysix of learning role
3rd investigation of same = current and starting status; one in six of learning role
4th and subsequent investigations = current and starting status; one in three of learning role.

Certain investigators may get better results in one category or another, and/or receive their results in a delayed fashion.

Clarity to Balance the Ambiguity

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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.

Day Actions: Lynch Voting and Director Selection

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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 Fermanagh

To change a vote, please post the following:

e.g. Unvote: Ser Clegane; Vote: Seamus Fermanagh

If you abbreviate the name of the person for whom you are voting, please do so in a clear and consistent fashion. If I can’t figure it out, I will not count it.

These votes are, of course, part of the public discussion in the thread and available for all to evaluate.

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 Commish' Seamus)
4. “Select: Present” to indicate your continued participation

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

e.g. Select: Seamus Fermanagh

To change a selection, please post the following:

e.g. Sack: Ser Clegane; Select: Seamus Fermanagh

As before, this IS part of your public posting in the thread and any abbreviations must be clear. It may be posted in the same post with your lynch vote or not at your choice.

You may vote to lynch, select a director, do neither, or do both at your choice.

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. Make a new post and add to your post count. Thanks.

Playing While Dead

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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/faction's victory if possible.

There ARE important restrictions than must be observed:
1. The dead may post, but not vote, select, or carry out any night actions (active or passive).
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!

Most of the arguments/problems with CdTC in earlier games resulted from dead players venting their frustration by revealing information or some such. 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 annoyed in the short run.[/COLOR]

Screenshots and Miscellaneous Points

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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.

My Traits and other particulars PM to you, usually the second PM your receive prior to play, cannot be revealed in whole or in part to any other player except as noted in that additional material itself.

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. Be warned.

"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. I try to avoid this, as most players like to have lots of targets.

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

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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. 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 6 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 a minority will appear as “unclear” and a very small minority as “criominal.” If investigated by a made, the most will be “innocent,” some “unclear,” and a minority “criminal.”
Townies may band together to kill one target per night phase, but must do so in groups of 5. 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. This squad also prevents active night actions of any kind, which may be limiting or fatal to some players. 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 are 5 families at the start of play: Barzini, Corleone, Cunnio, Stracchi, & Tataglia.

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 active night actions. 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. In addition, a group of mades may provide protection for another Mafioso.

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. :beam:

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.

The third iteration featured: A Rogue Detective, Two serial killers, two additional FBI and one CIA agents opposed by a trio of communist infiltrators…one of whom was a detective as well.

This will serve as the master set of rules for Capo IV. 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.

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


Signed up to play 117; 1 Alternate.

a completely inoffensive name
AggonyKing
Ameranth
Andres
Arjos
Askthepizzaguy
B Ray
Backwards Logic
Beefy187
Believer
Beskar
Bestrfcplayer
BillMc
Bow-wow-wow
BSmith
ByzantineKnight
Cahoma
Camikaze
Captain Blackadder
Cecil XIX
Chaotix
Choxorn
Clitsome
cpdwane
Craterus
Crazed Rabbit
DaveShack
dcmort93
Death is yonder
Diamondeye
Diana Abnoba
Double A
Drunk Clown
Earthling
edse
El Barto
ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK
Erebus
Frozen In Ice
fubbleskag
fyremarble
GamezRule
GeneralHankerchief
gibsonsg91921
gnarley charlie
God Emperor
Guiri
hero di classico
Ibn-Khaldun
Ironside
Issaikhaan
Ishmael
Jarema
J.D.
Johhog
johnhughthom
Jolt
Kagemusha
kennigit
Khazaar
Krill
landlubber
LazyMcCrow
Lewwyn
Lord Brennus
Lord Winter
Major Robert Dump
Master Necromanver
Memnon
Monk
Montmorency
Moros
Neri
Nictel
Nightbringer
Niklas
O!TheLastDays!
Peasant Phil
Pharoah
Populous Romanus
Psychonaut
qlphz
Raskolnikov
Renata
Riedquat
Robbiecon
Romanic
Sasaki Kojiro
Scienter
scottishranger
Secura
Seon
shlin28
Sigurd
Silver Jan
SisterCoyote
Skotsko
slash and earn
slysnake
Sprig
sturmhauke
Subotan
Suburban Plankton
taillesskangaru
Thefluffyone93
The Stranger
Tincow
Tratorix
ULC
Visorslash
White_eyes:D
Winston Hughes
woad&fangs
Xehh II
Xenoneb
Yaropolk
Zack

*reserve players (if needed; not included at start at player's request.

Zim (Remember, sarge, if I need you you had better be on the bounce).

Main Thread #3

From our artist, just to set the mood...and more to follow:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

https://img651.imageshack.us/img651/6856/capoivonec.jpg

Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends
We're so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside
There behind a glass stands a real blade of grass
Be careful as you pass, move along, move along
… Karn Evil 9 (1st Impressions, Part 2)
… Emerson, Lake, & Palmer

1013AM, Monday, 29 October 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…and so to summarize,” intoned Commissioner Fermanagh, “It’s happening again.”

The hundred-odd Fatlings gathered in the room were restless, but not really incredulous. Fatlington’s recent history with trouble was well known to all present.

“Governor TosaInu may not be a direct part of things anymore, but he still has enough in the way of contacts to have tipped us off. Moreover, he instantly mobilized the Guard to quarantine Fatlington for the immediate future. The only surprise was how quickly Federal authorities supported the effort. We’ve got troops from Fort Dix supporting the Guard and state police and the Coast Guard has cordoned off sea and Inland Waterway access completely.”

Fermanagh paused, looking out over those gathered – Fatlington’s ‘best and brightest.’

“I don’t know what we have done to deserve this mafia attention; why they keep trying to undermine this city. We DO, however, know how to deal with it. We will reconvene all of you as our next Committee of Vigilance and you will use the established procedures to weed out the Mafiosi in our midst.”
Grim nods and an expectant silence were the only comments on Fermanagh’s statement.
“Your first task will be to select a Director for the committee to oversee the…the…executions. Choose carefully. That Director will be protected by four security officers during their tenure. As you recall, they don’t vote for who to execute, but they do the rest of it.”
Fermanagh paused.
“It’ll come as no surprise that I’ve been worried about this for months. To prepare, I have had a number of detectives and protection specialists placed in your midst secretly. The will serve as a valuable means to help the committee further its efforts.”
Another pause.

“So if you haven’t, make sure you familiarize yourself with the Committee procedures, there’s copies on the table here, and get busy selecting your Director….and Holy Mother pray for us all.”

OOC:
All role pms have been dispatched. Traits and sundries will follow later today.

Please remember the moderators requests....heed them.

The first day is relatively short. The only player task is to Select: Your Choice for Director Double check on the rules and procedures and PM with questions.

Timer:

Welcome to Capo di Tutti Capi IV!

Main Thread #223

At last the long wait is over
the weight is off my shoulder
I'm taking all control
My mind is set so free

I'm where I want to be
To get the best of me
… “Too Long”
… Daft Punk


8:44PM Monday, 29 October 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“Doesn’t seem to be too much need to count the remaining ballots and I’m very much ready to get myself outside a glass of Jameson’s. Does anyone object to me closing this initial selection without a precise tally?”

Fermanagh eyed the assembled Fatlings. None objected. A few still seemed to be just sitting there, vacantly staring, as though they weren’t active and alive. Fermanagh continued,,

“It’s clear to me that your initial choice as Director of the Committee of Vigilance is our own GeneralHankerchief. I’m glad you chose him. He’s been in Fatlington as long as any of us – Saint’s preserve me, but GH was around even before I set foot here. We can trust him to take charge and do things right.”

There was a muted round of applause, which GH acknowledged with a slight – but just ever so jaunty – wave.

“With a Director in place, you’ll need to begin meetings to bring this process to a conclusion and to save Fatlington. We will meet here each morning at about 9:30am for an initial review session. Then the committee will be in “loose” session, members also have to attend to their own business, so they will be in and out. Each evening at 6:30pm we’ll have a session to finalize that day’s vote and subsequent selections...and to carry out the executions as well. The director will be assigned four of my toughest micks to protect them and assist in this task. The rest of the department will try to keep a lid on the population at large so that you can focus on your task.”

Most of those present looked grimly determined at Fermanagh’s comments. A few furtive looks might have been better described as “eager.”.

“With that, it appears that this initial session is at a close. General?”

Generalhankerchief walked to the front and took the gavel from Commissioner Fermanagh. One business-like 'THUMP' made an endnote to the meeting. Night had come to Fatlington.

OOC:
As is typical with capo, so as to allow for new teams to form, chat and coordinate (and betray), the first session will be longer than typical. Orders deadline for night one is:



1. Please mark all orders PMs as “N1 orders”

2. Yes, orders may be changed

3. I will use as the actual orders for you for that night either:

a. The last ones submitted, or

b. Those that are labeled as “use these regardless of any others”

4. Pay attention to the correct info being in your PM, unless you want it to fail.

Also, I would like to recruit 3 official tally keepers. One each to keep tallies on lynch votes and selections, and a third to double check the others. I will reward each with an additional trait. PM me; first come first used.

“In the end we’ll all wake up at heaven’s door
Always tryin’ to decipher what’s best for our lives
Till we’re flying in superhyper for sunnier skies
Only questions, never answers to what it’s all for
Tragedy and ecstasy start feeling all the same
Hiding from your majesty when you call my name
Don’t I wanta know what keeps my vision blind
Thinkin’ I can tell how best to survive”
….Comedy of Errors
….Saklad


Night One -- The Streets of Fatlington


When a good number of the committee suggested that Captain Blackadder go with them to Club 30, Blackadder politely begged off and went to his car for the ride home. Heading South on Atlantic Avenue, he'd gotten only a few blocks from the Convention Center when a cab stopped suddenly in front of his car. He slammed on his brakes and came to a stop, but the car behind him plowed forward anyway, sandwiching the vehicles together. Cursing, Blackadder began to work the door handle when two further cars screeched to a halt on either side of his Packard, scaping its sides as they huddled close.

<<Boxed in,>> he thought. Blackadder saw all four of the other drivers drop below their windshields out of sight. <<Oh, sh...>>

The thought remained forever unfinished as the PIAT round fired by the fifth attacker from the roof above vented the full force of its 2.5 pounds of shaped-charge explosive through the skin of the vehicle and into Captain Blackadder. The other drivers quickly exited their damaged vehicles and fled the scene.


In the shadow of the boardwalk at the edge of Seaside Park, one man walking home from the convention center encountered a lone man wearing a black trenchcoat, muffler, and a gray homburg. There were no sudden moves or hints of violence, only a brief and hushed conversation. At the end of the discussion, the man in the homburg produced a card with a local telephone exchange number o n it.

“If you’re interested, contact me and we’ll finalize things.”

The first man nodded politely without replying, and continued his walk through the park and to home.


Raskolnikov was sitting in the living room of his brick townhouse, watching "I Love Lucy" and laughing at the antics of Lucille Ball and Vivian Vance. His tummy began to growl. The food on the television screen was making him hungry! It was time to order something, but what? Burgers? Chinese food? No, perhaps something more fitting.... maybe an Italian place was still open. As Raskolnikov thumbed through the yellow pages, he realized that it was the middle of the dinner rush -- probably too late in the evening for a fancy place to still have a table open. That's when he realized.... that pizza delivery place down the street was open past 10pm! His pangs of hunger increasing, Raskolnikov dialed, his sweaty fingers threatening to slip with each spin of the dial.

"Mizza Mut Pizza, Fatlington's sauciest pizza, may I take your order?" said the squeaky adolescent voice.

"Yes, I would like to order 10 large sausage and pepperoni pizzas, 5 milkshakes, and a half-dozen of your meatball sandwiches. And don't skimp on the plates and napkins! I don't have time to wash dishes OR bathe," said Raskolnikov.

"Certainly, your total will be $34.75, and it will be there in about thirty minutes!"

“ Hold on, wait.... "$34.75?" asked Raskolnikov, "Isn't that extremely cheap?"

“Not at all, actually. It's 1951, silly buns. This is the most expensive meal you'll ever eat."

And so Raskolnikov flipped open his wallet and found the cash for the feast, and waited and waited and waited patiently. It seemed like it was taking forever. Where was that pizza guy? He couldn't wait much longer, the fury within him demanded an explanation. His trembling fingers once again dialed the number and soon, the familiar squeaky voice responded with the familiar greeting.

"Yes, this is Mister Raskol P. Raskolnikov down on Oriental, I ordered pizza from you over an hour ago and I demand to know what is taking so long?" he bellowed.

"Sir, that was five minutes ago."

"Oh" said Raskolnikov, feeling a bit disappointed. "So I guess it's not free then?" he asked, hopefully.

"No, sir, I can't do that."

{i}Feeling dejected and disappointed, Raskolnikov hung up the phone. His patience had not been rewarded after all, and now, he was in a horrible mood. Only one thing to do[/I]....

>ding dong<

And sure enough, just as he was about to give up hope, and precisely 25 minutes from the time he ordered, the pizza had arrived at long last. There were two men standing at the door, holding the stacks of pizzas and sandwiches.

"That will be $34.75, mister Raskolnikov!" said one of the men from behind a stack of steaming boxes.

"Well it's about time!"

Raskol grabbed the boxes of pizzas, the sandwiches, the milkshakes, and the pile of plates and napkins, and made sure the order was correct, given that it was so late, it was obviously made wrong too. No, surprisingly, everything was still hot and made correctly, so Raskolnikov grudgingly admitted that he should pay full price, even though it was so very, very late.

"Here you go. Here's thirty four dollars and....."

[I} Raskolnikov grabbed his change jar, and began counting out pennies and nickels as slowly as humanly possible. A good 5 minutes later, the pizza men were handed exactly 34 dollars and seventy-five cents.

<<No, wait! What's this?>> Raskolnikov took a bite of his pizza and a smile spread across his face. His heart grew three sizes that night, and he began digging into his pockets for something to tip the driver with. And sure enough, he heard the metallic jingling of coins in his pocket, and pulled out a fistful of more change. He began counting it very carefully, weighing how generous he was going to be.

"Here you go gentlemen. Here's a fiver for your trouble."

He handed one of the pizza guys a shiny nickel, to split between them, and slammed the door. Five minutes later, he heard the door bell ring again.

>ding dong<

[I}He opened the door and got a face full of burning hot pizza.[/I]

"OH MY GOD IT BURNS! IT BURNS!!!"

But that wasn't the end of it. More and more slices of pizza were being flung at the fat greasy man, who had in his infinite wisdom decided to come to his door wearing only his favorite unwashed pair of tighty-whities. The ones with the gaping holes in it. His skin was covered in melting cheese and burning hot pizza sauce, and he slammed the door.

"No, you can keep the change, you filthy cock-a-roach!" said one of the pizza delivery men, both of whom were now clad in trenchcoats and fedoras. They lifted up their Tommy guns and began blasting bullet holes in the flimsy wooden door, shooting out all the windows, and carving their nicknames into the brick building itself, and spraying bursts in Raskolnikov’s direction as well.

"Thanks for ordering, call us again soon!"

Raskolnikov dove under a couch and cried like a little girl until the disgruntled pizza men went away. Somehow, he escaped with his life.... just barely.


Near the Hotel Abbatoir, Earthling had just walked into the cool night air again after a nightcap at the hotel bar, when several men in trenchcoats and low slung hats stepped out of the trees and bushes of seaside park, drawing Tommy guns from their coats as they moved forward.

As they moved forward, two figures slammed open car doors and leapt on the gunman from either side. Three of the four would-be shooters were knocked down and had their guns kicked away by the rapidly retreating pair of tacklers. There was nobody to stop the fourth shooter, however, who moved toward Earthling and triggered a burst of fire.

Earthling had already made a start backwards toward the hotel doors. The gunmen fired behind him as Earthling sprinted through the door, almost as if he were “herding” him with gunfire. Nothing and nobody impeded Earthling’s escape, however, as he vaulted the main desk and ran out the back office exit on the far side of the Hotel.

Frustrated, the four shooters quickly left the scene, fading into the gloom of Fatlington.


Slash and earn was striding down the boardwalk, his pace suggesting frustration at something or someone, when his walk home was interrupted. The first shooter simply popped up a stairwell from the beach side of the boardwalk, leveling a revolver of some kind and holding some kind of business card.

>Clang…Clang<

went the two soft-nosed slugs as they ricocheted off the steel plates in his overcoat. Slash was staggered but unharmed by the shots. Two figures leapt up behind the gunman, knocking him off the raised boardwalk and into the sands, leaving the business card to flutter off in the breeze.

The Second gunman, positioned on the roof of an apartment block about a block away, saw the failure of his associate, figured the target to be armored, and eased the sights upward to head height. He never even squeezed the trigger a third figure leapt onto the boardwalk and knocked slash and earn to the boards and behind a concrete and board bench as he was lining up the shot. He quickly dropped the weapon and made his escape across the rooftops. Though chased for a little while, his partner made good his escape as well. Slash, dazed by the episode, wondered who he should thank for the armor plating…and the knot on his head from when he was knocked down.


Askthepizzaguy was walking from the cinema house, still chuckling over the Bugs Bunny cartoon he’d just seen, when the attack came. The first he knew it was an attack was when the baseball bat hit him behind the left knee and folded his legs under him. The Balaclava-wearing batsman was bringing up the bat to smash in the supine Pizza’s face when a gunshot took the bat right out of his hands. A second shot hammered into the batsman’s body armor, staggering him behind the movie ticket kiosk that Pizzaguy had just passed.

Seeing the failure of their designated hitter, a quartet of shoots opened up on Pizza from the middle of the street in front of the theatre. Pizza, low on the ground, would have made an easy target if it were not for the sudden arrival of three cars, each screeching to a halt between the shooters and Askthepizzaguy. Oddly, the third car was a bit behind the others, as though catching up to cover a missing car. Of the thirty-two rounds fired by the shooters, none reached him where he was, low to the ground behind the covering cars, though 5 other movie patrons were hit, three fatally.

With sirens announcing the approach of the police, the shooters rapidly departed the scene, followed almost as quickly by the protectors. His leg aching, Askthepizzaguy found himself staring up at the other movie patrons, all watching him and the other victims in a sort of stunned fascination. Pizza broke the momentary silence.

“B’duh, b’duh, b’duh…that’s all folks.”


Knife wounds are kind of unusual, as Slysnakehad just found out. You can be cut and bleedinf for a surprising amount of time before you realize you’ve been wounded. He collapsed in the street, only a few steps from the entrance of the City Library.

“This isn’t good at all,” he said, collapsing into the arms of some unknown Fatling matron, “not good at all.”

[It had started with a lot of jostling in the crowd at the front of his boarding house. Normally, things were fairly quiet, but a shooting at the cinema up the street had foot traffic backed up and things were rather unsettled. He was pretty sure there had been five attackers, coming in close with their knives and using the crowd for cover. All told, there had been eight people with fedoras and mufflers mixed in with the crowd, though the ones he thought were trying to screen him from harm didn’t have their act together enough to keep the attackers from slipping in close.

In the end, he’d thought he had made a lucky escape despite the odds, running 3 blocks from the attack and coming away with nothing more than a few slices and the need to get a new overcoat. He never felt the slice under his arm that pushed between the ribs. Enough luck was with him to make it a downward slash – and upwards motion would have punctured deeply into the lung or spleen, but he’d bled profusely before his adrenalin-jacked system had bothered to inform him of the wound[/I].


9:52AM, Tuesday, 30 October 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…so anyway, the ambulance got him over to Mercy Hospital in time, but he lost a lot of blood and certainly won’t be attending today’s meeting.”

Fermanagh looked grimly around the room.

“That’s several attacks we noted, one of them successful. You’ve got to do your best to root out those Mafiosi and bring them to justice. I don’t know how much longer we can count on them staying uncoordinated. General?”

Generalhankerchief strode to the podium dressed in dark “morning” gray, somber and all too appropriate for the harsh business at hand. A quick glance noting that there were no initial questions, he gaveled the Committee into loose session for the mid-day.

OOC

Day Two, and its lynch vote, begins. Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.



Attacked: Askthepizzaguy (n1), Earthling (n1), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1)

Wounded: Slysnake (n1)

Killed: Captain Black Adder (n1)

Lynched: Nobody

[U}Active[/U]:

a completely inoffensive name
AggonyKing
Ameranth
Andres
Arjos
Askthepizzaguy
B Ray
Backwards Logic
Beefy187
Believer
Beskar
Bestrfcplayer
BillMc
Bow-wow-wow
BSmith
ByzantineKnight
Cahoma
Camikaze
Cecil XIX
Chaotix
Choxorn
Clitsome
cpdwane
Craterus
Crazed Rabbit
DaveShack
dcmort93
Death is yonder
Diamondeye
Diana Abnoba
Double A
Drunk Clown
Earthling
edse
El Barto
ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK
Erebus
Frozen In Ice
fubbleskag
fyremarble
GamezRule
GeneralHankerchief
gibsonsg91921
gnarley charlie
God Emperor
Guiri
hero di classico
Ibn-Khaldun
Ironside
Issaikhaan
Ishmael
Jarema
J.D.
Johhog
johnhughthom
Jolt
Kagemusha
kennigit
Khazaar
Krill
landlubber
LazyMcCrow
Lewwyn
Lord Brennus
Lord Winter
Major Robert Dump
Master Necromanver
Memnon
Monk
Montmorency
Moros
Neri
Nictel
Nightbringer
Niklas
O!TheLastDays!
Peasant Phil
Pharoah
Populous Romanus
Psychonaut
qlphz
Raskolnikov
Renata
Riedquat
Robbiecon
Romanic
Sasaki Kojiro
Scienter
scottishranger
Secura
Seon
shlin28
Sigurd
Silver Jan
SisterCoyote
Skotsko
slash and earn
slysnake
Sprig
sturmhauke
Subotan
Suburban Plankton
taillesskangaru
Thefluffyone93
The Stranger
Tincow
Tratorix
ULC
Visorslash
White_eyes:D
Winston Hughes
woad&fangs
Xehh II
Xenoneb
Yaropolk
Zack

This is post #822 in main thread.

Out beneath the cracks and coming in waves
Rolling like an earthquake under the pavement
Heavy now, tell me Mr.Truth

You got a lot of nerve
Now show a little backbone why don't you

I'm lookin' for some back and forth with you
Are you feeling the same as I do now and now and then?
I'm lookin' for some back and forth with you
Are you feeling the same as I do?
Down and out
… “Back and Forth”
… Foo Fighters


8:17PM Tuesday, 30 October 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


The wrangling and arguments had flown around the room for hours. Earthling, an early suspect, mounted a defense against Mr. King (ACIN) that had seemed to turn the tables. Those were reversed as accusations of who had been where last night – and what had been done – were flung about with little restraint. It had been bitter and hard fought, but that was probably for the best given the goal of the Committee – death should never be meted out while bored.

In the end, it came down to votes, and the Director and his assistants diligently totaled the votes even as some members hurried over to change their votes to The Stranger in the last few minutes. In the end, it was Earthling whose name had the most hash marks next to it. Director Generalhankerchief stood and walked to the podium, one of the police squad just behind hiim....and the others stationed at the room’s exits.

Director Hankerchief was clad in an all-black ensemble; shirt, vest, tie, jacket, pants, socks, shoes. Fedora. Evidently the position of Director came with a wardrobe upgrade, and Hankerchief was making use of it in style. He settled down into a very comfortable chair, in contrast to the bland uniformity of the rest of the seats in the Executive Meeting Room, which were built for cheapness and not much else.

"So, this is the choice of the Committee then?" Everyone nodded, with Earthling squirming uncomfortably in his chair. It was not to be unexpected, but Hankerchief still wished that Earthling would have put on a better face. He was a gentleman of Fatlington, after all, and showing red with all the distinguished members of the Committee would not do, no, not do at all.

"Right then," said the Director. This was his first official speech to the Committee, he surmised, but he had no proper remarks for the occasion. "As Commissioner Fermanagh has so helpfully outlined, Fatlington is once again facing serious threat from the various Mafia families in the area. For some reason this town is a magnet to them, and we all know the cost of life whenever they come to town. Hard times are ahead. However, this does not mean that we are no longer entitled to life's little pleasures. This is not the War. There is no need for rationing. Everyone - and I mean everyone - deserves to be spoiled. And with that in mind..."

The Director snapped his fingers. The doors at the back of the room opened and four scantily-clad women, dressed more appropriately to be chorus line dancers than Director's assistants wheeled in a massive cart, filled to the brim with food. An overwhelming aroma overtook the room and soon all of the Committee members found their mouths watering.

"Earthling, your last meal," Director Hankerchief said, seemingly the only one impervious to the sensory assault. "Shaved jicama, cucumber, grapefruit and mint salad, southern-fried turkey tails and biscuits glazed with sage and black pepper honey butter, duck à l'orange, sauteed goose foie gras on toasted brioche with cherry-red wine sauce, bacon-wrapped New York strip, stuffed sweet potatoes with herbs, garlic, and blue cheese wrapped in prosciutto, and to top it off, a massive chocolate cake for dessert. Enjoy!"

{i}Earthling could only gape open-mouthed at what lay before him on the cart. It was easily the most delicious, most appetizing meal that anyone had ever seen.[/I] "Straight from the chefs at Iron Felix's," Director Hankerchief said. "Luckily for our budget it was on the house too. Come on Earthling, if you don't dig in then there are a hundred other people in this room who are more than willing to eat this amazing meal. You're about to die anyway, you might as well enjoy yourself."

"But... but there's so much..." Earthling's protest sounded hollow and weak even to himself.

"Eat." The sudden, unexpected intensity in GeneralHankerchief's voice instantly swept away Earthling's reservations and he finally went to town.

The Director kept the entire Committee seated and watching as Earthling chewed through his meal in silence. They watched, mouths watering, as Earthling made his way through the salad, cutting the various meat and poultry dishes and going through those evenly, balancing them out with the sweet potatoes. Most of the Committee members present even wished that *they* had been the ones marked for death today simply so that they could experience the pure deliciousness firsthand.

After thirty minutes of eating, still with some of the meat dishes unfinished, one thing that had become clear to everybody present was that Earthling was slowing down. Eventually the sensory assault had to subside in favor of the body's responses, and evidently Earthling's stomach had reached that point. Pushing his plates away from him, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a swig of water, and looked over at the Director. "Thanks very much for the meal, unfortunately I'm not able to finish it. I'm ready to go now, for whatever you have in mind for me."

Director Hankerchief gave a cool look at Earthling for a second before addressing the crowd as much as him. "No no no," he said, "this won't do at all. The chefs at Iron Felix's worked very hard on this meal, very hard indeed. Surely you would not want your last act on Earth to be something as extremely rude as not finishing a free meal, especially not one as delicious as this."

It was not a question. Earthling knew there was no arguing to be done, and grudgingly went back to his meal.

It became apparent to most of the Committee that the Director was trying to make a point, for every time Earthling hopefully looked up at the Director he simply glared and pointed back at the cart. After another fifteen minutes of laboring, Earthling, looking pale, finally finished his last bite of the strip steak.

"The cake," Director Hankerchief said. Even the four scantily-dressed women were glaring now.

Earthling groaned. He was feeling decidedly sick. Still, it would not serve to be rude, so he dove in, summoning every last bit of his effort to keep chewing away, to swallow, to wash it down with water, to cut another slice off the mammoth cake and restart the process. His stomach, is throat, were all burning, begging for mercy, but he knew he had to eat. And so he did. Bite after bite after bite after bite.

Some of the more enterprising members of the Committee were now beginning to openly bet on whether or not Earthling would be able to finish the cake or not before he passed out. With about a quarter of the cake to go, Earthling again looked up at the Director. Everyone in the room could clearly see the pain in his eyes, the weakness in his face. The undone buttons on his outfit.

"I'm so sick..." he mumbled.

"Finish it."

And so the misery, the torture, began again as Earthling, weeping in pain, went back to the cake. Somehow, he kept at it though, continuing to chew through his tears. The crowd was now openly cheering, rooting for Earthling to press on, to keep eating, come on, you can do it. This seemed to have no effect on Earthling. He had passed beyond recognition. Finally, after another thirty minutes, he speared the final bite with his fork. He raised it to his mouth, his hand trembled... and then he slumped over in his chair, defeated at last.

"You," [I}said the Director, pointing at one of his female assistants.[/I] "Check for a pulse."

She rushed over to Earthling, checking him, and a moment later indicated to the Director that she felt nothing.

"A shame," [I}said Hankerchief, finishing the last bit of cake for himself[/I], "It was a delicious bite too. Come on, everyone, we had better clear out of here post-haste. I can't imagine the kind of flatulence this corpse is going to produce."

The committee filed out into the dark of another Fatlington Fall night. It was the night of the 30th of October – “Devil’s Night” – and many of them were wondering exactly what kind of pranks they could look forward to. They would soon learn.

OOC

Please have your night orders PMs in no later than .

It would be easier to keep track of if you send two PMs, one for active and one for passive. Also, please label all such as "n2"

Earthling 28 (ATPG, Besker, Bsmith, Chaotix, Crazed Rabbit, Death is yonder, Frozen in Ice, GamerzRule, Ironside, Issaikhaan, Ishmael, jolt, Kagemusha, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Memnon, Neri, Sasaki Kojiro, Scottishranger, Seon, SisterCoyote, Slash and earn, Subotan, ULC, Winston Hughes, Woad & fangs, Xenoneb, Zack)

ACIN 22 (Arjos, Beefy187, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Daveshack, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, ELITE, hero di classico, Jarema, Johhog, Kennigit, MRD, Renata, Romanic, Shlin28, Sprig, Sturmhauke, Suburban Plankton, Tratorix, Yaropolk)

The Stranger 11 (ACIN, Cahoma, Earthling, Erebus, Guiri, Lewwyn, Populous Romanus, qylphz, Secura, Visorslash, White_eyes)

Chaotix 3 (Cecil XIX, O!TheLastDays, Thefluffyone93)
Edse 2 (Believer, Peasant Phil)
ATPG 2 (BillMc, The Stranger)
Sasaki 2 (ByzantineKnight, Earthling)
Shlin28 1 (Niklas)
White_Eyes 1 (Andres)
Silver Jan 1 (edse)
ULC 1 (Backwards Logic)
Skotsko 1 (Gibsonsong91921)
Arjos 1 (Psychonaut)
Camikaze 1 (Tincow)
Diamondeye 1 (Xehh II)

No Lynch 1 (Skotsko)
Abstain 3 (B Ray, Monk, Riedquat)

#984 in main thread
"Destoyed and left to face the suffering a shttered fragment is all that remains a shttered fragment of the strength once left before destroyed and left alone alone no emotions left hatred is all that can survive existance persistance in the vain hope to to return alive when fighting is but a reflex on all sides blades are drawn…”
….The Slaughter Begins
….Day of Contempt


Night Two -- The Streets of Fatlington


Cal King – sometimes known as a completely inoffensive name strode briskly out of the lobby of the Convention Center, hat low to keep out the drizzle. He had barely reached the curb when the gunmen stood up and started hammering at him with revolvers and a shotgun.

He went down quickly, but before one of the trio of gunmen could move forward to make sure of their kill, a bus pulled up between them and Cal. As they move forward to flank the bus, a trio of balaclava-covered men grabbed Montmorency up bodily and spirited him back into the lobby of the convention center – and the waiting cadre of Fatlington’s finest.

Seeing this, the lead gunman signaled his two fellow shooters, shook his head that they were not enough, and sent them back to the shadows.

King was dazed but alive and more or less unhurt – and quite happy with whoever had sowed the armor plates into his coat and hat. They had come in handy.


El Barto had made it to the front stoop of his brownstone without any trouble at all. The night was drizzly, but not truly cold. Unknown to him, four well-hidden gunmen were standing up at various places across from his doorway as El Barto was reaching for his keys.

“Meeeeew….”

Hearing the kitten at the front of the side alley next to his brownstone, El Barto immediately swung himself over the railing, hopping down to see to the poor kitten’s needs – and neatly missing the barrage of gunfire that hammered his door. Another pair of gunmen opened fire from behind the brownstone, shooting down the alley. El Barto ducked down, but before he could think of anything to do to avoid his fate, the grate he was on collapsed and deposited him in the basement of his own home. Against all the odds, he hadn’t even taken a graze.

Hearing sirens, the gunmen moved back into the shadows and away from harm. El Barto, still a little stunned at his own blind luck, looked at the gently purring kitten still cradled in one arm.

“I think I’m gonna name you ‘Felix.’”


Master Necromanver was sitting outside, on the steps of his townhouse, staring off into the distance. He had been sitting there for quite some time, with a blank expression on his face.

A car pulled up to the curb, and a man in a trenchcoat and fedora stepped out of it. The glowing sign on top of the vehicle made plain who it was that was approaching. The man in the trenchcoat and fedora walked up the steps, carrying a steaming box of pizza.

"Pizza delivery for a Mister, sorry, Master.... Necro.... man...ver?"

Necromanver looked up at the man in bewilderment. "First of all, it's Master Necromancer, you've clearly got it misspelled. And I didn't order any pizza for delivery."

The man in the trenchcoat just stood there. "Do you mean you wanted to place it for take-out instead?"

"No, actually, I didn't order pizza for take-out either."

"That's funny...." sniffed the man in the trenchcoat. "The Pizza has been ordered to take YOU out!"

The man in the trenchcoat opened the box of pizza and planted it into the face of Master Necromanver. The scalding hot cheese and sauce caused the man to jump to his feet, screaming in pain. The man then drew his tommy gun and began shooting at the feet of his victim.

"Dance for me, Master Necromanver! Dance for your life!"

"Why are you doing this?" shouted Master in a panic, as he fumbled for the doorknob behind him.

"Because I can! Because I hate deadbeats like you clogging up the fair streets of Fatlington! And because you ordered pizza last week and you forgot to tip the pizza guy!"

Master Necromanver managed to open the door to his home and rush inside before further damage was done. He slammed the door and locked it, and then hid under his couch and cried like a little girl. Somehow, he escaped with his life.... just barely.


ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK had just stepped out of his favorite ‘hole-in-the-wall’ restaurant and was striding over to a cart selling hot, salted cashews when a masked man stepped sideways from the alley between two stores and shattered Elite’s right kneecap with a sharp swing from a mashie-niblick. Elite went down, shouting in pain, and trying to both run away and reach for his weapon at the same time – time he didn’t have.

Four more attackers appeared from the crowd and started swinging socks – each one with a 4 ounce can of salted cashews in the toe – at Elite. The blows rained down, hammering his head, ribs, neck and face, punctuated every so often with a swinging smash from the 1st attacker’s golf club. In a minute, Elite was a battered wreck; in three he was singing in the choir eternal.

One of the attackers went over to the hot nuts cart, rolled it toward Elite’s body, and dumped the steaming hot cashews onto his fresh corpse. The first attacker produced a bottle of milk, smashing it over the corpse with his golf club.

No words were spoken as the assailants slipped away into the shadows.


Cahoma wasn’t at all happy with events in Fatlington. Like any prudent Fatling he was now wearing body armor and carrying for his own self defense. The armor came in handy.

Four gunmen opened fire as he passed Iron Felix’s, rapid short bursts forcing him to run and duck for cover repeatedly…and forcing him ever closer to the alley between the five-and-dime and the pet shop. Forced into the alley, he expected to be greeted by a fusillade of fire.

He was surprised to find the alley deserted, the alley lamp still lit, and a clear run to the next block where he knew a couple of Fatlington’s finest would be patrolling. He made good his escape before the shooters could follow.


Chaotix walked carefully back to his apartment, someone had died last night – from a bazooka for pity’s sake, and many people had been attacked as well. Chaotix was in no mood to be another name in the obituaries. He was somewhat prepared therefore when the car filled with armed men drove at him and ducked into an alleyway. He ducked into a side alley as the four assailants approached him from the two main entrances. He rounded the corner and ducked into a small storage room. He peered around, willing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark shadows of the small room. He wasn’t ready, however, when nothing at all happened.

"Alright, already, where are they?,” he said softly to himself.

A fifth figure – dressed in a brightish, all-blue suit, with white shirt and black tie…and a matching snug blue ski mask leaned out of the shadows. A cigarette dangled from his masked lips.

The blue-suited man spoke quietly but clearly, "Juste derrière vous," [I]and drove the balisong knife into Chaotix’s lower back with en economical and efficient upwards thrust. Chaotix collapsed to his knees and fell forward, a dull red stain spreading to mar the back of his jacket. The figure in blue flicked his cigarette butt onto the body, pulled another from his silver case and lit it, and then walked calmly away.

It was pure chance really, that Chaotix had stuck the leather hip-flask, filled with his favorite tomato juice, into his beltline at the back right of his outfit. The flask had been neatly transfixed, but the cut Chaotix himself received was no more than a tiny puncture. Chaotix had had a lucky night.


Montmorency was headed home via the boardwalk when a quartet of bikers came bouncing up the entry steps and turning onto the boards behind him – motors roaring. They were dressed head to toe in black leather and each sported a bandanna on their ski-masked heads – red, white, and blue flag bandannas.

He didn’t hesitate, just leapt from the boardwalk onto the soft sand below. The bikes roared past above him, but couldn’t get down to the sands fast enough to prevent him making his way into a nearby apartment building. Nobody had been there to cut off his escape.


Moros police would later insure his girlfriends – all four – had almost certainly never felt any pain. His car had been hit from behind in a silly fender-bender, but Moros had fled the scene rather than stopping.

Rather than heading for the restaurant where he had arranged to meet one of his quartet of “we’re pretty close” friends for a bit of dinner, Moros had headed straight for his safehouse. He’d arrived without trouble and entered the room without a hitch, locking its bar locks behind him.

Police surmised that he had been surprised to see an open window in his carefully protected apartment. The shot that killed him had come through the open window, obviously fired by a skilled marksman, and had pithed his brain stem neatly.

The police couldn’t explain the map of the Alaska territory that had been nailed to the door of the saferoom, nor the writing – ‘Seward’s Folly’ – on the fringe of the map. All of the four women were moved to tears, only one asked about a will.


Askthe pizzaguy stood on the porch of his bungalow, pacing and looking at his watch. He’d been there for six minutes and thirty-four seconds. A shadowy figure 60 yards down the street stood up and opened up on the porch with a Tommy gun.

“About time,” muttered ATPG as he dropped to the floor of the porch.

A series of five armored plates slid rapidly upward, moving in a smooth and uniform fashion, protecting the porch completely.

“Very smooth,” said Pizza to himself, “very smooth indeed.”

He had had faith that he would be protected, that he would have no problems at all, and his faith had been rewarded….at least this time.


To all appearances, it was a chance meeting. For one of them, it had been. The conversation was soft – a ski mask does not make for easy conversation – and only took a few minutes.

“Think about it, and call me if you’re interested.”

“No need to wait that long.”

“Good, very good.”


Pharoah had already turned in when the phone rang. It was his buddy from his old homestead, A.C., so he didn’t brush him off and enjoyed the chat. The phone call, however, made sure that he never heard the glass break at his back door, or the steps of his assailants as they came up the stairs and poised outside his room.

“So anyway, it’s nice enough round here, but Atlantic City was loads better, I mean you really just can’t…”

Pharoah never finished the thought as a quintet of attackers burst through the door wielding mops, brooms, and – in one case – a rug beater. What the weapons lacked in elegance, they made up for in violence as the five attackers poked, swatted and battered poor Pharoah, his phone, and his pillows into ruin. The attackers left their tools and went away.

Pharoah died, hours later, never regaining consciousness.


10:52AM, Tuesday, 30 October 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…so that’s as much as we are sure of. We’ll be adding information from the post mortem reviews as soon as they are completed.”

Fermanagh looked out at the committee.

“It’s going to get worse before it gets better. Do your best.”

Generalhankerchief strode to the podium, once again dressed in business gray. Another day had begun, and the committee still had a long way to go to save Fatlington, and they all knew it.



OOC

Day Three, lynch vote and selection for director for days 4 & 5, begins:

Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.

Results etc. as soon as I can get to them.



Attacked: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2), Cahoma (n2), Chaotix (n2), Earthling (n1), El Barto (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1),

Wounded: Slysnake (n1)

Killed: Captain Black Adder (n1), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK (n2), Moros (n2), Pharoah (n2)

Lynched: Earthling (d2)

[U}Active[/U]:

a completely inoffensive name
AggonyKing
Ameranth
Andres
Arjos
Askthepizzaguy
B Ray
Backwards Logic
Beefy187
Believer
Beskar
Bestrfcplayer
BillMc
Bow-wow-wow
BSmith
ByzantineKnight
Cahoma
Camikaze
Cecil XIX
Chaotix
Choxorn
Clitsome
cpdwane
Craterus
Crazed Rabbit
DaveShack
dcmort93
Death is yonder
Diamondeye
Diana Abnoba
Double A
Drunk Clown
edse
El Barto
Erebus
Frozen In Ice
fubbleskag
fyremarble
GamezRule
GeneralHankerchief
gibsonsg91921
gnarley charlie
God Emperor
Guiri
hero di classico
Ibn-Khaldun
Ironside
Issaikhaan
Ishmael
Jarema
J.D.
Johhog
johnhughthom
Jolt
Kagemusha
kennigit
Khazaar
Krill
landlubber
LazyMcCrow
Lewwyn
Lord Brennus
Lord Winter
Major Robert Dump
Master Necromanver
Memnon
Monk
Montmorency
Neri
Nictel
Nightbringer
Niklas
O!TheLastDays!
Peasant Phil
Populous Romanus
Psychonaut
qlphz
Raskolnikov
Renata
Riedquat
Robbiecon
Romanic
Sasaki Kojiro
Scienter
scottishranger
Secura
Seon
shlin28
Sigurd
Silver Jan
SisterCoyote
Skotsko
slash and earn
slysnake
Sprig
sturmhauke
Subotan
Suburban Plankton
taillesskangaru
Thefluffyone93
The Stranger
Tincow
Tratorix
ULC
Visorslash
White_eyes:D
Winston Hughes
woad&fangs
Xehh II

Post #1319 in main thread




Out beneath the cracks and coming in waves
As Dawn's first rays cross the green field
they shine in open eyes lying still
From the boughs of the oak tree
three ravens wait
over his cold bones lying as they are
The wind will moan forevermore
They'll perch on his backbone
beneath the morning sun
peck out his eyes one by one
… “Such Hawks Such Hounds”
… Dead Meadow


9:31PM Tuesday, 31 October 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


Director Hankerchief, having changed his suit from grey to black once again, seemed more distracted than usual throughout the day's proceedings, having excused himself from the Executive Meeting Room several times to be briefed by Commissioner Fermanagh on the latest Devil's Night happenings. While the position of Director most ostensibly dealt with the mafia incursions into Fatlington, it was easy to forget that he had other duties as well.

By the end of the day, Director Hankerchief slumped over in his cushy seat, looking rather exhausted. He managed to rally himself, however, when the voting finally concluded. "Everyone remain in your seats, please," he said, noting the tied vote. "a completely inoffensive name and Subotan, eh? Well, that'll justify why I got so many eggs, I guess." His four scantily-clad assistants from yesterday, still dressed in white, had entered the ballroom and were passing out buckets filled to the brim with eggs to everyone in the room. The Director watched in silence as this task was carried out, and upon completion, the assistants took their places behind him. Now, Hankerchief spoke again.

"As you know, tonight is Devil's Night, the night before Halloween. And unless you have been extraordinarily lucky, you have had to deal with everything that comes with this night... most notably the acts of vandalism. Now, due to current circumstances, the police presence on this night has been stepped up and the acts of vandalism have been down by nearly 75% from last year. However, I said that I would be a business-friendly Director, and, well... we cannot have a dropoff in the sale of certain items simply because of an increased police presence. a completely inoffensive name, kindly make your way to the front of the ballroom." a completely inoffensive name did so, not liking where the Director was going with this very much. "You too, Subotan," Hankerchief said, "You're not getting out of this scot-free. The Committee members started muttering with pleasure at this turn of events.

"The dairy farmers in the towns surrounding Fatlington are very happy about my recent purchase of several gross' worth of eggs. In the tradition of Devil's Night, we will make use of these eggs in the most wasteful way possible. But this year, we will not do it in the name of vandalism. Instead..." - and the Director's gestures were rapidly growing more theatrical - "...we do it in the name of justice; ladies and gentlemen, your targets."

The last thing that people saw of ACIN and Subotan before they disappeared beneath the onslaught of eggs were eyes, two pairs of very wide eyes, conveying the twin expressions of immense panic. Then they were gone, and pure motion took over the ballroom. There was no chance of evading the amount of eggs that came flying their way, no chance of doing anything save for being rooted to the ground and wishing, praying, that it would be over soon.

It lasted five minutes before everyone ran out of eggs. At the end of it, both victims were dripping from head to toe, their skin bruised and cut and bleeding in some places but aside from that they were basically unhurt. Everyone blinked in surprise; wasn't the idea that he was supposed to be egged to death? Director Hankerchief, however, showed no surprise, instead simply getting up and addressing a completely inoffensive name and Subotan. "Go clean yourselves up," he said, "but not in the bathroom. We've already given the custodial staff here too much work to do. The Convention Center's right on the beach after all, take a dip in the ocean instead."

Everyone watched silently as a completely inoffensive name and Subotan stumbled out of the room, confused, waiting for a cue from their Director. After some minutes of waiting, they finally got one.

"Everyone to the windows, please."

The Committee did so, not seeing much save for two silhouetted figures gradually making their way to the ocean.

"The seagulls should be active this time of night, I think - yes, there they are." They descended upon a completely inoffensive name and Subotan at once, and suddenly everyone in the Committee understood. They watched in horrified silence as the seagulls formed a cloud around the two, obstructing their view - though occasionally they could see an arm flailing. This went on for about fifteen minutes as the seagulls picked a completely inoffensive name and Subotan dry, and then they flew away, leaving nothing but tattered, eyeless bodies on the ground and a gradually darkening patch of sand.

The committee filed out slowly, a bit numb. “Trick or treats” had concluded for the kids just an hour or so ago – and just moments ago for the committee as well. Happy Halloween!



OOC

Sorry this took so long. My designated primary tallyer was out of it – jht is not active for the present time – and I had to recount from scratch.

Orders (active and passive separate please) for Night 3 are due no later than:


Lynch Vote Tally:

ACIN – 24 (Neri, CR, OTLD, Sub P, Diana, Populus, Backwards, El B, W_E, guiri, landlub, gibs, visor, Craterus, Chox, sturm, Spring, ATPG, B_Ray, Jar, X2, edse, Ibn-K, & P.Phil).

Subotan – 24 (Ish, Sigurd, Diamond, khaz, SisCoy, Monty, Silver, Knngt, TinC, ULC, Romanic, God Emp, Shlin, Erebus, AggKng, Arjos, Cahoma, Seon, Rask, Woad, Renata, Leww, Slash, Lazy)

Stranger – 7 (qlyphz, memnon, subo, beefy, ried, hero.

Monty – 2 (Yaro, Sasaki)

Yaropolk – 1 (DaveS)

Beefy – 1 (Pasycho)

Seon – 1 (Fluffy)

Chaotix – 1 (ByzKnight)

Neri – 1 (Clitsome)

Abstain – 6 (Double A, Chaotix, Gnarley, DiY, Blvr, Skot)

Present – 1 (W.H.)

*Xenoneb’s vote for “King Cal” was invalid; BillMC’s Vote on the deadline was poorly formatted, and did not say “Vote: subotan,” so only the “unvote” was counted. These mistakes cancelled one another numerically, ending in a tie.

#1410 in main thread

“But you better know how to point out the liars.
You’ve got to weigh your wars make sure you’re not fighting for nothing. Nothing.
But these things take time love.
These things take backbone.
And they’ll tell you what you want to hear ’cause they think it’s better. Better.
But you better know how to point out the liars.
You’ve got to weigh your wars make sure you’re not fighting for nothing. Nothing.

Are you fighting for nothing, nothing?”
….Fighting for Nothing
….Meg & Dia


Halloween Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Arjos didn’t head straight home, but went to his office on the Bayside near the docks. The office block wasn’t impressive, but it was only a couple of blocks down from Club 30. Besides, he had had the office ‘built to suit.’ It wasn’t very big, but it was well buttressed against assault with reinforced walls, a steel door, and windows with blast shutters.

Parking his car, Arjos noticed four shadows standing up from behind the 55-gallon drums in the warehouse lot next door. He was running before he really knew why and already had his own revolver out as the quartet raised their weapons.

Both sides fired, and both sides achieved absolutely nothing – except to make the other side duck and dodge a little harder. Arjos hit the stairs running and was up to the office door at the top before his attackers could reach him and fire up the stairwell. Three agonizingly long seconds later, the door was open, Arjos was through, and the door was swinging back to a locked position.

It wasn’t enough. From the street opposite the office, two other figures lugged out their heavy PIAT launchers. One shot hammered into the blast screen of one of the office windows, partially penetrating it and blowing off the shielding and smashing the glass. A little stunned by the first blast, Arjos could only watch as the second projectile, fired a second after the first one, arced up and into the window.

“Oh, rats…” Arjos muttered.

The round impacted inside the office on the roof near the overhead lamp. All of the careful reinforcement now served to contain the blast within the office – unfortunately for Arjos. He would be found dead in the smoldering office an hour later. Though his body had been savaged, his face was unmarred and strangely peaceful.


Chaotix was not a happy man. He’d started out well enough, heading home in the car, using a different route than normal. This being Fatlington, when he was rear-ended into the car in front of him, he didn’t hesitate at all, he just dived out and rolled to his feet.

It wasn’t enough. Two pairs of attackers kept after him, one in each pair firing short bursts from some kind of machine pistol whenever they got a good glimpse of him, and the second in each pair using….

>FOOOOOOOOM<

Flamethrowers! Malfing flamethrowers!. Chaotix might be able to outdistance them, but if he fell behind he was quite literally toast. Whenever he tried to break contact by crossing the street, the sub gunners would hold him back with sustained bursts and the pyrotechnic types would rush his position. He was being herded – and that was what had him unhappy.

Suddenly, he reached a spot where two cars almost closed the gap across the street and took his chance. Forty-five slugs ripped through his whirling trench coat as he shot the gap and a gout of flame warmed his back as he leapt behind the second car, but nothing touched him. He raced towards the half-open doorway of a warehouse. If he could get inside he could shake them!

He reached the doorway and stopped suddenly as the blue-suited man, blu ski mask et al. stepped into the doorway to block his progress. The man held a preposterously large revolver in his hand and spoke around his cigarette.

“Pas ce soir, mon ami. Au revoir.”

As the revolver steadied, only feet away from Chaotix’s grimly resigned face, the warehouse door slammed shut and intercepted the bullet. A screeching car raced down the street, scattering the other gunmen while simultaneously revealing another auto, sitting there idling with its door open. Chaotix took the hint, hopped in, and motored off to Club 30 for a few bracers – and a nice safe crowd of people to mingle among.

In the warehouse, the masked man lowered his revolver and stared at the door.

“Merde, Je deteste zese ‘alloween treecks.” he muttered softly.

He lit a fresh cigarette, glanced at his watch and then faded into the darkness, almost as though he had become invisible.


Taillesskangaru had seen the posters nailed around town, covered in saucy fingerprints.

"Wanted: Dead or Alive- Fatlings who have forsaken their civic duty. All those who refuse to attend the Committee of Vigilance will be punished for the crimes of abandonment, dereliction of duty, un-patriotism, malfeasance, offense against public justice, offense against public trust, offense against public order, high treason, low treason, lurking, middle treason, and loitering in a public area after 6pm, which is a violation of city ordinance 107 dash B subsection 17, and may be punishable with a fine of up to three dollars or 12 hours of community service with no coffee breaks."

Well, that didn't seem so bad, Tailless thought to himself, as he hopped up the stairs of his apartment building. But just as he was about to twist the doorknob, something warm and wet smashed into the side of his head, and knocked him to the granite. He wiped the muck from his eyes, and looked at his hands; they were covered in blood. Confused, he looked up and saw something swinging from a rope, dripping blood everywhere. On closer examination, he saw that it was some sort of animal, or at least part of one. The gory scene in front of his eyes was so disturbing and so sudden, that Tailless turned away, and began rushing down the stairs to get back to his car. That's when he saw the glowing Mizza Mut sign... on his own vehicle.

>>>Dear God, no....<<<

The explosion was deafening. Taillesskangaru dropped to the ground and covered his face and his head, a heavy piece of metal nearly hitting him in the temple. His quick reflexes did him credit. Feeling exposed, he hopped to his feet and tried to hurry back up the steps and into the apartment building, but just as he was about to reach his destination, a thick, disc-shaped object landed on the ground next to where he was standing with a loud splat. Tailless looked up to see what had happened, only to get a face full of steaming hot pizza pie, courtesy of someone standing on the roof, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora.

"Limited time only, get two for the price of one, Mister Kangaru! No charge for additional toppings! Don't forget to tip your driver!"

As Tailless pulled the pizza from his face, he saw more pizza pies hurtling toward him, and he quickly hopped out of the way.

"You're fast on your feet, that's good hustle, Mister Kangaru! But are you faster than the fastest pizza delivery man in all of Fatlington?" shouted the figure on the roof.

Tailless looked up and saw the man on the roof pull out a Thompson sub-machine gun, and he bolted toward the door.

“Trick or TREAT!”

Maniacal laughter permeated the streets of Fatlington as the man on the roof fired down in the general direction of the scrambling Kangaru. But somehow, Taillesskangaru managed to get inside the building. He scrambled into his apartment, slammed the door behind him, and then hid under his couch and cried like a little girl. Somehow, he escaped with his life.... just barely.


Craterus was walking away from the Convention Center up Atlantic Avenue, alongside Seaside park, heading uptown to the Bar at the Hotel Abbatoir. He was keeping an eye out and searching his surroundings – a cautious Fatling was something of a redundancy – when he glimpsed the strangest looking contraption passing across Atlantic on the far side of the hotel.

>An M4 tank made of…or cardboard?< thought Craterus. >That can’t be right…oh, it must be some kind of Halloween gag….<

He had only been distracted for a moment, but that had been time enough. A tall man stood next to him, face muffled with a scarf and sporting one of those fuzzy hats you saw on the Soviet leaders in their parades.

“Good Even-ing, Tovarisch.”

The fellow made no untoward move. Craterus turned slowly, seeing no other threat, but still wary.

“I vas sent by a group of come-rades to ask you a few questions, Da?”

Craterus stood stock still. Which is exactly the moment for which the sniper positioned up in the Hotel Abbatoir had been waiting. The marksman squeezed the trigger gently, like all good shots the actual firing came almost as a surprise – as did the result.

The shooter couldn’t see the blade in the darkness, at least not against the outline of Craterus’ gray fedora. The round hit the blade of a long polesword transfixing the tree just next to Craterus and the richly engraved blade of the ashenderi turned the shot. Against all the odds, Craterus had been given a reprieve.

The shooter’s second effort was rushed and hit the tree as Craterus bowled over the conversational decoy and made it into the darkness of the park. Some chaps are just luckier than others.


For others, their luck was at an end. El Barto, puttering around in the kitchen getting dinner for himself and Felix, kept wondering why Felix wouldn’t sit still – and then he heard it.

>Meeeew, Meeeww<

El Barto saw a little kitten in the spot of grass that served as the front yard to his brownstone. The poor thing was hopping on its little legs, dragging one leg that was injured or broken. No wonder Felix had been on edge – that cat had been hearing the cries of his fellow feline long before El Barto could.

He had to intervene. Grabbing the shotty he kept by the door, El Barto stepped onto the stoop and scanned the terrain. Setting the shotty aside, he knelt down and cradled the skittish and injured kitten. The leg was definitely broken.

>>>Rotten kids! Torturing a harmless kitten and breaking a leg for some sick Halloween prank.<<< “There, there, kitty….

Falling three stories might break your legs too, but you stand a much better chance if you can land on some poor unsuspecting soul and get him to break your fall. El Barto was hammered flat by the dive-bombing attacker, and was in no position to defend himself when he was scooped up and carried unceremoniously to his backyard.

The maple that grew there wasn’t particularly tall – the sandy soil of a barrier island is a better home for pines then for maples – but it was tall enough. A noose was produced and fixed around his neck while others held his arms and legs. El Barto was tied hand and foot and then the rope was hauled. Up he went as the main branch took his weight, kicking and thrashing as he strangled. His attackers tied off the rope and then watched until his struggles ceased, then the half dozen strong party doffed their hats and filed away.

El Barto’s corpse swung gently in the breeze, back and forth, with only Felix’s silently swaying head watching from the kitchen window to bear witness.


For another, luck wasn’t involved at all. Secura favored absenthe, that pale green nectar that was poison and passion wrapped in one. So after the committee wrapped up, her destination had been an easy choice. Only Reenk Roink would serve that illicit beverage – rules never quite seemed to apply to him – and therefore Secura was at the bar at Club30 when it happened.

The five would-be assassins were dressed for anonymity, each wearing a western style bandanna over their faces and fedoras pulled low over their eyes. Their shotguns and heavy pistols were very recognizable however as they moved forward through the retreating crowd at the bar.

But not all the crowd were moving away. With exquisite choreography, five masked waiters whirled in front of the advancing gunmen, overturning tables to make a neat barrier. Secura was whisked from the bar, blindfolded, chloroformed, and out the back door of the club even before the Club30 guards had closed off the outer doors to the bar. The gunmen stopped, appalled, without even the chance to fire their weapons.

“Tsk, tsk, fellows,” said Reenk softly, “that simply won’t do.”

The gunmen stared at Reenk Roink over the barrels of their weapons. Roink brushed a fleck of lemon rind off of his lapel and looked back. The tableau held for a moment, and then the gunmen lowered their weapons and their gaze.

“Better. Now, be a set of dears and scurry about tidying up my bar. If you’re very quick and nice these heavyset hirelings of mine won’t remove your incredibly out-of-style masks – I suppose we can just think of you a fashion-challenged trick-or-treaters – and then you can go on about your business. I have better things to do.”

With a moue of distaste for the attackers and a jaunty wave to the major domo, Reenk was off, leaving the impromptu clean-up team to their work.

Secura woke a short while later, lying on a rattan four-poster bed that looked as though it belonged in The Raffles. The whole room (apartment?) was eclectically, yet in its own odd way quite elegantly, furnished. Still a little hazy, she only just then noticed the fellow standing at the other side of the bed.

>>>Reenk?<<< she thought hazily.

“Ah….so glad you could rejoin me, dear one. It’ll make you much better company. And I shouldn’t worry too much about wagging tongues…after all, you can blame it on the absenthe, or that I insisted on the treat rather than a nasty trick…”

^Fade to black^


Slysnake too ended up at a bar – his choice was the Hotel Abbatoir. He needed to get his strength back after the food – at least that was what they said it was – they’d tried to feed him at Mercy Hospital. He wasn’t certain that the fruit in the bottom of the Rock and Rye bottle counted as food, but he was willing to do the field study to find out.

That’s when the trio of shooters opened up and gunned down the bar-back and and the rather aged faux-blond sitting next to Sly, who up until her head was shot through had been getting progressively more attractive as Sly got closer and closer to the fruit in his bottle.

The trio of shooters seemed competent enough, but never really got in rhythm with each other’s efforts. Sly vaulted the bar, going quickly through the secret drop door to the cellar – ah….Prohibition – and out of the line of fire. The shooter trio hit a few more patrons on the way out, though none seriously, and ran off through Seaside Park.

Slysnake did not get off scot-free however. The old dropdoor had too much refuse below it and he landed badly. Though not crippled, he would be spending some time at Mercy.


Lord Brennus, out for a stroll on Atlantic Avenue, saw the commotion down by the Abbatoir a few blocks distant and decided to wander over and see what was up. He’d really been ambling along, for all the world as though it were just a normal evening – he’s seemed a little out of it to his fellow committee persons. He simply wasn’t paying attention.

Person A simply stepped from the store doorway and shoved Brennus over. Person B, then zipping along at 45mph down Atlantic Ave in a Deuce-and-a-half with “Seward’s Folly” on the canvas sides, simply didn’t swerve to avoid and didn’t apply the brakes. Brennus flew fifty feet, breaking a leg and an arm as he landed. Too many witnesses prevented a quick second effort and good citizens saw to it that Lord Brennus was at Mercy Emergency even before the pain got started. All in all, a charitable soul might label that good luck….of a sort.


One man, watching in the crowd as Brennus was loaded into the ambulance, was surprised to be talking to a masked man standing next to him. With all the attention on Brennus, nobody really noticed details about either of them. Besides, it was Halloween, and a surprising number of folks were wearing masks of one sort or another. A few questions were exchanged, a matter of a few minutes hushed discussion, and the masked man said, simply, “I will look forward to your call.” He melted into the night.


Fatlington was a town that attracted dangerous loners, something that fit Tincow to a tee. He preferred to keep his own counsel and work quietly toward a goal.

When confronted by the lone gunman, he did the prudent thing – he ducked and then ran for cover. The first shooter, unfortunately, didn’t miss when Tincow slowed. Hit in the shoulder, TinCow was in agony. A hit through the deltoids was not at all like the ones in the movies.

Off-handed, he fired back, forcing the first shooter under cover. That’s when the second shooter hove into view. Disheveled, a bit manic, looking for all the world like he was about to snap, the person TinCow had dismissed as a ‘bo down on his luck pulled out a sawed-down Garand.

“Game over, man, Game over!”

He didn’t even seem to really be talking to Tincow, just at him. Tincow turned to meet the new threat, but not fast enough. The second shooter may have been talking crazy, but he shot just fine. Two slugs took Tincow in the throat and left him bleeding in the gutter.

The two shooters looked at the corpse, and then wandered in different directions.


Cecil XIX had just finished a later supper at Iron Felix’s, though not quite the repast he had watched the preceding evening, and headed for his car for the short drive to Club30 for a nightcap.

As the car pulled away from the curb, a lone figure shouldering a bazooka stepped out from behind a car 30 yards away. He fired immediately, hammering the round into the cars radiator.

The DeSoto blew up, but most of the blast went up and away from the cab. Cecil was shocked and confused – a sitting duck for any following effort at a coup de grace. It never came.

Looking nearly as confused, the bazookaman looked around at the nearby cars and storefronts, shook his head, and then made his escape at the sound of the rapidly approaching sirens. Cecil never did quite figure out what had happened.


There would be no doubts in the mind of anyone about what happened to Xenoneb.

Xeno’ had been at Club30 during the evening, and had got to witness the kerfluffle at the bar when Secura had been spirited to safety by a five-person team of faux waiters. He’d staid for a half dozen rounds more, but nothing else exciting came up.

Since he figured that that was about it for entertainment, he’d decided on a quick trip to his flat for some sleep before facing the committee in the morning. The trip ended a lot quicker than he had hoped.

The man standing up suddenly from behind the city trash can near the corner moved very fluidly, the short sickle slicing through the trenchcoat and deeply into Xenoneb’s guts in one short, powerful arc. Xenoneb gasped, the air rushing out of him even before he could scream.

The sickle reversed and swung up. It came down again, this time on Xenoneb’s neck, but more slowly. It cut his neck and pulled his head down onto the trashcan top. Unable to move without cutting into his own spine, Xenoneb was trapped as his assailant brought up a nine-pound hammer. Four blows later, Xeno’s head sagged like Halloween pumpkin after 2 weeks in the sun. He was dead long before the last hammer-blow fell.


Ameranth had slept peacefully and awakened before dawn to get down to the Convention Center, and the added police protection, that was his goal for the day. The early bird catches the worm, after all.

But apparently, that early bird also manages to duck the pool cue. Ameranth was striding purposefully up the block, not hearing the soft footsteps of the pair coming up behind him or the shadows of the second pair in the alley next to the pool hall. As for the fifth attacker, Ameranth had the lucky good fortune to spot a heads up penny on the sidewalk – which he ducked to grab without breaking stride – and the fifth attacker’s pool cue whistled over his head and directly into the pair of trailing attackers.

Ameranth jumped sideways and backwards and, in a scene reminiscent of the keystone cops, the pool cue swung back for another strike and ended up hammering the other pair as they came forward from the alley. Ameranth took off at a run before they could get reorganized and made it to the safety of the convention center.

>>>Good luck indeed,<<< thought Ameranth, >>>I would have been dead back there without my lucky new penny.<<<

And sometimes it is better to be lucky than good.



09:33AM, Thursday, 1 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…so that’s as much as we’ve been able to piece together. It was a horrible night for Fatlington and we’re certain to have lost many good citizens. You MUST stop these evil scum in their tracks!”

Mopping his brow, Fermanagh took a moment to calm himself and looked out at the disgruntled committee.

“We’ve got the first post-mortem results as well. It seems that Captain Blackadder was just a standard John Q. Citizen. A few odds and ends made things seem unclear about him at first, but deeper investigation proved he was one of our solid citizens. He will be missed.

In addition, our modest director wanted me to remind you all that you voted heavily for him to continue in his position. You all knew that, but we forgot to publicly announce it last night.

Stop these animals. Stop them if you can.”

Generalhankerchief strode to the podium, once again dressed in business gray. Another day had begun.



OOC

Day Four, lynch vote only, begins:

Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.

Results etc. as soon as I can get to them. It’s to bed for me now.



Attacked: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2), Cahoma (n2), Cecil XIX (n3), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Earthling (n1), El Barto (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2), Raskolnikov (n1), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1), slysnake (n3), taillesskangaru (n3)

Wounded: Slysnake (n1,n3), Lord Brennus (n3)

Killed: Arjos (n3), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK (n2), Moros (n2), Pharoah (n2), TinCow (n3), Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched: Earthling (d2), a completely inoffensive name (d3), Subotan (d3)

[U}Active[/U]:

AggonyKing
Ameranth
Andres
Askthepizzaguy
B Ray
Backwards Logic
Beefy187
Believer
Beskar
Bestrfcplayer
BillMc
Bow-wow-wow
BSmith
ByzantineKnight
Cahoma
Camikaze
Cecil XIX
Chaotix
Choxorn
Clitsome
cpdwane
Craterus
Crazed Rabbit
DaveShack
dcmort93
Death is yonder
Diamondeye
Diana Abnoba
Double A
Drunk Clown
edse
Erebus
Frozen In Ice
fubbleskag
fyremarble
GamezRule
GeneralHankerchief
gibsonsg91921
gnarley charlie
God Emperor
Guiri
hero di classico
Ibn-Khaldun
Ironside
Issaikhaan
Ishmael
Jarema
J.D.
Johhog
johnhughthom
Jolt
Kagemusha
kennigit
Khazaar
Krill
landlubber
LazyMcCrow
Lewwyn
Lord Brennus
Lord Winter
Major Robert Dump
Master Necromanver
Memnon
Monk
Montmorency
Neri
Nictel
Nightbringer
Niklas
O!TheLastDays!
Peasant Phil
Populous Romanus
Psychonaut
qlphz
Raskolnikov
Renata
Riedquat
Robbiecon
Romanic
Sasaki Kojiro
Scienter
scottishranger
Secura
Seon
shlin28
Sigurd
Silver Jan
SisterCoyote
Skotsko
slash and earn
slysnake
Sprig
sturmhauke
Suburban Plankton
taillesskangaru
Thefluffyone93
The Stranger
Tratorix
ULC
Visorslash
White_eyes:D
Winston Hughes
woad&fangs
Xehh II
Yaropolk
Zack

Main thread post #1696


No more deluded by reaction
On tyrants only we'll make war
The soldiers too will take strike action
They'll break ranks and fight no more
And if those cannibals keep trying
To sacrifice us to their pride
They soon shall hear the bullets flying
We'll shoot the generals on our own side.
… “The Internationale”
… Pottier/Geyter


7:45PM Wednesday 1 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


Director Hankerchief had departed halfway through the day's voting making no excuses to anybody present in the ballroom. There was a brief muttering as to where he possibly could have gone, until someone on the Committee mentioned that he had probably left to set up for the masquerade that he had announced at the start of the voting. This satisfied most everybody in the room, save for Commissioner Fermanagh who was now left with the unenviable task of tallying up the day's numerous votes. After an exhaustive count, he was finally ready to announce the results to the assembled Committee.

"Well, it looks like it's decided," he said, coughing, "You have chosen[/I] Major Robert Dump [I]to be the lynch for today, and he will face the justice that is coming to him... eventually. However, I have received explicit instructions from Director Hankerchief that before the execution is to take place, everyone is expected to take part in the masquerade tonight at Club 30. He wants you all there in 45 minutes, as that will be enough time to go home, change into your most stylish outfits (as per the owner's requests for hosting this event), and arrive there. Anyone who does not attend will be severely punished."

With that, there was nothing left to do for the Committee but file out and drive home. MRD, believing that he may have been granted a possible reprieve, did so in a state of nervous half-ecstasy. Surely nothing bad would happen in Club 30... right?


8:33PM Wednesday 1 November 1951
Club30, Reenk Roink, Proprieter
Bayside wharehouse district; Fatlington, New Jersey

Forty-five minutes later precisely, the entire membership of the Committee arrived at the Club, located in the Bayside district. After the previous day's double execution, everyone's fear of the Director was sufficient enough to keep them in line. One brave Committee member, tired of all the milling around, opened the doors, and everybody calmly filed in. No one noticed the large "CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION" sign hanging on the outside of the doors.

For a change, the Committee members found the club well-lit, quiet, and for the most part empty. Off to the side, at the bar, was Reenk - the best-dressed in the place, as usual - with a couple of heavyset hirelings manning the area just in case anything got out of hand. In the middle of the dance floor was Director Hankerchief, clad in all-black attire, flanked by his customary scantily-dressed four women in white. The women had their masks on already; the Director did not.

He coughed once. There was total silence. "Thank you for your attention, everybody," he said, "and welcome to the combination Halloween/Day of the Dead masquerade. As it seems I was a day off with my execution method yesterday, this event will serve nicely to catch me back up. Incidentally, today is also the Feast of All Saints, and though I like many of you am a good Catholic, I find the Day of the Dead theme entirely more appropriate given the current circumstances. Now, my four lovely assistants will begin passing out masks for you all, and once they're done then the dance will begin."

As the scantily-dressed women began their task, the Director sidled his way over to the bar. Reenk served Hankerchief his usual whiskey and then, eying the crowd, engaged him in a brief conversation. "I still don't see why you had to have the dance here," he said. "Masquerades are *so* Belle Époque and my club has a reputation to uphold, you know."

"You're being paid well enough to put up with it for a night," the Director replied, and then after a beat, "You don't have any butterscotch on you this time, do you?"

Reenk shook his head no. "Good." And with that, the Director made his way back to the dance floor, this time heading for the Wurlitzer 850 Peacock and spinning a dime around his fingers.

When his assistants had finished passing out the masks, the Director made a motion for everyone to put them on, dimmed the lights, and put his dime into the Wurlitzer. "Let the masquerade begin," he said without further fanfare, and after a few seconds' silence the music started up.

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After a brief slow start, the tempo became upbeat and the dancers started moving around to the jaunty yet disturbing melody, which was in 3/4 time. Most if not all of the Committee members had never been to a masquerade before, but they instinctively knew what to do and settled into the dance as if they were part of a different era.

All of them knew what to do except for MRD.

He was the only one who had not been given a mask. MRD knew that this was by design and figured that it would be best to not say anything about this in order to not draw attention to himself. But now he was regretting it. The masks, it seemed, had some weird transmuting power that allowed their wearers to know what they were doing, to fully get into things, to become part of the night and all it stood for. MRD, who wore no mask, had no part of it. He was still fully tethered to the world of the present-day, but inside Club 30 that world's rules no longer applied. Inside Club 30, there was only the dance and the dancers and the music.

The music. As its tempo and dynamics ebbed and flowed, MRD's emotions became more and more frayed. The club, while still dark, somehow still possessed enough light to make everything gleam. And to MRD, everything looked like a weapon. He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye - was that a Bowie knife pointing right at him? Was that dancer moving closer to him? Something else drew his attention to a different part of the floor - that *had* to be a gun, ready to be fired as soon as its wielder had a clear shot. And the masks. The masks were constantly gleaming, constantly lit, circling around him and providing no escape.

And now, MRD began to panic. The song was becoming ever-more intense, the tempo was drawing increasingly close to suicidal, he had to get out before he went insane. He needed to leave this club and reconnect with the Fatlington that he knew was right outside the door before Club 30 and this hellish masquerade took his soul forever. He started to run. Stumbling, MRD got maybe two steps before he tripped over something and splayed out on the parquet. Somehow, every single dancer went on uninterrupted.

Not concerned in the least about the rhythm of the dancers, MRD started shoving his way through the crowd, pushing people out of the way in a desperate to find the doors and get as far away from Club 30 as he possibly could. The morass of people blocking him - but still circling around - seemed to be much greater than the 100+ Committee members, but none of this concerned MRD. His single purpose in life was now finding that door. As the song continued to play, he pushed and clawed and stumbled his way through the dancers, finally making his way to Club 30's front doors, only to find the greatest shock of his life waiting for him.

The doors were gone.

MRD screamed in terror, looking around wildly. He hadn't lost his place in the club; he was absolutely positive that absolutely no doors were lining the walls anywhere along the perimeter of the building. Even the bar and the restrooms were gone. For MRD, his world now solely consisted of the dance floor of Club 30. He was about to collapse in shock when finally, the song seemed to reach a climax.

What would have been a brief pause in the music was instead filled by the loud, obnoxious roar of a chainsaw. GeneralHankerchief had somehow appeared over MRD, raising the saw high, its noise drowning out the hopeful melody of the oboe, signifying dawn and the end of the song. Paralyzed, overcome by a whirlwind of emotions, MRD could only stand in place as the Director brought the chainsaw down over his head and kept going. It lasted about 15 seconds, and by the end of it MRD was sawed clean in half, although somehow none of the blood got on the Director's or anyone else's suits. By the time Director Hankerchief turned the chainsaw off, the crowd could hear the final two notes play before the song finally ended. With that, the Director opened the front doors and walked out of Club 30 without a word, followed by his four female assistants. The lights turned back on. The masquerade was over.



OOC

Orders (active and passive separate please) for Night 4 are due no later than:
.

The write up will follow as soon as I can, though it may take some time given the volume of orders.

Lynch Vote Tally:

MRD 18(ATPG, ByzantineKnight, Crazed Rabbit, Diamondeye, edse, Gibsonsong, guiri, Ironside, Jarema, Lazy McCrow, Oh!TheLastDays!, Renata, Sasaki, Seon, Sigurd, The Stranger, Visorslash, Woads and Fang)

]Sigurd 17 (Cahoma, Chaotix, Choxorn, Craterus, Erebus, Frozen in Ice, fubbleskag, gnarley charlie, God Emperor, hero di classico, Issaikhan, landlubber, Lewwyn, Montmorency, Scienter, Scottish Ranger, Xehh II)

Chaotix 6 (Believer, DaveShack, Death is yonder, GamerzRule, Ishmael, Suburban Plankton)

Populous Romanus 4 (Cecil XIX, Shlin28, Secura, Sturmhauke)

w&f 3 (Populous Romanus, Riedquat, White_eyes)

Yaropolk 1 (ULC)
Scienter 1 (Andres)
Slysnake 1 (Clitsome)
Raskolnikov 1 (Craterus)
Seon 1 (Diamondeye)
ATPG 1 (Thefluffyone89)
Clitsome 1 (Skotsko)
Backwards Logic 1 (Winston Hughes)
Cecil XIX 1 (Psychonaut)

Abstain 5 (Beefy 187, Bsmith, Major Robert Dump, Memnon, SisterCoyote)

Post # 1754 in main thread.

“I know you're out there
And I know you care
'Cause I feel you
Like an angel watching over me

Don't shut me out
I'm an arson to myself
Who can't put out the fires
Until there's nothing left

So take my broken glass
And help me make a window
So I can see your face
After all that I have been through”
….Watching Over Me
….Thousand Foot Crutch


Fourth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Askthepizzaguy sat calmly at one of the outdoor tables at the bar at the Hotel Abbatoir. The meeting had ended only an hour ago and he had decided on a late-night café coretto. The open air would make things easier.

He was half-way through his drink…

>>>half-full, he mused with a smile, definitely half-full<<<

when everything began to happen at once. Two pairs of shooters opened up from Seaside Park across Park Place from the hotel. Another pair turned the corner from the front entrance. Both parties were clearly gunning for him – after all, he was the only patron out of doors this evening.

Almost as if by magic, a quintet of coated and masked figures popped out of the shadows or out of the bar and surrounded ATPG at his little table. The first shots from across the street and coming around the corner had been wild. The shooter’s second bursts bounced off the shields the quintet had deployed facing outwards around Pizza in a protective array.

As the shooters continued forward a car zipped up from the Boardwalk on Park and nearly bowled over the two attackers there. As they jumped, the car spun, turning after them and chasing them into the park – brilliantly driven.

The second pair was disarmed after only two bursts each. One had his tommy gun snatched up by an unseen figure using a lariat out the window from a room on the third level. That shooter looked up, surprised and a little frightened, and then took off back past the entrance.

At nearly the same moment, a lone motorcyclist roared past and snatched the tail of the second would be shooter’s trench coat. The bike shuddered as it whipped the shooter off his feet, his grease gun clattering off into the storm drain, but the driver stayed on his bike. Even though he couldn’t really hold the shooter for long – there would be no modernized dragging through the streets scene – that shooter two was disarmed and faded into the shadows before anyone could pin him or her down.

Askthepizzaguy finished his coffee – he hadn’t stirred and barely blinked at the noise – and then stood up.

“Thanks everyone. Someone please settle the tab, would you? I have an appointment.”

Pizza smoothly walked into the bar and through the lobby to the exit.


Sasaki Kojiro had felt, since the night before last, a nagging sense of dread. There was a ‘presence.’ He could not pinpoint it; all he knew for sure was that it was in Fatlington. He dreaded the meetings; the sense of tension. Getting out of town seemed compelling. Only the discipline of long years' experience held him in place.

It did not keep him from drinking to excess, however. On this night, he found himself - knowing not how or why - in a waterfront hole-in-the-wall called 'The Whore's Cudgel.' Pulling his face out of a bowl of Prohibition-era moonshine, he quickly took stock of his surroundings with trained eye. He sat at a low table on a long bench roughly hewn of oak. The only illumination came from a kerosone lamp that was tied to a nail in the ceiling by dazzling incorporeal geometries.

Caught up in this reverie, he did not notice the figure advancing from behind him until it replaced his empty bowl with one brim-filled with unwatered wine. Sasaki loosened his grip on the hidden Colt revolver only when the bartender had fully retreated into some unlit part of the room.

Sasaki soon turned his attention to the wine. He had not been able to sleep unaided since that night. The dreams had roused him then. He could not remember any details; nor could he remember dreaming at all. But he knew. He knew, and yet he could not say that he knew it. Nevertheless, the touch of pillow or mattress to his skin now filled Sasaki with blinding terror. Of course he was moved to drink.

As he gulped down the strong wine, though, he could almost forget. Begin to misunderstand. Why was he here? Hadn't he dreamt well before now, cheek resting against the surface of the bowl? 'I'm getting too old for this,' he murmured to himself, picking a sinuous silver hair out of the wine.

Tremors passed through all the surfaces around Sasaki. The bowl danced off the table and spilled the remainder of its contents on the floor. The earthen floor. The lamp swung about wildly. As the walls shuddered ever more fiercely, it leapt into the ceiling and was smashed. Light guttered out.

Panic gripped him. Gun in hand, he stumbled about in the dark. Muddled as his brain was, instinct guided him to egress. He stumbled out into the moon-bright night and the cool night breeze. A sulphurous, gale force wind, immediately assailed him. His gun and fedora were swept away. As he slurred curses and reached out for them, the wind took him sprawling to the asphalt. The buildings on the street visibly vibrated. The sand on the beach hovered in a cloud. A woman giving birth at the hospital wailed after passing a stillborn child. Her womb had been made into a pit, inert forevermore.

Sasaki felt it in all his cells. It had a sobering effect. He hastily rose up and turned - and saw it at last. He could not see it truly, for it blotted out the moon. A maelstrom blocked the entire street, a block down. It was darker than the bar had been when the lamp broke. A pillar of dust and debris rose endlessly into the sky. Here and there along the outskirts, amorphous forms were implied by the moonlight. Sasaki dropped once more, this time to his knees. Finally, Sasaki remembered. But nothing could prepare him for what came next.

>>>WHAT DO YOU SEE?<<<

Something within the storm roared in every human voice that ever uttered words. The sound wrenched his heart and brought salt to the corners of his eyes. And yet, he was compelled to respond.

“I don’t understand...”

>>>I MUST KNOW WHAT YOU SEE.<<<

Sasaki suffered. He could not endure before the sound for much longer.

“Death. Wretched death!”

>>>TELL ME.<<<

The whirlwind advances, until he was nearly engulfed. Nearly microscopic particles tore at his face.

“Even you cannot hide from what you don’t know! Even you!”

WHAT AM I?

Sasaki hid his face and screamed.

>Fade to black.<

Sasaki awoke in his bathtub in his suite at the Hotel Abbatoir. He must have had *the dreams* again. Why could he never remember? Oh Christ, was this hangover bad. What had he drunk last night? And why was his coat in tatters? Were were his hat and revolver? This had never happened before. He had always been so careful.

>>>Something fishy is going on - looks like I'm gonna have to find a new room again...<<<


Johnhughthom was surprised by the sound of his doorbell ringing, and even more surprised when he saw a pizza delivery man at the door, holding a pizza. He opened his door slightly, with the chain latched for security, and stated that he hadn't ordered any pizza. "You have the wrong address, sir." Oddly, the pizza guy was wearing a fedora, and seemed to have a gun in his right front pocket. No trenchcoat this time, just a tight-fitting black uniform with a nametag. Johnhughthom recognized who it was as he lifted his gaze to meet John's. "I don't think so. I've come to the right place, haven't I?" said the pizza man.

"It's... it's you! Y-you're the one who has been terrorizing F-Fatlington!" John stammered.

"That's right, and now I've come for you." said the stranger as he kicked the door open, breaking the chain and forcing his way into John's apartment. "Why have you come for me!?" screamed John, as he dove behind furniture for cover. "I'm not a lurker, dang it!" That's when the Pizza guy tossed his Thompson sub-machine gun on the kitchen counter and loosened the top button of his uniform. "That's true, John, very true.... and yet, still, this has been a long time coming. I've heard what you've been up to. I've heard all the rumors, and I had to see it for myself." Johnhughthom's face was a mix of confusion and panic as he replied, "See what? I haven't done anything wrong, I swear it!"

"That's not what I've heard.... I've heard you've been a naughty boy, Johnny. And I won't leave until I confirm if the rumors are true." The Pizza man as he tossed aside the furniture between himself and Johnhughthom, and John was backed into a corner. There was no escape. "What are you going to do to me?" John asked, as he brushed up against the wall. The pizza man moved in closer, and closer... until they were face-to-face. "Nothing bizarre.... nothing grotesque...." winked the pizza guy, as he leaned in for a passionate kiss....

Not fifteen minutes later, the pizza man stormed out of the apartment, disappointed and scowling. "So much for those rumors. I tell you, that nickname is completely misleading!" Johnhughthom shouted back "Hey! I didn't start those rumors! And besides, one of my thumbs is slightly bigger than the other one!" The pizza man shouted back, tears in his eyes. "I need a man with something more than just a huge *thumb*, John. Goodbye forever!" He scrambled into his car, slammed the door behind him, and drove off into the night. John laid on his couch and pouted like a little girl. Somehow, he escaped with his life.... but a broken heart. Awwww. Sad face.


Ishmael sat at his bungalow’s kitchenette table. It was late and the experience at Club30 had been – disturbing. He was simply having some toast and a cup of tea.

When the doorbell rang he stood up and walked toward the front room. In the glow of the porch light stood a chap in a crimson red suit, holding what appeared to be a long slim sword. Ishmael stared, more than a little taken aback. The figure on the porch turned, sensing Ishmael, and stared at him through the front window.

>>>A hockey mask…with a smiley face on it?...<<<

Ishmael did not bother to answer the door, he just turned and ran into the kitchen at the back of the bungalow.

As he entered, automatic fire tore the back door off it’s hinges, splinters flying across the kitchen. Ish’ dove for the floor – crawling on his elbows to get behind into the hallway and find some cover. He’d made it to the hallway when the PIAT round burst after penetrating the oven door – and gutting half the kitchen with the blast.

Before the second PIAT round came through the front window into the hallway, Ishmael had fallen through a trapdoor in the floor which promptly snapped back into place with a click followed by the sound of sliding metal. The trapdoor dropped him into a small bomb shelter stocked with a comfy chair, beer, a couple of flashlights, and a few magazines. Armored and with its air ducted in and out at a goodly distance from the bungalow, Ish’ was perfectly safe. He could only faintly here the sounds of his attackers stomping through the bungalow and firing bursts into the furniture in frustration.

Now if he only knew who had built the bombshelter for him…


One member of the committee leaned on the boardwalk railing, gazing out at the rolling waves from the Atlantic. A second figure strolled up and stood at the railing nearby. A few moments of whispered conversation was followed by a business card with a number but no name.

“I hope you call.”


It didn’t cause them very much difficulty. One of them fell in front of Lord Winter, who darted back a step, and the second one yanked the ski-mask over his face. Winter kicked the fellow, forcing him back, and went for a holdout.

By then, however, Winter’s knees were already starting to buckle. The chloroform soaked into the mask quickly rendered him unconscious. The two assailants carried him to a waiting car and drove off.

Winter’s next groggy thoughts were that he was being held by the arms and that some kind of rubber mask had been put on him. It was also cold and windy.

The rubber mask was part of a full body chicken suit bought that morning from a costume shop clearing out Halloween merchandise. It didn’t fit Lord Winter all that well. Before he was really awake, the two attackers jogged Winter to the edge of the floor – floor26 at mercy hospital was still not complete, still open to the air and didn’t have much in the way of safety ropes; over-riding the lockoff to the elevator to that floor had been child’s play – and helped him out and over the edge with a healthy push.

The suit, ill-fitting or not, didn’t improve Winter’s flight characteristics more than marginally compared to those of a brick. The scream started about 13 floors down; it ended 13 floors later.

“You were right, pal, even with the wings he didn’t even make it all the way across Atlantic, much less the middle of the far sidewalk.”

“You owe me a sawbuck. Leave the card.”

The card featured a map of Alaska, with the words ‘Seward’s Folly’ scrawled across the state.


Tratorix was surprised at the appearance of the masked figure in the Commisar’s hat – but this was Fatlington, so he only shifted position and put his hand in his pocket…next to the revolver he now carried.

“Does-vee-done-ya, Comrade; how’re dey hangin’”

The bad Hollywood Russian accent and authentic Brooklynese didn’t mix well.

>>>Distraction! Trap!<<<

Tratorix’ mind went into high gear and he spun and jumped sideways, hoping to break the line of sight to the sniper he now feared. The marksman was too good for that; tracked the movement smoothly; and fired only a half-second after he’d intended. taillesskangaru’s head was, unfortunately for that marsupially- monikered fellow, now it the way of the shot. The .30 ought-six round starting deforming as it passed through the front of kangaru’s skull, mushrooming into a pancake shape by the time it hit the back. Bone shards and grey matter sprayed out of a fist-sized hole in the back of ‘kangaru’s head, cutting and temporarily blinding Tratorix and dropping him unconscious to the pavement.

The scene was so horrifying that people screamed and everybody, of course, turned to stare; except for a fellow in a funny looking hat who faded into the night before the police could arrive. All in all, some might describe Tratorix as having been lucky. Taillesskangaru was obviously less so. Tratorix was taken to Mercy Emergency and admitted.


Scottishranger cursed the night air as he stepped out into the street, but this latest of appointments was one he could not miss.

He carefully made his way through the nearby alleys along a route he had often taken out into the old town. Just before reaching the neglected concert hall where the meet was set to take place, he stopped to compose himself and light a cigarette. He looked out across the road toward where the hall stood. Still an imposing structure, bathed in the moonlight, it had been abandoned for the best part of a decade. After a few minutes spent testing the boards that covered the front doors, he found his contact waiting by a back entrance.

A short, stocky figure in an ill-fitting suit, the man appeared to be distracted. The suit might have been fashionable, once, if one were feeling charitable and willing to forgive the fact that it dated from the Harding administration. To call it stylish would probably require papal dispensation. Of more immediate concern was the old-style ought-three Springfield that the figure appeared to be wringing in his hands while humming to himself.

"I'm here for-"

Startled, the man turned a masked face towards him, poised to aim. He stopped himself and gave a brief nod before knocking twice on the weakened boards propped up in place of a door. After pushing them aside with little effort he motioned for ranger to move.

As they entered the darkened corridor some way behind the main hall itself, a second figure approached offering little more than a cursory glance as he raised a small lamp up to guide them.

"So, where is-"

The first man placed a hand on ranger's shoulder and pushed him down the hallway to a small chamber just off the entrance. Scottishranger turned, watching the Springfield come level aimed at him, when a second shooter appeared. The second shooter tripped, knocking over the rifleman in the hideous suit. Both weapons discharged, echoing in the empty building.

The ranger rushed toward a window and smashed his way out, boards and all. He wasn’t going to take any such appointments again.


Drunk Clown peered nervously into his rearview mirror. He thought he was being tailed. Slamming the car into a racing change, he hammered the acceleration, tearing north on Ventnor avenue. That’s when the second car came out of the side street and both drivers quit being subtle and opened up with submachine gun fire.

Clown turned the wheel hard, squealing rubber, and racing towards the causeway bridge up Jerome Avenue. His pursuers followed – quietly happy that they’d turned the target in the correct direction.

Drunk Clown didn’t know about the trap, so he gunned the motor and practically flew over the bridge heading out for the National Guard roadblock mid-causeway. He couldn’t get through, but nobody could attack him there. He whizzed by a…

>>>Ramp?<<<

[I]…on the bridge over the Inland Waterway and raced down the causeway to the roadblock. The two pursuing cars came to a stop at the Fatlington end of the bridge. Both drivers got out.

“You put the ramp on the left side.”

“Well, I…”

“You put the ramp on the left side, with the top of the ramp facing oncoming traffic. He drove past it without a hitch!”

“Geez, when you put it that way…”

Just then a Packard whizzed past both stopped cars, pulling around in the left (oncoming) lane and zipped up the bridge. The car went up the angled ramp, leapt the guard rail of the bridge and landed in the canal.

The two failed assassins stared in disbelief at the spectacle and then quietly got back in their cars and drove away.

When Fermanagh’s police fished out the car in the wee hours of the morning, the drowned bodies of both cpdwayne and Master Necromanver were found inside.


A mistake had saved Drunk Clown and doomed cpdwayne and Necromanver, it was blind luck that managed to save Suburban Plankton.

A team of cars had surrounded his and forced him to a stop on the rail line just outside the switching yard. A hail of gunfire had kept him below the dash as the team spot-welded cages over the windows and sealed the doors. Other members of the sextet crippled the car.

Plankton should have been killed when the freight train, cleared through the line block out of town, brought in supplies. After all, 60 loaded cars should’ve smashed the car to a pancake even at 15 miles-an-hour. After all, force equals mass times acceleration and 60 loaded boxcars is a lot of mass.

Plankton got very lucky, however. The fuel line had blown on the train shortly after it pulled out of the roadblock on the mainland. So, when the driver saw the car, he was coasting (hoping to make it to the yard) and managed to get the brakes on in time. He stopped a full 6 feet away from the screaming Plankton, who was extricated by the yard crew that came to see what had stalled the train. His assailants were nowhere to be found.


Montmorency managed to evade his planned death as well. The two pairs of shooters had opened up on him, one pair in front and the other behind, making a classic “Fatling sandwich” designed to force him into the alley at his right.

There really was no choice, so Monty ran down the alley screaming and reaching for his pistol. Nobody was more surprised than he when he cleared the alley on the opposite side and made his way to a police precinct house. The alley had been an escape route after all.


Ameranth wasn’t on foot this time. He was on his bike, quickly zipping up the middle of the street and avoiding doorways with unkind strangers lurking in them. He was also feeling just a teensy bit paranoid, so he was ready for trouble when it came.

The assailants popped up from behind cars on either side of the street, so Ameranth just kicked it in gear and put on the distance, swerving to avoid any gunfire. He pedaled harder and harder, drawing away from his pursuers.

>>>A cop!<<< thought Ameranth. >>>Outstanding.<<<

A block up, a police officer rode one of those big police horses the FPD sometimes used for crowd control. Ameranth raced up, calling for the cop, and the cop turned and started towards him.

“Officer! Behind me!” panted Ameranth, slowing to stop near the cop.

“No, right in front of you,” said the faux-officer, as he whirled the polo mallet up and under Ameranth’s chin. Even though the horse was moving gently, the combined impact dropped Ameranth as though he’d been poleaxed.

The other four attackers caught up easily, ringing the stunned Ameranth and beating him to death with balpeen hammers. Ameranth died hard.



08:59AM, Thursday, 2 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…and that wraps up our list of major recent events.”

Fermanagh took a moment to review his notes.

“We’ve got more post-mortem investigations for you. The committee’s first lynch selection, Earthling, was a horribly bad choice. Not only do all signs point to his innocence, but his only confirmed activity was protecting one of his fellow Fatlings. We all need to do better at sifting through the evidence to avoid such tragic mistakes.”

“ELITE’, and Pharoah were both innocent townies, despite which they seem to have been targeted by non-criminal elements bent on vengeance. Given the rules under which the committee operates, the FPD will not be able to act – but a few of my micks are disgruntled about this kind of thing.”

“On the other hand, we seem to have gotten lucky with what appears to have been the first true mafia killing. Moros was himself a mafia operative. In fact, he appears to have been a mafia protection specialist, known for some inexplicable reason as a ‘Luca.’ That he wasn’t lynched isn’t a good sign, but he is no loss to Fatlington.”

“My only other advice is for you all to evaluate carefully, and then lynch these scum before they try to kill us all. I thank you.”

Generalhankerchief strode to the podium, blinking a few times at the alcohol fumes he encountered passing Fermanagh, and then began the business of the day once more.



OOC

Day Five, lynch votes and selections, begins:

Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.


Attacked: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4), Cahoma (n2), Cecil XIX (n3), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Drunk Clown (n4), Earthling (n1), El Barto (n2), Ishmael (n4), johnhughthom (n4), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Raskolnikov (n1), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1), slysnake (n1, n3), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3)

Wounded: Lord Brennus (n3), Slysnake (n1), Tratorix (n4)

Killed: Ameranth (n4), Arjos (n3), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Lord Winter (n4), Moros [luca] (n2), Pharoah [townie] (n2), TinCow (n3), Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name (d3), Subotan (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4)

Wogged: cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Andres, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, Bestrfcplayer, BillMc, Bow-wow-wow, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Camikaze, Cecil XIX, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Drunk Clown, edse, Erebus, Frozen In Ice, fubbleskag, fyremarble, GamezRule, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, gnarley Charlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ibn-Khaldun, Ironside, Issaikhaan, Ishmael, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, johnhughthom, Jolt, Kagemusha, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Lord Brennus, Memnon, Monk, Montmorency, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Raskolnikov, Renata, Riedquat, Robbiecon, Romanic, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, slysnake, Sprig, sturmhauke, Suburban Plankton, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, Tratorix, ULC, Visorslash, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk, Zack

Post #2004 in main thread.


“Hey! Hey!
When the enemy invades our soil
And plunges our people into turmoil
Will you sing the battle cry?
Will you hold the line?
When the battle seems to tough to win
Will you ante up and kick in?
I gotta know will you hold the line?

Or will you do the same things you do?
Sit around and act the fool
Spread lies about your fellow man
Causing trouble again and again
Well you wear the right clothes and you walk the walk
But I'm about sick of your clockwork talk
When the enemy seeks out our women to stalk
Will you hold the line?
No you'll just do the same things you do
You never hold a job longer than a week or two
Fighting with your fellow man
Causing trouble again and again
Its time you start acting smart
What's all this talk about an upstart?
You aren't in the battle or playing a part
Unless you hold the line!”
… “Hold the Line” from The World Needs a Hero
… B. Haizlip (Better Dead Than Red)


7:31PM Wednesday 2 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“Well, that’s the total then…” mumbled one of the tallyers, supervised by one of the Director’s ‘squadies.’ The officer spoke quietly with Generalhankerchief, who nodded and whispered to the officer

“Everyone will remain here for a few minutes,” said the officer. His squad mates had drawn their revolvers and were guarding the doors….and the committee.

Director Hankerchief once again departed the Executive Meeting Room without making excuses or apologies to anyone. Unlike the previous day, however, the Director's absence was short, and he returned to take his position at the front of the room in fifteen minutes. His lapel looked like it was bulging a bit in his otherwise stylish suit, but nobody said anything about it. Everybody had other things on their minds.

Several people especially had more reason to sweat than others. They had seen the previous day's executions courtesy of the Director. Everyone now lived in fear of another visit to Club 30, but the Director saw no reason to take them back to that place so soon. He would keep the Committee on its toes. Finally, the Director closed voting, and after a brief delay, announced that Ishmael was the lucky Committee member of the day.

Ishmael's eyes started darting around, looking for something in the room. A reprieve? An escape route? Friendly gazes? The most he got was a couple of sympathetic looks from some other Committee members. Everyone else was avoiding looking at him. Ishmael might as well have already been dead.

Slowly, agonizingly, he made his way up to the front of the room where the expressionless Director was waiting, his hands inside his suit fumbling for something. After a few seconds' struggle, he took out what was the source of the bulge in his suit: a medium-sized, unmarked spray can. Taking the can in his hand, he started spraying Ishmael without any fanfare. Ishmael, whose emotions were already at the breaking point, finally lost it while the Director was in the process of spraying.

"What?!" he said, voice regularly cracking, "What's this can for? What's in it, eh? Another hallucinogenic, like you did with MRD at Club 30 last night? Am I going to run around and look for the doors and not find any, and then go so crazy that I kill myself? Where are you hiding the chainsaw this time?! What's this stupid spray going to do to me???!?!"

The Director regarded Ishmael as he finished spraying. Ishmael's entire body was now coated in the mystery stuff. "This spray isn't for you," he said calmly. Ishmael could only goggle at the Director, his face in an openmouthed expression of surprise.

"It's for the tiger."

And then everything started happening very quickly. At the exact same instant, Director Hankerchief took several exaggerated steps backwards from MRD, and on the other side of the room the ballroom's doors burst open as everyone saw the Director's four scantily-clad female assistants struggling (and failing) to hold back a very large, very hungry Bengal tiger. Everybody screamed at once and started running around, but despite this general commotion everyone was still able to clearly hear the tiger roaring and struggling to break free.

"I suggest everyone stay as far away from Ishmael as possible," Director Hankerchief yelled over the din, still appearing as unfettered as ever. "He has been sprayed with 'Essence of Raw Meat', making him a very irresistible meal to certain predatory species like Fred here. Very soon now I expect Fred's need to feed to overcome my poor assistant's valiant efforts at keeping him -" *SNAP!* At that point the tiger broke free, proving the Director right and causing complete pandemonium in the ballroom.

"...tethered." Director Hankerchief finished to himself, but nobody was able to hear him over the general screaming, clatter of feet, the tiger roaring, the assistants slamming the doors and getting out of there, and chaos of most of the chairs in the ballroom being overturned at once as everybody tried to get away from the tiger as quickly as possible.

All semblance of order and thus the ability to properly narrate the scene broke down at this moment. Unlike the previous night's choreographed carnage, confusion and cacophony and chaos reined supreme today. The tiger, free of any restraints and ravenously hungry, saw a room literally full of food. The mass amounts of panic present in such a confined area only triggered his animalistic "sixth sense" which only added to his bloodlust. However, one thing overpowered all of Fred's other senses. On the other side of the room was something that was positively reeking of raw meat.

Paying no heed to the cast-aside chairs or people running around and screaming, the tiger bounded to the front of the ballroom, clawing a few people and causing numerous minor injuries but otherwise not fatally harming anyone until he saw his target: Ishmael, huddled in the corner, shuddering and making the sign of the cross over and over. The tiger, paying no heed to this invocation, pounced and tore into Ishmael, finally providing enough space for the rest of the Committee to hightail it out of the ballroom without further damage.

Twenty minutes later, the only beings still present in the ballroom were Director Hankerchief and the tiger, as Ishmael had quite literally ceased to exist. The Director was absentmindedly stroking Fred's ears and feeding him biscuits, not even noticing the large amount of blood and torn clothing on the floor around them.

“Oh, and thank you everyone for vesting your trust in me once more.”



OOC

Orders (active and passive separate please) for Night 4 are due no later than:
.

Twenty four hours is proving impractical with questions and a family; trying to keep it tight and will get time down as numbers allow.

Lynch Vote Tally:
Ishmael 19 (Beefy187, BillMc, Cahoma, Cecil XIX, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, edse, Frozen in Ice, Fubbleskag, Guiri, hero di classico, Ironside, Issaikhaan, Jarema, Kennigit*, Lewwyn, Memnon, Renata, Riedquat, Sasaki Kojiro, shlin28, Sprig, Sturmhauke, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Woads & Fangs) [Intended vote by Seon]

Yaropolk 8 (Clitsome, Daveshack, Fyremarble, gibsong91921, gnarly charlie, Oh!TheLastDays!, ULC, Visorslash) [Ishmael’s intended vote]

Clitsome 4 (Andres, Believer, Besker, Chaotix)

Diamondeye 2 (Raskolnikov, Seon*)

Romanic 2 (ATPG, Autolycus)

Sturmhauke 1 (God Emperor)

Camikaze 1 (Erebus)

Nictel 1 (landlubber)

Abstain 10 (Aggonyking, Montmorency, Neri, Nightbringer, Peasant Phil, qlyphz, Robbiecon, Scottishranger, Sistercoyote, The Stranger, Tratorix)

Present 4 (Bsmith, Camikaze, Populous Romanus, Thefluffyone89) [intended vote by kennigit]

*Seon - 1908 No unvote
*Kennigit – no unvote
**Ishmael - 1899 Edited vote post invalid

Post #2053 in main thread.

“Lately all I want is you
sometimes I believe I do
fifty strings of yarn and glue
puppet master see me through
lately all I want is you
puppet master see me through

Scissors in hand a knife at my strings
an odd way to go but I seen stranger things
oh I grew the finest wings
over the water”
….Puppet Master
….Marissa Nadler


Fifth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Askthepizzaguy sat quietly in his personal broadcast studio, going over notes for the next broadcast. His days were always so rushed; so many things demanding his time. Still, Fatlington was in crisis and he knew that his efforts had to continue.

The attack, when it came, was a doomed effort. The plan had been simple, but straightforward, like most good plans. Two trucks would race at high speed down the road, swerve through the short picket fencing and smash into the front of the deluxe bungalow, the drivers jumping to safety. Then a trio of shooters would open up while the drivers ran behind the house to cut off escape.

It didn’t even come close to happening that way. The first truck was intercepted by a trio of cars and brought to a –literally – screeching halt. The driver bailed out and used his shotty to get a clear escape route. The second truck ran on the sidewalk and dodged the intervening cars, but couldn’t dodge the bursts of fire from the pair of .30 Browning machine guns positioned at the end of the street where it met the beach bulkhead. A pair of two-person firing teams and a BAR-man providing cover shot the second truck to a standstill. The trio of shooters never even bothered firing – they just faded away.


Lord Brennus had had a feeling of foreboding all day. Mostly, his luck had been good lately and he’d been on the committee for days now with little attention – potentially deadly attention – coming his way. Today, however, he’d been looking around a little gloomily, waiting for the other shoe to drop,
When he reached the door of his apartment building, he was greeted by a life?-sized cutout of Wiley Coyote standing in the doorway itself. He paused with his hand on the door.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wile E. Coyote, Super-genius…” intoned a slightly scratchy record player.

Brennus spun around, quickly drawing a sidearm – nobody on the committee save Askthepizzaguy went unarmed in Fatlington these days – and scanning the apparently empty street for threats.

>>>Nothing?<<<

But he didn’t look up. It wasn’t ‘the other shoe’ that dropped, it was a concert grand piano freshly loosened from the pulley holding it suspended in the darkness above. With a resounding albeit discordant

>Kabong!<

The piano crushed Lord Brennus against the sidewalk in front of the apartments. The legs and body of the piano were smashed as well, but the little brass plaque above the keyboard was more or less intact. It was engraved ‘Acme Piano Manufacturing, Inc.’

A shadowy figure walked over to the wreckage, yanked the shoe and sock off Brennus’ left foot – sticking out from under the piano at an odd angle, and then used a pocket knife to remove the big toe. He then walked quickly away.

Seconds later, a pair of fedora-clad, trenchcoat wearing gunmen walked up to the wreckage. One of them had a bright yellow Victorian-era suit under his tattered trench coat and held a Springfield ought three sawed down to a pistol grip, the other more conventionally armed with a Thompson. Hearing moans from under the wreckage – poor ravaged Brennus was dying but not quite yet dead – both of them opened up on the piano and whatever pieces of Brennus were stil visible. Their clips emptied quickly.

“Do we take the other toe?”

“Nah, just one is enough as a message.”

“Cool, ‘cause I think the other foot is stuck in the bass strings.”

“Do you want to try a quick “Heart and Soul?”

“Let’s just get out of here.”


Drunk Clown had chosen to live up to his name tonight. He’d left the meeting, gone to the corner tappy and slapped a twenty on the bar, telling the bartender to kick him out when half of it was gone. At fifty cents a whiskey, that was quite a bit of liquid courage.

They say that God takes care of drunks and fools, and Clown went on to prove it. As he stumbled from the bar, headed to his Buick – he was entirely too drunk to walk – when the gunman opened up on him from across the street.
Clown made for the only piece of cover nearby, the trashcan in the ailey behind the tappy. Darkness shrouded the back of the alley behind D.C. as he huddled behind the dumpster. His pistol was out, but he doubted he could hit anything further away than the building he was leaning on.

Sirens started wailing and the fire from across the street stopped. The whole time, the darkness behind Clown stayed quiet…and empty.


Bow-wow-wow had stopped at ‘Max Schmelling’s Joint’ for a hamburger and a malted after the meeting. He’d put away two of the burgers and felt like doing a little howling at the moon. As he stood to leave, the windows of the café burst as a fusillade of gunfire hammered through.

Onomatopoeia-man stopped slug after slug, as did the table, the storefront and several patrons. Five Tommies, all with the 100-round drums, made for a lot of lead in a short while.

Bow-wow-wow staggered back behind the counter, pushed there by repeated hits. Despite the armoring of his coat and extra armor vest, too many slugs had hit him in too many places. He was a dead man walking. Not realizing this, and in virtually no pain as a result of the adrenalin, Bow-wow-wow made it out the back door in a vain attempt to escape his fate. Doubly vain, since he was greeted by a sextet of shotgun blasts.

“Good thing we didn’t wait by the elevator after all. We’d have missed our share of the fun.”

None of the eleven shooters were stopped. Seven patrons and one waiter were killed, and another four persons wounded, during the shooting spree.


Two pairs of shooters opened up on edse as he idled at the red light.

Edse had just stopped the car when someone behind him in his blind spot shouted

“Ishmael’s revenge!”

and started hammering away. Three other gunmen chimed in and the shots shattered windows and caromed off the armored sides of the car. edse hunkered down and slammed his foot on the accelerator, racing through the intersection blindly to avoid the deadly hail of gunfire. All it would have taken was one car stopping in front of edse to prevent his escape and sooner or later the firepower – even by ricochet – would’ve got him. Instead, edse made good his escape.


Slysnake had skipped the meeting and stayed a little longer at Mercy Hospital. Sure, he had survived against the odds, but he still felt like crud. He hadn’t taken three steps out of the hospital when a masked man wearing a commisar’s hat grabbed him by the arm.

“Tuh-vor-eesh, nyet! You come vith me for ze safety, ja?”

’Der Commisar’ shoved the bewildered slysnake into the back of a panel truck, shut the door and locked it, then hopped into the van and drove quickly the four blocks down to the boardwalk. The driver turned to slysnake, rattling around in the empty back of the van.

“No man lives forever. Duz-vee-doinya.”

The driver slammed the door as he left the van, hopped the railing and dropped into the sands below. At that very moment, the PIAT launched by his partner struck the back of the van, blew through the sidewall, and messily ended slysnake’s pain. Third time pays for all, as they say…whoever THEY are.


Suburban Plankton shook his head, trying to clear the fuzz from his thoughts. All he remembered was a sharp pain in the back of his head and then nothing. He looked around.

>>>Windy…dark….decorative railing…..off to his right was a big red sign saying MERCY + a few blocks away and up a broad….Atlantic avenue?<<<

He realized he was dangling between two trench-coated men just about the time both men started jogging toward the decorative balustrade of the Penthouse atop the Hotel Abbatoir. By the time he thought

>>>Struggle!<<<

His murderers were already lifting him as they threw him across the railing and off into the night. The two at the top were puzzled by the lack of a scream.

>>>This is really gonna hurt…<<<

The two killers stared down at the broken body, cradled by the light of a streetlamp.

“You missed.”

“The lamp was an impossible target, you jerk.”

“That’s why I gave you five to one. You owe me two bucks.”

Killer one dropped a card with the outline of Alaska and the legend ‘Seward’s Folly,’ thenpaid killer two – a crisp Jefferson – and both of them made their way off into the dark Fatlington night.


Edse had switched cars and made it to his brownstone in the lower town. On Pacific, rather than Atlantic, his place was a little quieter and in a less “touristy” neighborhood than most. Tonoght, however, there were a few visitors.

The man stepped out from behind a stoop several doors down, just as Edse, finished locking his car. His gleaming black hair was slicked back with Bryl Cream, his long dark trench coat criss-crossed by bandoliers of shells like some kind of Hollywood Mexican bandit, and he had a shotty.

The look may have been cheesy, the gun was not. Deftly , the greaser gunman spun cocked the 1887 and fired at edse. Edse, noticing the movement, ducked. They went back and forth that way for several rounds. Edse, would sprint and duck just as he heard the lever cock, while the bandito would move up a couple of steps while loading and then fire again. Edse made it to his front door, slamming it open.

Almost as quickly, edse came back out the door, reeling from the impact of multiple .30 caliber rounds at close range. Some shots from the four hidden shooters had penetrated his armor, others had hammered home where no armor covered him. He staggered on the steps and then collapsed when Mr. Bryl Cream slammed a load of double ought into the small of his back. His would-be killers made good their escape, but didn’t pause to make sure edse had died.

Arriving moments later, Commissioner Fermanagh – heading out to a pub after having a ‘chat’ with the missus – leapt from his vehicle and staunched the bleeding. An ambulance was called and got to edse just in time. He’d lost a good deal of blood, but because of the armoring he had managed, just barely and with a little luck, to survive. He would no doubt be laid up for a day or so, just to recover.


Erebus had managed to keep himself out of trouble – until tonight.

Tonight some quirk of behavior – too quiet, too distracted? – at the meeting had madwe him a target and five avenging attackers converged to do him harm.

It started, as so many attacks did in this town, with bursts of gunfire as the target masde his way from the parking lot to his door. Erebus reacted quickly by sprinting for cover. He found himself in a corner, tight behind a trash dumpster. He had hard cover, was firing back to keep the other shooters heads down a bit, and he could already hear police sirens heading towards the scene.

That’s when the chap with the PIAT launcher stood up. He was 30 yards away with a clear line of fire to the area behind the dumpster – which would contain the resulting explosion right on top of Erebus. Instead, the PIAT went >click< and did nothing. The shooter re-triggered the device and again, got nothing. Despite checking and re-checking before the mission, the PIAT was a dud and would not fire. Sometimes, it is better to be lucky than good.

With the sirens closing, the attack team made off into the darkness. Erebus had lived through it all without a scratch – and with a healthier respect for a little planning.


Psychonaut was heading home after a long, hard day, when he turned the corner and saw that the road had been blocked by barricades. He wasn't aware of any new construction or road work being done, so he carefully slowed to a stop and got out of his vehicle to investigate. Not only was the road blocked off but the next intersection as well. In the middle of the intersection, there was an overturned car, with the glowing Mizza Mut car topper laying right beside it, the outer casing smashed. Unsure what to make of the scene, and worried someone might be hurt, Psychonaut approached the car, only to find it was unoccupied. He gripped the object in his hands as if his life depended on it.

Something was wrong.... there were scattered stacks of pizza boxes arranged in a circle around the car, and there were wires running out from each one of those boxes, leading to a nearby building. It was a trap! Psychonaut looked up and saw a man in a trenchcoat sliding down a long rope which had been hanging over the intersection, and he quickly dove out of the way.

"Going somewhere, mister Naut?" shouted the man in the trenchcoat and fedora, as he stood in the center of the street, holding a device with a trigger. It could very well have been a detonator.

"Who... are you?" replied Psychonaut.

"Who am I, mister Naut? Why, I am the vigilante cleaning up the streets of Fatlington. I am the greatest superhero of all time. I am the avatar of justice. The bringer of decency. I am the next Captain America, the first, last, and best hope of Fatlington. And you are nothing more than a common lurking criminal, and I will be the end of you!" said the man in the fedora. Psychnaut noticed that the man was also wearing some kind of goggles, probably to protect against explosive forces.

"You're wrong about that, mister Guy."

"Guy? There's no Guy here. Are you ready to face your inevitable death, mister Naut? This trenchcoat is not what it appears. It is lined with only the finest reinforced steel mesh, armor plating, and layers of insulation. I could detonate these explosives and incinerate you instantly, and not get a single scratch on me."

"Oh yeah? What about your face?"

"What about my face? What are you getting at?" shouted the trenchcoat man.

"The coat might survive, but your head wouldn't. You haven't really thought this through, have you? Unless your fedora can withstand an inferno and somehow also protect your exposed face, you're about to blow your own head off, wiseguy."

"Hey! I'm not a wiseguy! So what if I did some things before I graduated high school, my record has been expunged! And another thing, I'm far more bulletproof than you might imagine! And I'll prove it to you right now!"

>click<

>click…click<

"Hmm... the uh, trigger seems to be malfunctioning. No matter, I can do this the old fashioned way. Ever seen a chicago typewriter, Mister Naut?" the man reached into his coat and drew a Thompson sub-machine gun.

Psychonaut quickly reacted, raising his hand, aiming directly between the eyes of the 'vigilante', and squeezed the trigger. The results were immediate, and overpowering.

"Gah! My eyes! The goggles do nothing! You've blinded me! Stop shining that flashlight in my eyes, you gutter-dwelling scumbag! I'll open fire!"

"Askthepizzaguy???" asked Psychonaut incredulously. "Just what in the heck do you think you're doing?"

"Saving Fatlington from scum like you! Oh blazes, I can't see anything... and my gun's jammed. I'll get you Psychonaut, if it's the last thing I do! You haven't seen the last of the Neutral Avenger!"

"Yeah, whatever, see you at the meeting tomorrow, Pizza." said Psychonaut as he calmly walked away.

"Hey, come back here! I'm not finished with you yet! Darn this detonator... I thought it had a 5 second fuse.... or was it fifty seconds? I can't remember...."
Psychonaut got back into his vehicle and drove away, just as the stacked boxes of explosive-laden pizzas finally exploded. But the charges were far, far too small to be deadly. Nothing more than common fireworks. Askthepizzaguy was covered in a shower of cheese, sauce, pepperonis, and bits of the cardboard boxes. Even worse, his fedora blew away in the explosion. Askthepizzaguy would later go home and hide under his couch, crying like a little girl.



09:14AM, Thursday, 3 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…and so another bloody night comes to an end. It wears on a man, it does, seeing so many good folks cut down….”

Fermanagh took a moment to review his notes and get the maudlin out of his voice.

“We’ve got more post-mortem investigations for you.”

“The committee’s second lynch choice is hard to evaluate.” Subotan initially appeared guilty to our evaluators, but further review found that the evidence against him was related to a case four years ago in Asbury Park – a case that had already been solved. That evidence had been edited to look as though Subotan were part of it and guilty as sin, but one of the investigators had worked that case and knew that it simply wasn’t true – someone had planted it. We are unsure what was going on there or why. They were able to determine that Subo’ was a minor criminal – a wiseguy – but there was no apparent connection to any mafia activity. In fact, he was rumored to have been working WITH a completely inoffensive name, sometimes known as Cal King, who was confirmed as a townie with a bit of an aggressive streak in him – not unlike several of you sitting here I suspect. Still, we hope that this sacrifice will have served our long term goal.”

Fermanagh grimaced as he looked at his notes, visibly disturbed.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, citizens, but Fatlington was well and truly corncobbed by the killings that night – and I lost two of my best detectives. Yes, that’s right, El Barto and TinCow were both detectives on the Fatlington Police clandestine squad. Both men had brilliant careers and were trying to sift through the names involved to help us bring about justice. They will be missed and our flags are all going to half-mast as of this moment.”

“Nor does it get any better from there. Xenoneb was a Fatling townie, reputedly hunting Mafiosi in a vigilante team. He is not known to have had mafia connections. Saints preserve us, but Arjos was the FBI Agent in Charge, working in Fatlington convertly at the behest of Hoover himself. Yes, damn it, I know what that means – three of our detectives were killed in the same evening and at least one of those at the hands of the mafia.”

Fermanagh looked as though he would say something more, but then he just waved Generalhankerchief to the podium. A grim committee settled down to the business of the day.



OOC

Day Six, lynch votes only, begins:

Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.


Attacked: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5), Cahoma (n2), Cecil XIX (n3), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5), Ishmael (n4), johnhughthom (n4), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1), slysnake (n1, n3), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3)

Wounded: edse (n5), Lord Brennus (n3), Slysnake (n1), Tratorix (n4)

Killed = 14: Ameranth (n4), Arjos [FBI Detective] (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), El Barto [Detective] (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter (n4), Moros [luca] (n2), Pharoah [townie] (n2), slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow [Ddtective] (n3), Xenoneb [Townie] (n3)

Lynched = 5: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [Townie] (d3), Subotan [Wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5)

Wogged = 3: cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4) …probably more soon.

Added = 1: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Andres, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, Bestrfcplayer, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Camikaze, Cecil XIX, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Drunk Clown, edse, Erebus, Frozen In Ice, fubbleskag, fyremarble, GamezRule, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, gnarley Charlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ibn-Khaldun, Ironside, Issaikhaan, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, johnhughthom, Jolt, Kagemusha, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Memnon, Monk, Montmorency, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Raskolnikov, Renata, Riedquat, Robbiecon, Romanic, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, Sprig, sturmhauke, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, Tratorix, ULC, Visorslash, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk, Zack

Post #2258 in main thread.

“I can hear the auctioneer getting ready to sell down the river
To a buyer with a tax deduction its pretty cheap
Don’t forget about the price that we’ll all have to pay now
Show a little faith and stop before we’re in too deep
Well judgment day is upon you Mr. Politician
Will you sell the soul of the land of our birth
Do you really want us all to move to the coast
Water for the river and the future should come first””
…Selling Down the River
…Mark O’Brien


8:01PM Thursday 3 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


This time, there was no elaborate setup. Director Hankerchief did not summon everybody to a masquerade off-site in order to execute somebody. Nor did he pass anything out, wheel anything in, or bring in large carnivorous animals. For once, he did not leave the ballroom during the entire course of voting. All in all, this actually looked to be a fairly normal execution.

The only work that was done by his usual assistants was quickly completed so that by the time the Director announced Montmorency would be the day's lynch and said victim got up in front of the room to face everybody, the setup was already done. Aside from the usual Director's podium, Hankerchief's lovely female assistants had set up a small table with two chairs on opposite sides, with two empty glasses set on top of the table. The Director indicated for Montmorency to sit down while one of Hankerchief's assistants presented him with a bottle of wine. Bottle in hand, the Director remained standing to address the crowd.

"What you see here is a standard bottle of wine - well, if you could call '18 LaTour standard - that has not been altered in any way. I am about to take the cork out of the bottle for the very first time and breathe in its aroma. I do this in front of you so that none of you will be able to deny me later." The crowd watched in silence as he did what he said. "Once again, completely unaltered, I am now going to pour this same wine from the bottle into the two glasses." Again the crowd watched as he did this. "Now this..." the Director said as he reached into his lapel and pulled out a tiny capsule, "...is poison. I am going to empty its contents into one of the two wine glasses, and *not* in full view of everybody." He turned around, taking the glasses and hiding his movements so no one could see what he was doing. This time he did not do his task in silence, as the entire crowd had gasped over this turn of events. After a few seconds, the Director turned around, very deliberately setting one of the glasses in front of Montmorency and keeping the other in front of himself.

"I have decided to be merciful today - well, at least, as close to merciful that I can be. There has been some dissent over my leadership recently - that I am overseeing bad lynches, that I am being too forceful with my methods and not forceful enough regarding the Committee's night actions. Therefore, I am giving Montmorency a chance to get out of this alive. To change his fate. Only one of these glasses is poisoned. The other one is not. All he has to do is drink from the correct glass. If he's wrong, he dies. If he's right, I die and the Directorship passes to someone else. It's all in Montmorency's - and God's - hands. Let the battle of wits begin." And finally he sat down, staring at Montmorency with an impassive expression on his face.

Montmorency's facade of impenetrability was much more transparent. He was able to hold it for about ten seconds before breaking gaze with the Director and starting to mutter to himself. Most of it was unintelligible, but the Director was able to pick up such words as "Spaniard", "morons", and "land war in Asia". Hankerchief himself said nothing, only staring back at Montmorency with the slightest of smiles on his face. The Committee was completely silent. They could almost feel the brainpower in the air.

Beads of sweat started to form on Montmorency's face. One of them rolled down his cheek. It was becoming clear to everybody that the Director was, in fact, the superior intellectual, that he was most likely going to defeat his opponent, that the only way Montmorency would get out of this alive would be with a lucky guess. The muttering started up again. The sweat started to pour down his face now. Montmorency's eyes started to dart around the room, almost as if searching for something, calculating.

After several seconds of this, the darting stopped. Montmorency appeared calmer somehow, more confident. He stood up and turned around, facing the crowd, while still ostensibly speaking to the Director.

"I've figured it out!" he proclaimed. "Nobody in such a position of power would willingly risk it like this. No, you've gamed the system somehow. There *must* be a lynch, everyone knows this, and you wouldn't jeopardize that rule. You've probably poisoned both glasses but took an antidote beforehand, or have secretly built up a resistance to whatever poison you're using." He started to grow more frantic again, breaking the previous calmness. "Well, I deny you, sir! I deny this charade any longer! I refuse to take part in your mind games! The Committee can all go to Hell!!!" And then he broke for it, sprinting down the ballroom before anyone had a chance to react. He was so fast he managed to get to the doors before anyone reacted. Finally, everyone gasped save for GeneralHankerchief, who still had that small smile on his face.

Montmorency threw open the doors... only to reveal a very large, very hungry Bengal tiger right on the other side, waiting to pounce.

Montmorency was too in shock to do anything. He stood there, rooted to the ground, as Fred tore into his newest meal. Back in the Executive Meeting Room, there was far less commotion than last time. It had happened too quickly, the tiger had gotten its target right away, everyone was still processing what had happened and by the time they did, it was over. Finally, as Fred was done, the Director signaled for quiet and for someone to close the doors. Still with that same smile on his face, he addressed the Committee.

"All part of the plan," he said. "What, you thought I'd actually poisoned the wine? A bottle of 1918 LaTour? Philistines, all of you." And he produced three more glasses, poured the rest of the wine to his female assistants, and they all toasted the continued good health of the Committee.


OOC

Orders (active and passive separate please) for Night 6 are due no later than:
.

Lynch Vote Tally:

Montmorency: 19 (HeroDC, Johhog, PeasantPhill, Cahoma, Yaropolk, Renata, Beefy, FrozeninIce, BRay, W&F, Seon, Memnon, Sturmhauke, Choxorn, AgKing, Chaotix, Beskar, Raskol, kennigit)

Sigurd: 10 (BSmith, SisterCoyote, ULC, shlin28, Scienter, ScottishRanger, gnarlycharlie, guiri, Secura, fubbleskag)

Clitsome: 9 (Andres, Diamondeye, Sprig, CecilXIX, TS, Sasaki, Psycho, Craterus, Khaan)

Chaotix: 4 (thefluffyone, Populus, DaveShack, Gamezrule)

Johhog: 4 (ATPG, LazyMcCrow, WhiteEyes, Slash&Earn)

Diamondeye: 4 (Visorslash, WinstonHughes, Romanic, autolycus)

AggonyKing: 2 (Gibsonsg, Neri)

Memnon: 2 (OTLD, Fyremarble)

Sasaki: 1 (Jolt)
Jolt: 1 (landlubber)
Romanic: 1 (Ironside
Oh! TheLastDays!: 1 (DIY)
ScottishRanger: 1 (sigurd)

Abstain: 6 (Diana, Erebus, IbnKhaldun, BillMC, Riedquat, believer)

Post #2315 in main thread.

“Clutching our guns, lusting for wealth
Trusting no one, especially oneself
Hundreds of planes inflicting pain
Pledge to make dust out of all that remains
Family of six caught in the mix
Mission fulfilled, all six are killed, and the death toll rises
Death on all sides, fewer allies
Moments of peace wither and die’
….Death Toll Rises
….Pro-Pain


Sixth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Askthepizzaguysat at a café table outside the Hotel Abbatoir. He was frustrated. Things were going so well, the program had never enjoyed higher ratings. Yet still letters of complaint arrived. Vexed, he finished his coffee and sighed. The shadows watched him, waiting.


Zack hadn't been heard from in eleven days. He was last seen asking people who he should be voting for, but no one responded. He felt left out.... lost... and so he kept to himself. Well, screw em if they didn't want him around, he thought to himself. He had been sitting out the committee meetings and not even bothering to exit his townhouse except for the occasional errand. He had the front door secured by deadbolt and braced with a steel bar. The windows had been nailed shut, and reinforced by metal grates. He slept well knowing this. It would be impossible to get to him, he thought.

After a long night of watching television, eating popcorn and drinking soda pop, Zack passed out in front of the television, on his reclining chair. He was resting quite comfortably, and before long the broadcast day had ended, and the television went silent. And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

No creature except a man dressed in a trenchcoat and fedora. He made his way through the kitchen, and down the hall. Zack awoke with a start, when he heard the sound of someone's heavy boots walking across the wooden floor.

"Who is it? Who is there?" asked Zack cautiously, and he fumbled around in the dark for his weapon.

"It's the Avenger. You know who I am. I got a special delivery for you." said the man in the fedora.

"How did you even get in here, anyway?" asked Zack.

"The window by the fire escape was wide open, ya schmuck!"

"Okay.... leave it on the doorstep and get the hell out of here!"

"Sure, but what about my money?" asked the stranger.

"What money?" asked Zack.

"Don't tell me I came all this way, just to walk away empty-handed. You know I don't like that." the man unbuttoned his trenchcoat and reached inside...

"Is that a fact? How much do I owe you?" asked Zack.

"I think ten percent oughta cover it." said the man in the fedora.

"How about I give you nothing, and you turn around and walk away before somebody can't ever walk no more?" said Zack.

"Oh really? How generous. Hey... I got something I want to give you, Zack. I'll give you ten seconds to get your ugly, yellow, non-voting keister out of Fatlington, before I pump your guts full of lead."

Zack realized he left his weapon on the other side of the room. There was only one thing left to do. "All right, all right! I'm going!"

"One.... two.... TEN!"

The man in the fedora opened fire, taking out the television set, the reclining chair, and even the sofa that Zack contemplated hiding under and crying like a little girl. Within seconds, the Thompson sub-machine gun made short work of Zack's living room, as Zack himself bolted for the window. He tried to dive straight through, but it turns out his security precautions had foiled his own escape. He planted himself face-first in the steel bars, wedging his head and neck between them, face planted against the window. There was no escape. The man in the Fedora kept shooting up the apartment with glee, and then surveyed the damage. The property value would certainly take a hit, that's for sure. Then, the man in the Fedora opened up a box he had set down on the counter of the kitchen, and brought it over to Zack, who was still wedged in his own window.

"Keep the change, ya filthy animal," said the man in the Fedora, as he stuffed an entire pizza pie down Zack's pants. He then made his way down the fire escape, before the cops could arrive. Zack was tormented for the rest of the night by the heavenly aroma of pizza, but couldn't taste a single bite of it.


ByzantineKnight was a quiet member of the committee, but had always been participating. He was surprised, therefore, to be singled out by an attacker as he drove away from the Convention Center.

The attacker rammed BK off the road and into a lamp post with a crunch. BK was momentarily stunned, but when the attacker hopped out of the car and started firing, BK managed to drop from sight below the dash. BK crawled out the opposite side and made his way into the alley between the two buildings and to safety. No one barred his path.


ByzantineKnight had arrived safely at his apartment when the second attack came in – it never rains, but it pours.

It started simply enough with a pounding knock on his apartment door.

“Raus, raus!” said the voice in a classicly Hollywood German accent.

“Get out of here! I am armed and will defend myself!

“Dry…Zwei…Eeeny….meeny….miney….unt moe!” counted the bad accent.

The PIAT round crashed through the apartment window and burst on the ceiling just above where BK had taken cover to guard the door. He didn’t have a chance.

The ‘German’ kicked in the damaged door, went to BK’s corpse and dropped the calling card – a picture of Alaska with the phrase ‘Seward’s Folly’ scrawled on the picture. He turned and left.


It would be a particularly bad night for slash and earn even though he would survive unharmed.

He reached his apartment safely enough, but while sitting on the couch was surprised when a hole opened in the ceiling and dumped a few gallons of Marmite all over him. He had barely cleared the goo off his eyes when he saw the score of ferrets racing towards him from the apartment windows.

It tickled horribly. Each ferret leapt on him and began licking. At first he tried to fight, but it just didn’t matter – there was always another rodent coming at him. Then, as the tickling began – all those little tongues – he was paralyzed.

That the ferrets licked off all of the Marmite and left – without even nibbling on him a teensy-weensy bit – was almost incalcuably unlikely, but it happened. Slash made it through unharmed – but would he ever be the same?


Across town a masked man walked up to a member of the committee – hands out and open to show he meant no harm. The committee member was nervous at first, but realized soon enough what the chat was about.

“I hope you’ll call me.”

The masked man nodded politely and walked away.


The attack on Diana Abnoba was a fiasco from the start. The pair of Tommy gunners were close together, and obviously firing as though they expected to be part of a larger effort.

Even that would have been thwarted though, as a quintet of protectors drove cars between her and the shooters and opened an escape route through the Five and Dime for her. It was not so much of a much.


It was like something out of a cheesy Western serial at the Saturday matinee. Nictel had just pulled up to the curb and gotten out of the Chrysler, when he saw the shadowy figures loom out of the shadows. Across the street seven figures carrying Chicago Typewriters were throwing down their guns while to his front and rear on his own side of the street a further five shotgunners were shouldering their weapons.

Nictel went for his guns, of course. He had a brace of Mexican Colts and he moved like lightning – as though he were already a ghost.

That had been John Henry Holliday’s secret weapon half a century before. Tubercular and convinced that death by gunfire would be a mercy, Doc fought like he just didn’t care – and that was his edge. Nictel moved the same way.

Nictel dove through the open window of the car, putting the door between himself and the first bursts of SMG fire. Shoving the door open, he pistoled one of the shotgunners behind the car with two bullets to the midsection, dropping him or her immediately (though the armor meant there was no injury, the slugs still took the steam out of that shooter). He kept slithering until he was at the passenger door, hunkered down and trading shots with his attackers.

Shooting from each hand in turn (two guns at once was strictly for Hollywood), Nictel was shooting well enough to keep his opponents of balance even though they were the ones with the automatic weapons.

This stalemate only lasted until the first revolver shot dry. Nictel dropped the drum and reached into his vest for a full one, but could only cover one direction. The first real hit was a shotgun blast to the foot which dropped him. Then a burst of ricochets from a couple of Tommy guns, then another shotty while he leaned out from behind the door trying to get back up to his knees.

The rest was a brief but terminal fusillade for Nictel. His killers, several of them bruised from hits on their armor or grazed by ricochets and brick chips from near misses, tipped their hats silently and then faded into the darkness.


Tratorix thought his killer looked a little young – and rather ugly.

>>>How’d that mug ever end up with a nickname like ‘babyface.’<<<

He’d thought he’d known both of his killers pretty well. He hadn’t truly expected that they’d be working for a mafia family. He’d let them get close and, before he could duck away, both had drawn snub-noses and pulled the triggers.

At the range they’d fired, his trenchcoat had been seared and blackened where each round had struck. Though armor inserts had stopped some of the slugs, more than half of the ten fired found their mark.

>>>Why me? I mean I…THOSE two?...I’ll denounce them both the rats…cold…so dark…<<<

And then it stayed dark.

They found him a while later, a picture of the state of Alaska pinned to his coat with the legend “Seward’s Folly” scrawled across it.


Cecil XIX was saved by a stroke of good luck and impeccable if old-fashioned manners. Having just stepped out of his Packard on the curb near Iron Felix’s, Cecil was only a few steps from the door when the doorman whipped it open and the ’lady in red’ walked out.

This tall drink of water came close to six feet in the heels she wore and had the same kind of extravagant figure Jayne Mansfield was to parlay into stardom only a few years hence. Cecil smiled and doffed his Fedora with a flourish and a full bow straight out of the 18th century.

He thereby ducked below the almost perfectly paired shots fired by the two shooters wielding classic Winchester repeaters across the street. The ‘lady in red’ took one slug in each half of her décolletage, which proved to be poor armoring however decorative. The bullets had actually crossed over one another in flight, the near “X” of their crossing marking the center of Cecil’s chest – but for that courtly bow.

Cecil turned the bow into a dive roll for cover; the doorman turned his whistle for a cab into a shriller whistle that brought the beat cop and generated sirens, the pair of shooters beat feet in retreat, and the ‘lady in red’ paid the price of Cecil’s gallantry. Only for Cecil could it have been described as a lucky break.


Raskolnikov drove with white-knuckled determination, every sense heightened. This was Fatlington, after all, and the question really wasn’t if you were paranoid, but if you were paranoid [U]enough{/U]?

As such, he saw the PIAT round in his peripheral vision and managed to swerve the car away from the projectile. It still hit the car, but only on the front left corner and Rask’ was able to ride the wrecked vehicle well enough to avoid a crash. He bailed out before the vehicle could explode.

The PIAT gunner was not alone, however. Actually, lugging a loaded PIAT around – all 32 pounds of it – pretty much mandated some covering fire and support. This time, it was the support crew that would score.

Rask’ came up firing, but at the now hiding PIAT gunner half a block off and not at the 4 shooters behind him inside the store windows or above him from across the sidestreet a few feet ahead.

He died game, turning to face the shooters who fired through the store windows and the ones who shot at him from across the street, but it was too little and too late. Raskolnikov, shot through a dozen times, bled out before an ambulance could arrive.


J.D., unlike Raskolnikov, managed to force his attackers to retreat. They had started firing from the bushes – short controlled bursts – and they aimed low to avoid any armor. J.D. took slugs low in both legs and dropped to the gutter.

He didn’t just lay down and die like some might have. He was low and partially coverered, but his shooters were only concealed by the bushes. He fired back below the gun flashes and started scoring hits of his own. Soon, sirens wailing and both of them having been hit (on their armor) J.D.’s assailants faded into Seaside Park and away.

J.D., hit in both legs and one arm and losing quite a bit of blood, was quickly taken by the ambulance crew, who cut off his shoes and trousers and staunched the blood. Though ruinous of his attire, they undoubtedly saved his life. All-in-all, J.D. might be described as having been sorta lucky.


For out-and-out luck, Erebus was your man. When the four other cars boxed his in and ground it to a halt at the intersection, Erebus put the top down on the car and ran across one of his attacker’s hoods, hopped to another car, and landed on the sidewalk.

At the exact moment he landed, each of the four attack drivers fired – and ended up hitting the car he’d slid across to reach the sidewalk.

Then, since prudent killers in Fatlington liked having backup plans, the other two members of the kill team cut loose with a Vickers machine gun from a porch halfway up the block and across the street.

Their tracers were fractions of a second from smashing into Erebus when the steel doors of the store’s cellar popped up and open as the store owner below prepared to shift some ruined merchandise out of his cellar and into the garbage. Erebus thus had – against all odds – heavy armor between himself and the machine gun team and a ready escape route. Luck was his lady tonight.


J.D. was on the stretcher, just being lifted down to the ground for the few short steps into Mercy Emergency. As he was angled down, a thin black umbrella lanced out of the darkness and, it’s tip improbably sharp, plunged into J.D.’s abdomen. The ambulance crew screamed and dropped him onto the street, the umbrella pushing further up and in, puncturing the diaphragm.

Thirty seconds later and with the assistance of a passerby, the ambulance team had J.D. back on the stretcher and heading into emergency. A further minute later, J.D.’s breathing ground to a halt as the curarae on the umbrella tip paralyzed his muscles. Despite heroic efforts, he would be pronounced dead only ten minutes later. Oddly, during his ‘rescue,’ someone – the helpful passerby? – had removed his big toe.

“Got it,” said the ‘helpful’ passerby to his partner. “I didn’t even need to finish him.” His partner nodded.

“Good. I only had the one umbrella with me.”

“Good throw.”

“Yes, rather.”


Erebus, still running on adrenalin after the attack earlier, was surprised to run into – literally – [B]Psychonaut[B].

“You’ve been orchestrating a litany of lies!”

The comment had come from somewhere in the shadows and witnesses would later claim it had been directed at Erebus, but it was Psycho who thought he was being insulted as well as pushed around.

Psycho took offense and soon both men, more than a little tense this week, were shoving one another and hurling unkind comments about each other’s parentage and sexual proclivities. Rather than let things get completely out of hand, bestrfcplayer [I]jumped between the two brawlers, pushing them back and shouting for them to calm down.

The shooters cut loose at that moment. One pair of shooters were aiming for Psycho while the other pair were gunning for Erebus. Both hit their targets, but between body armor, poor lighting and the frantic movements of all three people at the center of this little drama, only 3 fatal shots were made. Unfortunately for bestrfc, his name was on all three.

With sirens wailing and a pair of beat cops running toward the scene, the two pairs of shooters ran off into the darkness. Bestrfcplayer lay dying in the gutter, and both Erebus and Psychonaut earned a trip to Mercy hospital. When they were assigned to the same ward, neither complained. At least bestrfc had been a little successful. Erebus and Psycho had been sorta, but only sorta, lucky.


Kagemusha was enjoying the lamb at Michael and Vito’s on Baltic near the boardwalk. He’d ordered the chianti and a side of Fava beans to go with the richly marinated lamb. A good bit of pepper for spice and just a hint of garlic – a delight fit for a gourmand, even though this hole-in-the-wall lacked the décor or the service of a top eatery like Felix’s or the Abbatoir.

“What’s up Doc?” said the fellow wearing the Bugs Bunny mask who’d strolled up to Kage’s table.

Kagemusha did not hesitate. With one move he whipped the table up, flipping it into the rabbit and depositing an entire side of linguine marinara onto the fellows gray flannel suit. He also knocked Bugs on his posterior and made a break for the back exit through the kitchen doors.

>hyah-hyah-huh-ha< went the Elmer Fuddesque laugh that greeted Kage’ as he swung open the door of the kitchen. And it really did look like Elmer Fudd, with the old-style hunting outfit and Fudd mask – straight out of the cartoons.

The old-style double-barrelled shotgun was straight out of the Sears catalog. It worked fine though, with both barrels going off in Kage’s face and sending his head – splattered – back into the restaurant.

‘Bugs’ stood up, went over to the still twitching corpse and quickly removed the right shoe, the right sock and then the right big toe of their victim.

“Buduh-buduh-buduh, that’s all folks,” said Elmer –quoting Porky – as the two Warner Brothers made their way out of the restaurant and into the night.


08:59AM, Thursday, 2 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…and that wraps up our list of major recent events. Fatlington has lost a lot of good people this past night.”

Fermanagh took a moment to review his notes.

“We’ve got more post-mortem investigations for you. The Day Four lynchee was a success for us! Major Robert Dump was another wiseguy criminal and while we don’t think he was actively connected with the mafia, we think we are on the right track. Both of the murder victims that night, Ameranth and Lord Winter were both wiseguys as well. We are clearly seeing the death of the criminal element in Fatlington.”

Fermanagh seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as the committee that these events represented a real success.

“Work quickly, the danger is not yet past.”

“Thanks for the…inspiration…Commissioner. I’m sure we are all much readier to face the day with your kind words to spur us on.”

Generalhankerchief had managed to say that last bit with an almost completely straight face – a testimony to his leadership. He then gavel the committee into open session for what would undoubtedly be a long, long day.



OOC

Day Seven, lynch votes and selections, begins:

Phase ends:

Enjoy the weekend. It’s boxes and wall-hangings for me! Take a bit of a break for yourselves.

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.


Attacked = 38: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5), Cahoma (n2), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6, Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), johnhughthom (n4), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 7: edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Lord Brennus (n3), Psychonaut (n6), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4)

Killed = 20: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), J.D. (n6), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched = 6: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Andres, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Camikaze, Cecil XIX, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Drunk Clown, edse, Erebus, Frozen In Ice, fubbleskag, fyremarble, GamezRule, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ibn-Khaldun, Ironside, Issaikhaan, Ishmael, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, johnhughthom, Jolt, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Memnon, Monk, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Renata, Riedquat, Robbiecon, Romanic, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, Sprig, sturmhauke, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, ULC, Visorslash, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk, Zack

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by GeneralHankerchief

I believe this was just an oversight by Seamus.

---

10:14AM, Thursday, 2 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

“…quite correct Mr. Director, and it’s that sorry I am too. With how much the town has grown and all the additional stuff to keep track of, I simply lost my spot and skipped over a bit. My apologies…”

Fermanagh waved a sheet of notepaper around as he moved to the podium. He put the notes down and continued.

“Here is the missing post-mortem stuff. Taillesskangaru and cpdwane were both innocent townies. On the other hand, Master Necromanver was – and I admit I went and checked again to be sure when I saw that I’d missed a notes page, was a Mafia Don – the leader of one of the crime families plaguing us. His accidental death was a boon for Fatlington.

Surprise swept around the room visibly. Generalhankerchief moved back to the podium to re-establish order.

“Thanks Commissioner. Now, in light of this new information….”




OOC

Day Seven, lynch votes and selections, begins:

Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.


Attacked = 38: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5), Cahoma (n2), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6, Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), johnhughthom (n4), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 7: edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Lord Brennus (n3), Psychonaut (n6), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4)

Killed = 20: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), J.D. (n6), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched = 6: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [mafia don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Andres, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Camikaze, Cecil XIX, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Drunk Clown, edse, Erebus, Frozen In Ice, fubbleskag, fyremarble, GamezRule, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ibn-Khaldun, Ironside, Issaikhaan, Ishmael, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, johnhughthom, Jolt, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Memnon, Monk, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Renata, Riedquat, Robbiecon, Romanic, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, Sprig, sturmhauke, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, ULC, Visorslash, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk, Zack

Post #2628 of main thread.

“I could keep on running down
I could keep on cheating death and yet somehow
It all ends up the same
And i don’t want to be the one who’s blamed

Can you see that i don’t really have a choice at all
If only for a taste flight
I’d gladly take the fall"

…Wait Forever
…Gary Valeciano


9:33PM Friday 4 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



It had been a very long Committee session. GH’s re-selection had been the quickest and easiest part of the discussion. Even a week into the newest mafia threat to Fatlington, the sessions all seemed to meld together and get longer, but this one particularly stood out. Some of the more religious seemed to be comparing the meeting's length to when God refused to allow the sun to set so that Joshua may conquer Jericho. Director Hankerchief wouldn't have gone quite that far, but it definitely seemed more apparent that the session was somewhat longer than usual.

As for the content of the session, everything seemed normal until a little bit over halfway through. Then Director Hankerchief, mostly distant from the Committee for the past week, finally came down from high and demanded attention. The confused Committee had no other real option than to give it to him. "Attention everyone," he said, "I have in my hands documented evidence that Askthepizzaguy is in fact a mafioso." The Director paused, thumping a large stack of papers down on the table while he waited for the Committee to make its inevitable audible gasp. "Not only that - *thump* - but he's crafting a multi-family alliance." Another gasp. "Not only that, but he's planning to betray those families and rule Fatlington personally as Capo di Tutti Capi." Still another gasp. "Not only that, but even if you don't believe all that then you can't disbelieve *more* evidence that says he's in league with the Mafia Commission itself!" Another thump, followed by the loudest gasp of all – and by a cascade of shouted votes calling for pizza’s death.

Everyone turned to Pizzaguy, who rose from his chair, smiling sadly. After about ten seconds' worth of silence, he smiled. "You are mistaken Director," he said, "My death would be a grave mistake for the future of Fatlington. If you strike me down, I would become more powerful than you can possibly imagine. I beg you all to reconsider."

“The committee has spoken,” said Hankerchief, “I am but their servant.”

As GH gestured to his guard and his amazons to take charge of Askthepizzaguy, a weedy-looking man burst into the ballroom and shouted at the assembled committee.

“Stop! I have a special missive from the governor. You are directed NOT to lynch Askthepizzaguy, but to call the session to a close.”

The committee sat back in their chairs, stunned. Director GH waved the little gnome of a man forward and grabbed the message the little fellow held in his hands. He read it and re-read it, shaking his head slowly.

“It would seem that this is in order. Someone on the committee – unnamed here – has prevailed upon our Governor to issue a stay of any execution of Askthepizzaguy today. It bears the governors signature and seal, and has the coded phrases necessary for this day as left for me in the director’s notes. I have no choice but to conclude today’s session without lynching anyone, as our chosen candidate’s death has been annulled.”

“Excellent. This obviates you all of a sad mistake,” said Pizza, “now if you will kindly excuse me I have a show to broadcast. I feel….inspired.”

One sharp and…petulant?...rap of the gavel by GH later and the session was closed. Another night had come to Fatlington.



OOC

Orders (active and passive separate please) for Night 6 are due no later than:
.

Lynch Vote Tally: NO LYNCH OCCURRED

ATPG:31 (believer, memnon, sturmhauke, fluffyone, autolycus, Bray, TS, Zack, Populus, gibsonsg, woad, craterus, scienter, landlubber, scottishranger, sasaki, lewwyn, issaikhan, sprig, nightbringer, CR, cahoma, jarema, diana, DIY, nictel, Ironside, riedquat, autolycus, clitsome, johhog)

AggonyKing: 10 (kennigit, diamondeye, OTLD, chaotix, andres, herodiclassico, fyremarble, robbiecon, daveshack, ULC)

Landlubber: 5 (Renata, Neri, beskar, Choxorn, whiteeyes)

Chaotix: 4 (peasantphill, GamezRule, CecilXIX, edse)

Sigurd: 4 (fubbleskag, shlin28, guiri, gnarlycharlie)

Diamondeye: 2 (Frozen in Ice, XehhII)

Shlin28: 1 (Askthepizzaguy)
sturmhauke: 1 (seon)
fluffyone: 1 (secura)

Present: 2 (Camikaze, LazyMcCrow)

Abstain: 6 (Ibn-Khaldun, BSmith, billmc, monk, visorslash, skotsko)

Dead but voting: 1 (ByzantineKnight)

Selection Tally

GH = many (wins one more term)

Fluffy/The Stranger = some

Hi everyone,

We're very sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, Seamus is no longer able to host Capo for the time being, and after some discussion it has been decided that issaikhaan and I are going to step in and take over as cohosts. As you can imagine, there is a bit of housekeeping to do and it's going to take some time to go over everything.

issaikhaan will be replaced by Zim.
GeneralHankerchief will be replaced by Captain Blackadder.
We have already sent orientation PMs to both players, for those who are worried about how this change is going to affect relations.

As for the game:
We will be resuming play on Monday, October 10th at 17:00 US Eastern time.
All night orders are locked in, do not resend orders or change them. They will not be accepted.
Anyone who wishes to PM us with a summary of your activities up to this point may do so. This is optional.

We're all going to have to chip in if we want to make this work. Let's continue the great game so far and see you all on Monday. :bow:

Post #2830 of main thread.

"And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street
And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose, but he gets blown right off his feet
And some kid comes blastin' 'round the corner, but a cop puts him right away
He lays on the street holding his leg, screaming something in Spanish, still breathing when I walked away
And somebody said, "Hey man, did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud"
I wonder what the dude was sayin', or was he just lost in the flood?
Hey man, did you see that, those poor cats are sure messed up
I wonder what they were gettin' into, or were they just lost in the flood?"
...Lost In The Flood
...Bruce Springsteen


Seventh Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Cecil XIX stood with his back to the wall of an old brick building, scuffing his foot on the ground. He was looking down the poorly lit alley. It was as he was pondering the improbability of the day’s events when he noticed a pair of folks approaching him. Raising an eyebrow, he started to slink the other direction.

A loud bang signified the shot that went through the back of his knee, sending Cecil staggering to the ground. The two walked up to the struggling Cecil, grinning. The one on the left, still holding a handgun, pointed it at point blank range at Cecil’s head. With the second gunshot, Cecil’s struggle came to an end in a bloody mess. The gunmen on the left flipped Cecil over, and left a silver half-dollar atop each eye, before joining the partner in stalking back into the night.


Looking back, Choxorn realized that in spite of everything, he was lucky to be alive.

He had been driving home when all of a sudden, a car veered in behind him, its engine roaring. Before Choxorn could do anything, his rear right tire had been shot out. He swerved around wildly, trying to both keep control of the car and maintain speed. Obviously, this never had a chance at working, and Choxorn finally lost control… right into the petrol station.

The two figures in the other car looked at each other, the passenger gripping a silver knife he intended to leave at the scene. They then saw Choxorn’s car get closer and closer to the pumps, its fuel starting to leak.

“Get out?” one asked.

“Not worth the risk,” the other replied, and the two drove off.

Meanwhile, Choxorn knew what was about to happen. He managed to force his car’s door open and started crawling away as fast as he could, ignoring his bleeding leg. He used the minute and a half before the station ignited wisely, clearing the blast radius. When all of the debris hit all of the ground, Choxorn finally laid down on the ground and waited for the ambulance to arrive and take him to Mercy. He was happy to make that trade.


For Jolt there would be no such miracles.His sat in his car, idling at a traffic light that had long-since turned back to green, deciding where to best spend the night. In the end, he never made the decision. It would all turn out the same anyways. Jolt was feeling the symptoms of a condition that was quickly becoming known as “Fatlington Malaise”: The loss of hope.

A car horn from behind him broke Jolt’s haze. Evidently it was an annoyed driver who was tired of waiting at the green light. Jolt rolled open his window and motioned for the driver to go around him, too distracted to care. The other driver did so, but stopped as his car was right alongside Jolt, who realized all too late what was about to happen. "They really need a faster way to roll these windows back up."

The passenger in the other car quickly uncorked three grenades, one right after another, and tossed them all into Jolt’s car before his driver sped off. Even if Jolt was able to get one out of his car, he never had a chance with the other two. The concentrated blast blew his vehicle apart from the inside. One of the largest fragments from the scene was actually a picture of Alaska, with the words “Seward’s Folly” scrawled in the outline.


Visorslash drove past an abandoned warehouse, taking a sharp right around the corner. As the vehicle whipped around the corner, the car shook violently and began to struggle along the ground. He pulled it up to the curb, cursing his luck to have a tire blow out. He stepped out, barely containing his rage. A lone man in a trench coat was standing on the street edge, hat tipped down.

“Seems you’ve a flat,” he pointed out. Visorslash scowled at how obvious the statement was. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said, pulling a knife from his coat in his left hand. Alarmed, Visorslash wheeled backwards. With a smirk, the man in the trench coat quickly pulled a pistol from his trench coat, and scored a direct shot in Visorslash’s chest. He bent down to Visorslash, who lay struggling in his own blood. “You’ve got too much ragged tire,” he said, sliding a finger along the knife. “You need to cut the bad rubber from the rest. Then, you can get to the real work.” He grazed the knife along Visorslash’s neck. “Here, let me show you what I mean….”


Dcmort’s house was built to well beyond general Fatlington standards. Standards generally didn’t concern themselves with warfare. But woe is the unprepared, he thought. With Fatlington’s “rich” history, he had its walls well-fortified above specification.
He was sitting on his doorstep, perusing an old newspaper when a vehicle pulled up the street. Sensing imminent danger, he immediately scrambled to open the door. Five tommy guns peeked out a window, spraying across the front. Dcmort was in the doorway and attempting to roll behind a wall when several bullets struck his right shoulder. Despite the impressive wound, Dcmort managed to flop behind the wall, and slammed the door shut. He immediately barred the door shut, and lumbered over to the phone. With a quick dial, the ambulance was soon on its way...


Diamondeye’s ex-wife had always told him his smoking habit would be his downfall. Whether it would be from the coughing or from financial stress, she’d say, it would finish him. So, even as he found himself backed against a wall, with three menacing gunmen patiently approaching for a good shot, he couldn’t help but grin that, one more time, she’d be proven wrong.

He took the largest huff he had ever taken in a long career of smoking and blew it all at once, the cloud being just enough to obstruct his attackers' visions long enough for Diamondeye to drop to the ground, unnoticed. From there he winged his lighter at one of his attackers' legs - success. One of them yelped in pain, jumping up and down as the other two completely dropped their focus to see what was the matter. Diamondeye used that confusion to scamper away, and when all was said and done he was too far gone for the attackers to hit. They had blown their chance.

"I do miss my lighter though," he ruminated afterwards.


Meanwhile, across town, Johnhughtom was driving like a madman as he attempted to avoid a pursuing vehicle, from which periodic gunfire was sprayed. He took a sharp left at the last moment in a four way intersection, and saw the other vehicle whiz by. But a stray bullet found its target in John’s rear left tire, and his high speed caused him to spin out of control, the car flipping onto its side.
John was smashed into the windshield, and found a shard of glass embedded in his right arm. But somehow, he had retained his coherence, and slowly crawled out. As he dislodged himself from the vehicle, arm bleeding profusely, he found himself confronted with another car staring him down. Two men emerged from the two front doors, each holding a tommie gun in their hands. John didn’t stand a chance as the two opened fire on him in the open street. One stepped up to his bullet-ridden corpse, and, producing a knife, removed first John's shoe, then his sock, and then one big toe.


What better way to end a strange day than going to the bar. It was never short of weird happenings and strange people. That was the thought process Hero Di Classico took, anyways. He ordered another round and slapped his money on the table. The man next to him seemed to be in an irate mood, as he continually badgered everyone who came by with every petty grievance he could think of. As his drink was served, the belligerent man glared over. “Who gave you the right to order that drink!” he yelled. “That… that’s my drink. Hear that?!”

Over the yelling, neither heard the door open to two folks clad in trench coats. They peered each way before finally settling on Hero, sitting in the middle of the bar. They each reached inside their coats. “Fine! Have it that way!” They saw the belligerent man take a swing at Hero, who was sent sprawling across the floor. A small gaggle of other drunken bar-goers immediately jumped into the fray, some attacking the belligerent man, others going for Hero, others having no direction at all, but only needing an excuse for a brawl. In the chaos, the two folks attempted to wheel their way around the brawl, but missed seeing Hero crawl his way out of the pile and out the side door. Hero didn’t even realize how lucky his black eye was.


Drunk Clown was resting for the moment in front of a small apartment complex. He was unsurprised to see two cloaked people approach from down the street to his left, and another to his right. He extinguished his old cigarette on the cement and pulled a new one out, holding it in his right hand. He stood up and turned to face the two. His terse face hid his nervousness. The two stopped ten feet away, with the third further back on the other side. Drunk Clown reached inside his coat pocket for his lighter. In a flash, the group of two cloak-clad folks reached for their handguns, and delivered several rounds into Drunk Clown, who fell backwards before the third, who shrugged and jaunted off, satisfied at the result.


The two examined the body for a second, and checked the pocket. “He was just reaching for a lighter…” one remarked with a slight grin. He reached inside his own coat pocket, and fished out two silver half-dollars, dated 1951. He placed on each eye, and the two left the silver-eyed Drunk Clown behind on the pavement.


Camikaze was drifting through the streets aimlessly for the night. The clear sky made for decent stargazing, despite the lights of Fatlington intruding. He didn’t the person lurking in the alley. A shot fired in the dark. Camikaze startled out of his spell as a bullet whizzed overhead, and he sprinted farther down the street. The lone gunmen waited, waiting for another gunmen who never showed….


Romanic, having finished his nightcap in the Hotel Abbatoir, was found alone on the boardwalk, arms folded, staring out at the ocean. It was long-since past tourist season in Fatlington and the weather was starting to get cold and windy, but this suited Romanic fine. It drove the other people away. He had more time to reflect, to take it all in.

Two men stepped beside him. Fatlington being Fatlington, he knew that they weren’t also seeking to get away. Their loud, brutish, and somehow still-in-time footsteps betrayed that. Romanic knew he had one chance. Without a word, he vaulted over the boardwalk’s guardrails and landed onto the small dunes below.

There was only one chance to do something – roll away, or attack? He had always tended towards “fight” over “flight”. Gripping a large amount of sand, he righted himself and threw it as hard as he could at his two attackers, who were now leaning over the guardrail, hoping to blind them.

Unfortunately, it was Fatlington in November, and the weather was starting to get cold… and windy. The sand never made it before it got blown away. Romanic’s two intended targets looked at each other and grinned.

Despite all of the wind on the beach, a picture of Alaska was found besides Romanic’s corpse. The legend “Seward’s Folly” was scrawled across it.


Zack had started his car up after the day’s events, and drove down the beach-side street, enjoying the view. He kept it at a fairly leisurely pace, until another car came up beside. Several tommie guns sprayed into his car, but he floored the pedal to top speed. He blew past the other car, and took a hard left, weaving in and around corners. It seemed the other car had not given chase, busy dealing with still another car that appeared that had two people inside intent on ramming it as much as possible. By the time the attackers shook *that* car off, Zack was long gone. Zack groaned in pain from a stray bullets in his right calf and shoulder, but it could've been far worse. He sped away as fast as he could towards the hospital, praying he didn't pass out before he got there.


09:01AM, Thursday, 5 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“….Which wraps up our discussion on last night,” Commissioner Fermanagh finished. “Now, onto the post-mortem results.”


Fermanagh took a moment to re-organize his notes.


“It seems we had great success with our lynch! We discovered evidence that Ishmael was helping organize a cell of communists trying to overthrow Fatlington! His death will surely be a great blow to their efforts. As well, it seems that Bow-wow-wow was a very ordinary, innocent person. Similarly, Slysnake and Lord Brennus were innocent.


Fermanagh scowled for a moment as he continued down his notes.


“Unfortunately, we discovered Suburban Plankton to have been one of Fatlington’s investigators trying to help us uproot the mafia menace. We can’t keep losing our best and brightest if we’re to topple the threats against us!”


With a short sigh, Fermanagh welcomed Captain Blackadder to the podium, indicating that the time for lynch was at hand.


OOC

Day Eight, lynch votes and selections, begins:

Phase ends:


Thanks for the patience, everyone. We'll do our best so you can too. Good luck, and thanks once again for bearing with us. Results will be out as soon as we can.

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.


Attacked = 41: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), johnhughthom (n4), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 10: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Lord Brennus (n3), Psychonaut (n6), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 26: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), Romanic (n7) slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7)Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched = 6: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Andres, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Camikaze, Captain Blackadder, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, edse, Erebus, Frozen In Ice, fubbleskag, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ibn-Khaldun, Ironside, Ishmael, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Memnon, Monk, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Renata, Riedquat, Robbiecon, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, Sprig, sturmhauke, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, ULC, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk, Zack, Zim

Post #3012 of main thread.

Please send your orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to issaikhaan.

"Drove back to town this morning with working on my mind
I thought of maybe quitting
thought of leaving it behind
went back to bed this morning
and as I'm pulling down the blind
the sky was dull and hypothetical
and falling one cloud at a time

That night in Toronto with its checkerboard floors
riding on horseback and keeping order restored
til the men they couldn't hang
stepped to the mic and sang
and their voices rang with that Aryan twang"

...Bobcaygeon
...Tragically Hip

8:19PM Saturday 5 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

It had been a very hectic Committee selection, most of it probably due to the fallout from the previous day's meeting. Askthepizzaguy, hamming it up for all the world to see, had essentially proclaimed his guilt and made references to odd things that reminded many Fatlings of the old Flash Gordon serials with a bit of mysticism thrown in. Somehow he had gotten his way out of a lynch due to some legal trickery, and exited the ballroom that evening with an air of supreme confidence.

The following day, he was as confident as ever. Clearly having made some telephone calls the night before, it seemed for a while that landlubber would be the target instead, but a late surge in voting had actually tied the two up. Pizza, for his part, was starting to look around nervously. They were cutting things close, time was running out, he adjusted his tie...

"Fermanagh," Director Blackadder called out to the police commissioner, "If you wouldn't mind escorting Pizza, landlubber, and myself down to Club 30 in your car. The closed-circuit cameras are still set up, yes?

"I believe they are," the Commissioner replied. Blackadder nodded and grabbed both "candidates" by the wrist. Exhibiting surprisingly strong grip, Blackadder summarily dragged the two out of the room, out of the Convention Center, out on the street, and into Fermanagh's cop car where they all drove off and left the rest of the Committee with nothing to do but wait.

"He's never going to do it," one member said, breaking the silence. "Pizza's lawyer is probably already enjoying a drink at the Club anyway."

"Yeah," somebody else replied. "Besides, Blackadder's in bed with landlubber anyway. After all this, he'll probably just get his fellow scumbuddy off and the two will have a big laugh at our expense." Needless to say, the mood in the ballroom was glum.

Interlude -- The Streets of Fatlington

Both perps sitting in the back seat of Fermanagh's cruiser were nervous, although they showed it in certain ways. Pizza had mostly clamped down on the hamminess, instead visibly starting to sweat and glancing around for another car every two seconds or so. Clearly he had not given up on a last-second pardon. lubber, on the other hand, had put on a facade of acceptance, trying to make small talk with the other people in the car to no avail. However, in a moment of silence, he pounded his fist on the window in frustration at his predicament.

The Director, for his part, was changing into what appeared to be a World War I-era British officer's uniform. Certainly not typical Club 30 fare, but after all, he was Director. Reenk would have to let it pass. Besides, his business inside the establishment would not take long.

8:40PM -- The Executive Meeting Room

Back at the Convention Center, the closed-circuit televisions had all been set up and the Committee members gathered around to watch what was currently a normal night in the Club. There was a view of the bar, where Reenk was serving his customarily-stylish drinks, another one of the dance floor, where there was *not* a masquerade going on this time, another one of oddly enough the bathroom where, had the televisions been of futuristic quality, one may have seen the hint of old bloodstains.

The Committee members watching the television that gave them a view of the club's entrance shouted over at everybody else; three new figures had walked in and were heading over to the bar. It was very obvious that the three were Blackadder, still dragging Pizzaguy and landlubber behind him. Oddly enough, at that moment a very strange tune began playing through the television's speakers.

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They all watched as Blackadder took a seat at one of the stools, smartly propping up his two perps in the stools alongside his. Reenk, tending bar, came over to them, looked at all three of them quizzically, and then just shrugged. What could you do, honestly?

"One ale and two specials, please," the Director said, and everybody on the Committee waited. landlubber was staring off vacantly into space, looking vaguely angry about his entire situation. Askthepizzaguy was still looking around the club, hoping to find a certain person he knew dancing.

"One ale and two specials," said Reenk, back with the drinks. "You'll be quick about it?" The Director nodded. "Good. It's Ladies' Night here at the club and... well... to be frank you're scaring them away."

Blackadder nodded, pushing the 'specials' in reaching range of Pizza and lubber, who looked as if the very last thing they wanted to do in the world right now was take a drink of what was inside. "Don't worry," said the Director, "it's simply a very strong drink. You'll want the edge off, trust me."

That was good enough for lubber. He finished his in one large gulp and felt woozy instantly. Right before he passed out for good, he heard the Director's voice, coming from far away now and yet still coming through clearly:

"Lubber you fool, your brain is like the four-headed man-eating haddock-fish-beast of Aberdeen."

"In what way?" lubber managed to mumble.

"It doesn't exist." Back at the Convention Center, everybody watching swore they heard a laugh track as lubber slumped to the ground.

Next up was Pizza. "Jig's up, mate," everyone at the Convention center heard Blackadder saying through the television. "Nobody's coming to save you. So why don't you just finish it now instead of dragging it out?" Pizza, defeated, looked around for one final time...

...and then on one of the other televisions somebody gave a shout. A familiar-looking man waving around a piece of paper had just entered Club 30. Everybody groaned. They all knew what happened next.


OOC:

Orders for Night 8 are due no later than:


Please send your orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to issaikhaan.

Lynch vote tally:

Askthepizzaguy: 18 (Cahoma, Riedquat, Phill, shlin, edse, Double A, Andres, Erebus, Kennigit, Frozen, ATPG, Craterus, Clitsome, Renata, DiY, Winston, Backwards, Niklas)

landlubber: 18 (God Emperor, gibson, sturmhauke, Seon, Ironside, Neri, GamezRule, LazyMcCrow, guiri, Ibn-Khaldun, autolycus, Sasaki, SisterCoyote, Believer, gnarleycharlie, Johhog, hero, fluffy) :skull:

Riedquat: 8 (lubber, CR, Scienter, White_eyes, Diana, woad, DaveShack, Yaro)

sturmhauke: 4 (Sigurd, Chaotix, OTLD, Jarema)

Present: 1 (Zim*)
*post not bolded

Okay, due to the large amounts of difficulties we've had with the previous night's feedback PMs, I'm forced to extend the round until we get these in order. The new timer is as follows:



If you are waiting on a PM, please tell me exactly what you are expecting and anything else that may be of help to us.

We apologize for the delays and thank you for your continued patience. The game should progress a lot smoother after this night phase is ended.

Post #3062 of main thread.

"And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood."

...I'm Explaining A Few Things
...Pablo Neruda


Eighth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

fubbleskag never saw the end coming. He was walking down a side street, paranoid enough - you never survived long in Fatlington if you weren't, that was a rule - but he never expected the attack to come from THIS angle. Mafiosi, scum of the earth that they were, were at least supposed to have standards. That's what set them apart from the small-time gangsters, as it were. They had a code, things they would never stoop to do. Apparently ruining one's suit in the name of a kill was not one of these things.

As fubbleskag walked down the side street, a man watching from a nearby window signaled his partner by dropping a small rock onto the lid of a trashcan located directly below him. The can's lid lifted by a few inches, held in place by a head. The figure inside the trashcan paused, sighted his target, and then silently drew his silenced gun, firing it thrice. fubbleskag never saw it coming.

Upon examining his target, the attacker placed two Franklin silver half-dollars over fubbleskag's eyes, muttering that he would rather have saved the coins and taken his ruined suit to the cleaners. He then tipped his hat - the "all clear" signal to his partner at the window - and vacated the scene.


sturmhauke's attackers exhibited no such subtlety. They found their target drinking from one of the town's seedier bars - sturmhauke decided to stop frequenting the Hotel Abbatoir and Club 30 after so many incidents had happened there - and immediately zoned in, drawing their guns and preparing to open fire.

sturmhauke was taken by surprise, as were many patrons of the bar, but one such person was not. Seeing the entire thing as it was happening, he quickly stood up, splashed his drink in one of the attacker's faces, and threw his now-empty glass as hard as he could at the other. It was a hit, and Attacker Number Two went down, howling in pain. He was bleeding in a couple of different parts of his face.

Upon recovering, Attacker Number One saw his partner's predicament, and had a choice to make: finish the assignment, or tend to his partner. Another moan from Attacker Number Two made the decision for him. Cursing, Attacker Number One picked his partner up and left the bar, leaving a very befuddled sturmhauke to buy his savior a drink. Nobody noticed the picture of Alaska with the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled inside the outline the attackers had left behind in their hasty retreat.


Scienter was at her favorite wine bar, sipping on her usual vintage, trying to get to that preferred, happy place where she was liquored up enough to forget the fact that she was very likely to die soon, but still sober enough to be observant of her surroundings and enjoy the taste of her wine. The patrons seemed like regulars, she had recognized all of them there before - save by one shadowy figure lurking in the corner. Smoking a cigarette, tossing a 1951 half-dollar in the air, and not even pretending to drink his wine. Scienter knew a Philistine when she saw one. It was time to hightail it out of there.

She made her way to the bar's exit, walking very quickly, when soon she realized the trap. Somebody was of course waiting for her out front, ready to gun her down. It was a textbook trap play, but Scienter had no other choice but to go out. The man in the corner was now pursuing her, his "disguise" no longer needed.

Sighing, Scienter opened the door, fully ready to face death... and saw nothing. Shrieking with more shock than joy, she ran as fast as she could, out of sight. She found herself very much more sober now than she had been one minute ago.


Riedquat found himself in a similar circumstance. He had stumbled upon Fatlington's only all-night fashion boutique, as he was shopping for new stylish winter clothes to make an impression at the Committee meetings. The selections there were quite good if not a bit light - not much you could do with black and grey trenchcoats and hats. Nevertheless, Riedquat found a few items he liked, and went to the fitting rooms to try them on.

Upon entering, he noticed that the fitting rooms, which had several separate changing areas, had three of them occupied. Immediately suspicious, he braced himself against the wall next to one of the occupied the doors and pushed it open, immediately scurrying for cover into one of the empty rooms. Sure enough, a burst of machine-gun fire erupted from the door he had opened, followed by some movement and murmured conversation.

"You get him?" came a voice.

"Nah," said a closer one, "might just have been a breeze. Guess I've got an itchy trigger finger today."

"Well, don't let the whole store know," came a third. "Come on, let's set back up and wait for him to come in."

Petrified, Riedquat spent the rest of the night in his changing area, not making a sound until he heard the other three leave.


Scienter had finally stopped running, pausing to catch her breath. Blind adrenaline had overtaken her until now, and in truth she had no idea where she was right now. It looked like an alley, but Fatlington had too many of those anyway and this one was completely unmarked. Prime killing grounds, in other words.

Already having survived one brush with death this night, Scienter decided to take no chances and hightailed it out of the alley, doubling over so as not to further aggravate the stitch in her sides. A hail of gunfire met her as soon as she emerged from the alley, but it missed high - the stitch had saved her life. Cursing, her attacker reloaded and prepared to fire again - where was his partner?! - but Scienter had decided it was time to improvise, diving into a nearby parked car and hotwiring it to get engine access.

As her attacker heard the engine roar and watched the car drive out of sight, he swore softly to himself. There was supposed to be a follow-up. Would he ever be able to use his King of Hearts?


Khazaar was also the beneficiary of a lack of coordination this night - a common theme, it seemed.

He decided to spend his evening on the boardwalk, an activity that a diminishing few Fatlings took part in these days thanks to the change in the weather. However, there was one other person besides him that still was out, defying the elements and enjoying arguably the best part about living on the Jersey Shore.

Luckily for Khazaar, it was a clear night out, and the moonlight reflected off of two things on the other guy's person. One looked like a coin, right about the size of a new half-dollar. The other was unmistakably a gun. Glancing around, Khazaar looked behind him and saw no one. The other person was two far away. He ran off, the would-be attacker not even bothering to give chase, instead softly cursing.


Even when there seemed to be a large group of people in on the attack, it was still not enough, as robbiecon was to thankfully learn.

He was walking down from the street when gunfire seemed to erupt from every quadrant: above him, directly in front of him, and to both sides. Robbie was sure he was a dead man. All possible lines of escape seemed to be cut off, and there were four people closing in on him. But then survival instincts took over, and he saw something that might provide salvation: a manhole cover.

Rushing forward, ignoring the fresh outburst of gunfire, he threw the cover off and dove down into the hole, leaving the attacker who had been directly in front of him to swear and throw his gun down in fury. "Who was supposed to get him from below??!?!"

Nobody quite had an answer to that.


Monk had decided to take a very long and very gas-wasting drive around Fatlington. Figuring that it was more difficult to be killed while moving, Monk had trusted in the safety of his car. Big mistake.

It was dark out, and this one section of road was not very-well lit. Monk, as driving, did not see the row of spikes laid out on the road specifically for him and his car - and, of course, the 1951 Franklin silver half-dollar that accompanied the spikes, but this would not do any damage - until both sets of tires had rolled over them, completely blowing them out. Monk's first thought was something along the lines of "of all the rotten luck" - then he saw a car speeding towards him in the opposite direction, and his thinking changed. He was a sitting duck.

Thinking quickly, probably before his stupid brain took over and told him how ridiculous of an idea this way, Monk got out of his car and stood right in the other car's path. The driver of the car was not able to resist this and revved up the speed, telling his partner not to fire, that it was more fun this way. Monk leaped, but still took a direct hit and his body tumbled over the other car's hood, broken in more than a few places. The other car, meanwhile, hit the spikes and started swerving into a building.

Monk, unable to move in pain, noted with a pleasure that the ambulance sirens were coming from the direction nearest him. He would get to Mercy first.


In a nearby alley, Camikaze had just entered, coming from another bar. He found facing him a man dressed in a trenchcoat, smoking. His face was shrouded in darkness. Camikaze didn't like this. Immediately trying to get back into the bar, he found the door was one-way only. Uh-oh.

"Hello, Camikaze. It's been quite a while, hasn't it? Since that time in Baltimore, actually."

He turned around and saw that a second figure had joined the first, speaking one. Although not wearing a trenchcoat, this one was taller and more well-built. His face was also shrouded in darkness. This was looking worse and worse. The first one saw the expression on Camikaze's face and smirked.

"Ah, you remember my old friend, don't you? I know he remembers you. You know why we're here, right?" Camikaze, unsure of how to answer, at first played dumb, but then decided that wasn't the best idea. Overall his impression conveyed intense anxiety, but not much else. The first one laughed. "Good, because you now we couldn't forget."

He whipped out a gun and fired several shots at Camikaze, but they had all hit armor. This was Fatlington, after all. Camikaze, losing wind, staggered a few steps back, but he was otherwise unhurt. Meanwhile the alley door had opened again, a man poking his head out and looked ready for trouble. "Everything all right?" he said in a threatening voice, but then he noticed both attackers, one of them with guns drawn, the other one taking large strides to set up behind Camikaze Without a word he stuck his head back into the bar, slamming the alley door. Camikaze was too stunned to try to follow.

Meanwhile, the first one held his gun steady, aiming for Camikaze's head. Just as he was about to fire, though, a sharp blade appeared through Camikaze's neck - Camikaze had been stabbed clean through from the back by the second one.

"Ah, good timing as ever, my friend." The second one looked at Camikaze's corpse questioningly. "No, just leave it, though that's better than he deserved. Now, let me see..." At this, the first one took out a list and crossed out the first of a long group of names. They walked off, this time both of them silent, their faces eternally hidden in darkness even as they passed in and out of shadow.


guiri noticed the chill in the air with disdain. Say what you want about Fatlington in the summer, but these November nighttime winds made for a whole different breed of town right now.

"It could be a lot worse," one figure said suddenly, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere next to guiri. "You could be in Alaska."

"Yeah," said another one, "Seward's Folly ain't no picnic in November, that's for sure. 'Specially up north, 'round Barrow - that's where Will Rogers died, you know."

"Poor man," the first one said, and without further ado they opened fire on guiri a few times before leaving the scene. guiri, however, was not quite dead, lying on the ground and watching the blood slowly spill out from his wounds. None of his major organs had been hit, and had it been warmer out - say, Fatlington in the summertime - he probably would have died from blood loss. However, the cooler temperatures of a windy November night managed to slow down his bloodflow long enough for the ambulance to take him to Mercy and give him an emergency transfer. He would be spending some time there.


Sometime later, a third figure met up with guiri's attackers. "Did you kill him?" he asked.

"Yeah, we got him. Gave him the whole 'Seward's Folly' routine, even managed to throw in a reference to Will Rogers and Barrow. He's a dead duck."

"Works for me," the lone man said. "Partner never showed up. Guess I've got the night off." All three parted ways amicably.


Memnon was in big trouble. Unlike a good amount of his Committee peers, he was the victim of a coordinated attack and experiencing its power firsthand. He had been ambushed just as he was about to open his house's front door, the gunfire coming from the rhododendrons he meticulously kept, and now found himself fleeing for his life.

Looking for cover, Memnon found nothing, and cursed. Why oh why had he kept such a wonderfully-manicured lawn, insisting that no trees grow to spoil the symmetry of things? It turned out that, after all of this, gardening would be a fatal hobby after all. And his wife had discouraged him from rock climbing, too. Oh, the irony of it all.

His thoughts meandering, Memnon spent his last moments like this until a bullet tore through his brain. Afterwards, two figures walked up to him, obliged with the customary 1951 half-dollars over his eyes, and then one of them made the comment.

"Well, at least he'll make for good fertilizer."


robbiecon thought he was safe in Fatlington's sewers. Dirty, perhaps, smelly, oh God yes, but safe too, and that's what mattered. He thought wrong.

He continued inching along, trying not to go too far into the muck, when he heard the voice. "Hi."

"You have GOT to be kidding m-" robbie tried to say, but then was cut off by a hail of gunfire. This time there would be no escaping. He dropped to the ground, his blood slowly adding to the refuse.

Another figure stepped out of the shadows, regarding his partner oddly. "And I thought you were going to start monologuing, too."

"Nah," said the first, "thought better of it when I realized how bad it smelled down here. C'mon, let's take his toe and get out of there." And they did.


Though robbiecon was in a very bad situation by the end of his night, Frozen in Ice's predicament was even worse. Yes, the smell was better, but not by much, and he was tied up in a chair with no clue as to the purpose. And then he saw his tormentor, and his weapon, and screamed.

"Oh hush," said the man, "I haven't even started yet. You know, when this knife" - he produced a blade that was oddly colored red, and this was BEFORE the blood - "starts entering you bit by bit, you'll probably feel ashamed of yourself for having reacted so spectacularly to the preliminaries. Save some for the actual performance!" This piece of advice went unheeded as Frozen merely continued screaming.

"Wow, way to spoil the act," the knife-wielder went on, regarding Frozen with something that resembled disappointment. "It's not even 'Death by a Thousand Cuts', you know, that bit is mostly apocryphal. They usually died after about 12 or 13 cuts." Frozen continued screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Oh for heaven's sake," the attacker went, fed up with the noise, "Fine. I'll get it over with." And he did, plunging his red blade into Frozen's neck.


Andres was a classy guy. He enjoyed the classy life, and this included classy drinks at Fatlington's classiest establishment: The Hotel Abbatoir. Frequented by Committee members for over a decade now, this town landmark still managed to wrangle free of a "cursed" reputation despite the number of murders that had occurred here during the mafia incursions. In comparison, Club 30 was far more warily looked-upon despite coming onto the scene much later and having far fewer deaths take place there.

The Abbatoir probably survived because of its classy reputation, and because most of its clientele were people like Andres: men of good taste who could easily identify interlopers. And right now he was seeing two of them at a table nearby. Andres took another sip of his drink. It was probable that he was their target. He needed to think this through. He would have to escape while still maintaining an air of dignity, after all, it's what set him apart f-

*BANG!*

What Andres failed to take into account was the fact that, his attackers *not* being classy, they had no such reservations about causing a scene. Andres slumped onto the floor, dead before he could pass judgment about the calling card his killers left at the scene: a King of Hearts.


Askthepizzaguy was walking down one of Fatlington's main thoroughfares, supremely confident. He had shed his pizza delivery vehicle, he had twice defied the will of the Committee of Vigilance and lived to tell the tale thanks to some timely legal protection, and he was preparing to move into the Director's office the next day after he inevitably won his election. Life was looking good for him.

He heard a noise behind him, nothing unusual, but there was something different about this one. Instead of the roar of an engine, it sounded more like... *clop clop clop*? Puzzled, before he could goggle at the scene, some instinct took over and he ducked, causing his attacker wielding whatever melee weapon he had used to miss.

Pizza looked back up, and saw a very odd sight: it was a mounted figure, riding away, not even bothering to turn around for another shot, wielding what looked like a pair of bolas.

>>>He used something designed to capture animals by the legs to try to kill me? Okay then...<<<

Completely puzzled, ATPG decided to take this as a good omen and kept walking.


Ibn-Khaldun really wanted to see a show. He was tired of drinking, and needed something to take his minds off the town's predicament. But alas, it was Fatlington in November. No show was going to play in a seasonal town that was out-of-season... and any that did were not worth seeing. So he was back at the bar, slowly drinking his night and life away.

But finally, some drama! The establishment's main window shattered as a man came crashing through it - swinging, oddly enough, on a rope! - and this was immediately followed by the man's screaming in pain. He got up to dust the numerous shards of glass off his already-rumpled suit, and then regard Ibn-Khaldun for a moment.

"Christ! So swinging through a window hurts! Who knew?"

Whether this line was an attempt to completely distract Ibn-Khaldun from everything else going on or was just honest conversation (it was a 50/50 proposition with a man who had just swung through a glass window), it served its purpose, as Ibn-Khaldun was summarily gunned down from two other barroom patrons who had been there the entire time.

The man who had swung in tipped his slightly-bloodstained cap in a gesture of appreciation, and together the three of them removed Ibn-Khaldun's toe and walked out, this time through the front door.


09:02AM, Friday, 6 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

Despite the numerous failed murrder attempts that went on, Commissioner Fermanagh still looked grim - and a little tipsy - as he finished up the day's report to the Committee. "And now, the post-mortem results," he said. Everyone leaned in a little closer.

"As for your lynch, it was a middling choice. Montmorency had done some minor criminal wetwork and was almost certainly not an upstanding figure, but he was not reported to have done any work with the families before his death. At the very least this deprives them of another potential recruit." He eyed several members of the Committee with suspicion.

"As for the kills, it seems as if Montmorency had some company. J.D., Nictel, and Raskolnikov were all of similar ilk, and ByzantineKnight seemed to be nothing more than an innocent townie who was caught up in all of this. It's almost as if the families were unifying first." Fermanagh pondered glowering, then decided it was best if he just took another drink.

Captain Blackadder then took the podium and began the day's voting, reminding everybody that another Director selection was on the agenda as well.


OOC:

Day Nine begins. You are voting and selecting a Director.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out soon. I am taking a break first, I will get them done before I go to sleep tonight. If you are expecting a promotion PLEASE PM me after your feedback PM has been sent.

Attacked = 47: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), guiri (n8), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), johnhughthom (n4), Khazaar (n8), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), Scienter (n8 x2), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), sturmhauke (n8), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 12: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), guiri (n8), Lord Brennus (n3), Monk (n8), Psychonaut (n6), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 33: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Andres (n8), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Camikaze (n8), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Frozen in Ice (n8), fubbleskag (n8), Ibn-Khaldun (n8), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Memnon (n8), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), robbiecon (n8), Romanic (n7) slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7)Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched = 7: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6), landlubber (d8)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Captain Blackadder, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, edse, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Ishmael, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Monk, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Renata, Riedquat, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, Sprig, sturmhauke, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, ULC, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk, Zack, Zim

Post #3275 of main thread.

Please send your orders to issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.

"Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine."
...The Waste Land
...T.S. Eliot

8:42PM Sunday 6 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

It was clear from the outset of the day's voting that the facade of control Director Captain Blackadder had over the Committee was just that: a facade. Very early on, the Director realized just how dangerous insulation was. Moves were being made all around him, moves that he was not privy to, and quite soon he found himself not only in the position of losing his Directorship but he was also in danger of being lynched.

He was completely ignored as the battle lines on the Committee started to become apparent. Askthepizzaguy, who had made his scumminess apparent over the past few days, was making a play for the Directorship, almost as if it was his birthright. Immediately he attracted a huge amount of votes, many of his voters additionally saying that Blackadder should be lynched for good measure. Blackadder gulped. This was looking worse and worse.

Eventually enough of the other Committee members were worried and agitated enough, remembering how Pizzaguy was the town's lynch choice for the past two days and how he was saved only by a clearly very shady lawyer. Their efforts finally produced a consensus candidate: sturmhauke, who some days earlier had expressed his agitation over both Pizza *and* the current Director. Over the course of the day, this counter-movement steadily gained ground, but never seemed to have enough juice to unseat Pizza as the lead candidate.

This was, of course, until the end of the day when Pizzaguy, taking the podium and sporting an overly-toothy smile, announced that the charade was over for now and that his supporters were free to vote for sturmhauke. sturmhauke looked completely baffled as the votes started to cascade his way, and what was once a close contest had turned into a landslide. All in all sturmhauke was not quite sure how to feel about this, and by the end of the day his Directorship was a foregone conclusion.

So where was the current Director in all of this? As Blackadder's lack of control became more and more evident as the day progressed on, he hid in a remote corner of the ballroom, trying to look more and more invisible. This worked for the most part as he was completely forgotten. However, at the end of the day, when Commissioner Fermanagh called on the Director to perform his final duties, all eyes in the room quickly found him. Blackadder's time was up.

His suit was a mess. Blackadder had sweated all through his undershirt, leaving his shirt and especially its collar quite dark and perspired. The fact that he had taken off his jacket and put it back on and taken it off multiple times only added to this visibility. His tie was loose and off-center. His pants were wrinkled, his shoes dirty. At this point in the day, he looked worse for the wear than Fermanagh, which was saying something.
His eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit. Searching for anything friendly. He found nothing. The sweat started pouring down his face. Commissioner Fermanagh started advancing on his position. His white-clad assistants, inherited from Hankerchief, were nowhere to be seen. He was truly alone.

"I didn't deserve this," he muttered, so that only a few could hear him. Finally, he acted, scrambling, struggling to run and get on his feet at the same time. He got a few steps, tripped, fell, got up again, and sprinted for the exit, intending to leave the Executive Meeting Room and the entire Convention Center (and probably all of Fatlington) behind forever.

"Stop him!" Fermanagh yelled, and the Committee sprung into action, but Blackadder was running on pure adrenaline and had too much of a lead. The swiftest Committee members could only keep up and continue to mark Blackadder's position as he continued to outgain them. They followed Blackadder out of the room, into the Convention Center, to the front doors, they saw him open the front doors, sprinting for freedom...

*sproing* "WAAAAAAGHHH-"

He launched out of sight. Puzzled, the Committee members followed Blackadder out of the door, being very careful about where they stepped. He seemed to have entirely disappeared until everybody heard his screaming, and then they saw it. It came from above.

Everybody looked up. The now-former Director was suspended halfway up the Convention Center building, held in place and immobile by an elaborate rigging system no doubt set up by Hankerchief's former assistants. Struggling accomplished nothing, indeed, it only seemed to make the ropes tighter on him. Blackadder's hands had no give at all, and his legs could do little aside from dangle. He was completely incapacitated.

Seeing this, he started pleading with the Committee members to let him down, but they were deaf to his cries for help. This was the Director's fate, then, to hang there until starvation and/or the elements finished him off. Painted on the outside of the Convention Center, right next to where Blackadder was suspended and with an arrow pointing to him so there was to be no doubt as to what this signified, was the word "PAWN" in blood-red letters.

Fermanagh looked at Blackadder, crying for mercy, and shook his head sadly. He had a very disturbing feeling that the next stage of the mafia's infiltration into Fatlington was about to begin.


OOC

Orders for Night 9 are due no later than:

This is subject to change at khaan's discretion.

Please send your orders to issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.


Lynch vote tally:

Captain Blackadder: 16 (ATPG, TLD, Cahoma, Krill, auto, Jarema, GamezRule, Diamondeye, gibson, Nightbringer, Neri, hero, DaveShack, Beskar, fyremarble, Beefy) :skull:

Askthepizzaguy: 10 (DiY, edse, Populus, God Emperor, Diana, CR, Lewwyn, Erebus, TS, sturmhauke)

Cahoma: 5 (Riedquat, Choxorn, Craterus, B_Ray, Skotsko)

Peasant Phill: 1 (fluffy)

fluffy: (sasaki)*

Abstained: 7 (SisterCoyote, Chaotix, Clitsome, AggonyKing, Zim, Ironside, Believer)
Present: 1 (Winston Hughes)

*Sasaki I believe changed his vote at some point but forgot to unvote.
** guiri lodged a vote but it was not counted as he is in Mercy Hospital.


Director vote tally:

sturmhauke: 22 (DiY, Populus, SisterC, Diana, Riedquat, Sasaki, Choxorn, edse, sturmhauke, Scienter, Zim, fluffy, CR, Lewwyn, Erebus, ATPG, Cahoma, hero, GamezRule, Believer, TLD, Skotsko)

ATPG: 14 (Diamondeye, God Emperor, Krill, auto, Jarema, gibson, Clitsome, Neri, AggonyKing, DaveShack, Beskar, Ironside, fyremarble, Beefy)

Craterus: 2 (Craterus, The Stranger)

Post # 3338 of main thread.

"There's blood in the streets it's up to my ankles,
Blood in the streets it's up to my knee;
Blood in the streets, the town of Chicago.
Blood on the rise, it's following me.
Just about the break of day.
She came, then she drove away,
Sunlight in her hair.
Blood on the streets runs a river of sadness.
Blood in the streets, it's up to my thigh.
The river runs down the legs of the city;
The women are crying red rivers of weeping."
...Peace Frog
...The Doors


Ninth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

Zim left the council in haste, not wanting to linger in the streets. After a short distance, he pulled up to a small apartment complex, and gazed in relief at the sturdy exterior. But, his ears informed him he wasn’t alone. He could hear steps behind him. He turned his head, and saw a man in an overcoat giving pursuit. He ducked to the side, sprinting to the door. He only heard a missed gun-shot ring past him as he practically vaulted through the door.

He started to pick himself up, catching his breath. He turned back away from the door and found himself just a few feet away from three new folks, standing matter of factly in the hallway. One of them was leaning against a closed umbrella, as though it were a cane. He grinned slightly, before pulling a shotgun from his coat, and unleashing a shot straight into Zim’s chest. Zim was blasted into the door, giving it a short rattle, before slumping downwards. The grinning umbrella man jaunted forward, and pulled a knife from his coat, setting the shotgun aside. And so he began the merry work of carving off a single toe from the fallen victim.


Dcmort knew he’d had a bad feeling about this night. Just knew it. “I must be psychic or something,” he was thinking to himself as he sprinted down a dark alley, chased by a pair of madmen. “Should’ve made money off this. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, I guess….” Unfortunately, he didn’t receive the premonition of where the alley led to. He found himself sprinting out of it, and onto one of Fatlington’s less well cared for roads. He stumbled over a large crack in the pavement, and couldn’t quite catch his balance.

He tumbled to the pavement, and started to scramble when he felt cold metal pressed to the back of his head. “But how’d they catch up to me?” he wondered to himself. It was then he heard the two madmen’s footsteps behind him. “Wait… more of them?” He was too busy running thoughts through his brain to comprehend a short discussion between the four folks who’d pinned him down on this street. A loud bang ended such distractions.

The new attackers, who’d taken the death blow, flipped the body over, and left a silver fifty cent piece over the right eye, before taking a cautious bow to the original pursuers. The original pursuers left a picturesque shot of an Alaskan mountain range in Dcmort’s front pocket, with “Seward’s Folly” scrawled on the back.


“I’m telling ya, we still aint never gonna be gettin' nothin' outta that wasteland!” Sasaki’s new “drinking partner” yelled back. “Aint nothing but rock and snow and trees. And we paid the commies for it?!"

“Look,” Sasaki responded with a terse tone. “I don’t give a damn. It’s none of my business, and it hasn't and won't affect me ever. So… kindly find someone else to rant at.” The man’s expression suddenly became darker.

“Don’t care, do you? That’s… quite a mistake.” At that moment, a second man came up from behind Sasaki, wielding a metal bar stool. Sasaki glimpsed at the last moment his shadow on the bar, and turned just in time to get his hands in defense. He caught it with his hands, stopping the momentum in its tracks. At that moment, the drinking partner pulled a knife, and plunged it into Sasaki’s back. Sasaki keeled backwards, his head slamming into the wooden bar, struggling against the sitting device pressed to his face.

However, the duo had attracted the attention of a now very irate barkeep, who yelled to a pair of very large men in suits at the door to remove the troublemakers. The two immediately scrambled as the men in suits grabbed ash baseball bats and proceeded to the bar. Sasaki groaned as he lay against the bar, bleeding out the wound in his back. The barkeep immediately dialed up for Mercy hospital. Despite the trauma, it seemed Sasaki would narrowly escape with his life.


Woad&fangs was due for some luck, he was sure of it. All the tales of miraculous escapes and strange blunders. Surely some of that divine favor was reserved for him. Or, at least, that’s what he was hoping for as he drove down a lonely, dark street, trying to speed away from a pursuing vehicle. Sadly, for woad, this was not to be the case. He felt his car jostle violently as his right tire hit a large pothole, as he made a sharp turn, causing him to lose control of the vehicle. It tipped slightly, and in his effort to correct for it, he accidentally slammed the vehicle into the wall of an abandoned warehouse.

The pursuing vehicle slowed to a stop behind woad’s car, seeing no sign of escape. Two people in trench coats emerged, cautiously approaching. One finally got up to the driver’s side window, and peeked in, seeing a motionless woad inside. They gave a shrug at the other, who walked around to other side. They pulled out a picture of a snow-peaked mountain, with the words “Seward’s Folly” written around the edge, and slotted it under the right windshield wiper.


Choxorn stumbled out of Mercy, fully healed but still a little "off" after the past several hours. It was nothing against the hospital staff, they were excellent, but Choxorn had a very different treatment plan in mind.

Fatlington didn't have a red-light district, but if you knew where to go, chances were decent that you could find that particular type of companionship you were looking for. Choxorn knew where to go and walked down the usual avenues. However, this time, the streets were mostly bare. "Should have known," Choxorn said to himself, "off-season."

However, at that very instant he did find someone - or some*thing*. It was positively the ugliest nightwalker Choxorn had ever seen. Tall, wide, far too underdressed, and... hairy. Upon further examination Choxorn saw that without a doubt this was a man. He simply stared at "her" in openmouthed shock and disbelief. This... this was... this was just so...

*SCREECH - BANG!* As Choxorn was fixed in place by the distraction, a car drove right by him, its driver leaning out the window and gunning him down. It put on the brakes a second later and the "lady" got in the passenger's seat, not smiling.

"So, 'Bertha'," the driver said, trying to keep his voice steady. "How'd it go with your client?"

"That's not funny," "Bertha" replied, and "she" rolled down the window, flipped two 1951 Franklin silver half-dollars out, and motioned for the driver to gas it. The coins landed perfectly in place over Choxorn's eyes.


Zack stumped out from the hospital, still thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t bit the dust earlier. It was clearly a sign that he was a favored one, a chosen soul. So, despite the darkness present around Fatlington at the moment, he stumped onwards, a shining aura surround him. When turned a corner, he saw a pair sitting on the sidewalk, with three coconut halves left sitting down on the ground in a line.

“Ah, look at this lucky gentleman!” One cheered. “Good sir, we’re running free entertainment on this street corner, for this night only! See these coconuts?” Zack gave a short, slightly confused nod. “Well, see, under one of these, we’ll leave a silver half dollar. Then, we’ll see how good your focus is. We’ll scramble them ‘round and ‘round, and if you can pick the right one, you get it! So, how about it, lucky sir, up for it? I see good fortune in your future!” With a grin, Zack nodded.

And so, one of the two picked up the middle half-shell, placed the coin in its spot, and set the shell down over it. “Now, ‘round and ‘round they go!” the showmen cheered in the back, as the partner shuffled the shells around, showing finely honed reflexes as the shells whirled around. Zack focuses intently on the chosen coconut, watching it skip to the left, the right, center, left, right, left. The entertainer shuffling the coconuts finally came to a screeching halt.

“Okay….” Zack explained slowly. “I want… that one!” he proclaimed, pointing to the coconut on his left. The shuffler slowly lifted the shell up. Zack leaned in a bit more. BLAM! Zack’s focus on his coin left him sadly unaware of the showmen hefting a shotgun from his coat. The shell shuffler smirked as they lifted up an empty shell. Sadly, for Zack, fortune could not stop a well-crafted scam. The shuffler picked up the three coconuts, all equally empty, and handed them to the showmen. The shuffler then pulled the original coin from their left pocket, as well as a second, and placed them on Zack’s eyes before departing down the alley after the showmen.


Khazaar wasn’t really sure how he’d ended up at this seedy looking apartment complex. He’d remembered leaving the Center, and then, his brain apparently lapsed out until this moment. Nevertheless, Khazaar wasn’t too concerned. He merely started down the path home. A car drove down the street, directly in Khazaar’s direction. His paranoia senses triggering, Khazaar immediately bolted back for the seedy complex. The car screeched to a halt, and four well-dressed folks stepped out, tommy guns in hand. They let loose a barrage of fire, but it was too late, as Khazaar had already ducked inside. The man who’d stepped out of the driver’s seat gave a growl, before motioning for the rest to get back into the car, not wanting to pursue into the maze .


Diamondeye was holed up in his house, watching quite the spectacle outside. A group of four individuals has pulled up in a vehicle, and were now accosting a lone man who stood before the door, proclaiming his immovability. Finally, it seemed one of the group had had it with the man, and gave him an almighty swat to the side of the head that sent him flying across the lawn and scurrying away. With that irritation gone, he took another step forward.

Diamondeye’s terror soon turned to glee as he saw a grenade explode to the side of the lead intruder, who immediately turned tail, screaming at his partners that the place was trapped. But as the car sped off, a second one pulled up. Two individuals came out, and cautiously stepped onto the pavement. But two more grenades exploded onto the lawn, and the two immediately leaped back. They looked at each other and shook their heads, stepping back into the car, deciding it may be best to wait for another day. As the vehicle sped off, Diamondeye could have sworn he heard a gleeful cackle from somewhere on his roof….


Jarema was again making his way down one of Fatlington's main boulevards, his trenchcoat billowing softly in the wind. The weather, as per usual now, was gusty again. He sank into his thoughts, wondering what was to happen in the grand scheme of things.

While departing Fatlington for the inner dimension of his thoughts, his senses happened to heighten. He caught a different sound, carried on by the wind.

*clop clop clop clop*

Confused, he stood there for a second before realizing, and then took out his pocketwatch. Ah yes, it was that time of night, wasn't it. Expressionless, he put his pocketwatch away and maintained stride, not really focusing on at anything anymore. Instead, he was waiting. Three, two, one, duck. Whoosh. There it was, the bolas wielded by the mysterious rider missing high again. As usual, there was no attempt to follow up the attack with another pass. Thus, Jarema continued walking as per normal and thinking.


Erebus was being as cautious as could be on his way back from the center. He took time to peek around every corner, and looked twice both ways before crossing every street. It was such wariness that let him spot the man coming from down a narrow alley, brandishing a tommy gun. Erebus took off in the other direction, as fast as his legs would take him. The man with the tommy gun immediately picked up his pace, but when he got out of the alley, someone besides Erebus greeted him. Someone with their own small arsenal in hand. The man with the tommy gun quickly abandoned pursuit, and fled back down the alley, grateful to avoid the small hail of bullets that chased him away.

In a poorly lit basement, two individuals met. An offer that couldn’t be refused. A cause worth following. Something to strive for, something to believe in. Conviction and strength in unity. With grand plans laid out before them, what wasn’t to like?


09:04AM, Saturday, 7 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"So that's pretty much it," Fermanagh finished. "We had a bit of luck here and there, but overall, the situation doesn't seem to be improved much, I'm afraid."

With a sigh, the commisioner sorted the remains of his notes.

"We'll start with the positives. We discovered that Visorslash was the leader of a small group of communists trying to overthrow Fatlington! We can't tell for sure that his death destroyed them for good, but it was a great step forward nonetheless! From there, Jolt was discovered to be a made man of a Tataglian mafia faction. Similarly, Drunk Clown was found to be the Tataglian Luca. While their deaths likely signify the end of that faction, I'm sure it was the other mafia making sure they didn't get picked up by their rivals."

The commissioner sighed for a moment to catch his breath and keep his composure.

"Moving on, we discovered an assortment of strange materials while investigating Kagemusha. It seems he had some kind of fixation on trying to kill people he'd thought owed him favors. We're not really sure what sort of psyche led to that bizarre behavior, but his being gone is probably for the best of everyone. Continuing on, we found that Johnhughthom and Romanic were both street wiseguys. We aren't sure if they had been doing work for the mafia families at the moment, but it's still quite likely the could have been drawn by the nectar of crime. And then, there was Cecil XIX, just a poor, ordinary man caught in things too big for him."

The commissioner gave a final cough before wrapping up.

"Lastly, we discovered that Tratorix was an FBI agent on some kind of counter-intelligence mission. We believe he was hunting for a specific person, but we haven't ascertained just who. Still, we're certain he was on the hunt for the communists that are lurking within us, so his loss is a blow."

With a small twitch, the commissioner handed over the day's events to the new director, Sturmhauke.

OOC:

Day Ten begins. You are voting for lynch only.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out soon. I'm going to try and get investigation results and possible promotions back before bed. Those waiting for kill/protection failures may have to wait until I get some sleep. As always, if there's questions, feel free to ask. If you are expecting a promotion PLEASE PM me after your feedback PM has been sent.



Attacked = 50: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7, n9), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), guiri (n8), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), Jarema (n9), johnhughthom (n4), Khazaar (n8, n9), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), Scienter (n8 x2), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), sturmhauke (n8), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 14: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), guiri (n8), Lord Brennus (n3), Monk (n8), Psychonaut (n6), Sasaki (n9), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 38: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Andres (n8), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Camikaze (n8), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Choxorn (n9), dcmort93 (n9), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Frozen in Ice (n8), fubbleskag (n8), Ibn-Khaldun (n8), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Memnon (n8), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), robbiecon (n8), Romanic (n7) slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7), woad&fangs (n9), Xenoneb (n3), Zack (n9), Zim (n9)

Lynched = 8: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6), landlubber (d8), Captain Blackadder (d9)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, dcmort93, Death is yonder, Diamondeye, Diana Abnoba, Double A, edse, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, God Emperor, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Ishmael, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, landlubber, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Monk, Neri, Nictel, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phil, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlphz, Renata, Riedquat, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Skotsko, slash and earn, Sprig, sturmhauke, Thefluffyone93, The Stranger, ULC, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, woad&fangs, Xehh II, Yaropolk

Post #3493 of main thread.

Please send your orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to khaan.

Now with the wisdom of years
I try to reason things out
And the only people I fear
are those who never have doubts
Save us all from arrogant men,
and all the causes they're for
I won't be righteous again
I'm not that sure anymore
Shades of grey are all that I find
when I look to the enemy line
There ain't no rainbows shining on me
Shades of grey are the colors I see
...Shades of Grey
...Billy Joel

10:12PM Monday 7 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

The newly appointed Director sturmhauke entered the Convention Center with a group of Fatlington police officers carrying rifles. Murmurs rose from the gathered Committee at the sight, but sturmhauke paid them no mind. He stopped to receive a bundle of papers from one of the members, then addressed the group.

“Thank you all for electing me as your Director. Let’s get right to business, shall we?” Sturmhauke paused to look over the papers. “I see you have made your decision. Riedquat, please rise.” Riedquat stood up slowly, eyes darting around the room. “You are accused of manipulating the legal system to prevent the lawful execution of Askthepizzaguy, twice. This Committee hereby sentences you to death. Do you have any last words?”

Riedquat’s eyes widened. “What? No, I had nothing to do with that! I mean, yes, I worked with some gangsters in the past, but…”

“Enough.” Sturmhauke cut him short. “Take this man to the front of the building.” The policemen grabbed Riedquat as he tried to bolt out the door. They cuffed him and hauled him out, Riedquat protesting the entire way. Sturmhauke and the rest of the Committee followed behind.

One of the officers shoved Riedquat’s back against the wall, just outside the front doors. By now, Riedquat seemed glumly resigned to his fate, slumping a bit. The officer joined the others, who had formed a line and were checking their weapons. Sturmhauke called out the orders.

“Ready!” There was a series of clicks as the safeties were disengaged.

“Aim!” The rifles rose up, all pointed at Riedquat. He trembled. “Wait! I…”

“Fire!” The night erupted in thunder and lightning. Riedquat’s final words rattled and faded from his lips. He fell over sideways, leaving a trail of blood and chipped stone on the wall behind him.

“Somebody take him to the morgue and contact his next of kin. This session is adjourned.”


OOC

Orders for Night 10 are due no later than:


Due to a difficult weekend work-wise, I cannot promise that orders will be resolved speedily after this date. However, this is the cutoff nonetheless.

Please send your orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to khaan.

Lynch vote tally:

Riedquat: 18 (ATPG, Cahoma, hero, shlin, Neri, gibson, Chaotix, Krill, Xehh, DaveShack, Nightbringer, GamezRule, fyremarble, Sprig, Diamondeye, Winston Hughes, Kennigit, Beskar) :skull:

fyremarble: 6 (DiY, Riedquat, edse, Populus, TS, Erebus)

ATPG: 3 (Jarema, Lazy, Believer)

sturmhauke: 2 (sigurd, double a)

Peasant Phill: 2 (auto, robbie)

Jarema: 1 (TLD)

Erebus: 1 (SisterC)

God Emperor: 1 (fluffy)

Abstained: 3 (Ironside, scott, Craterus), several abstentions after the deadline.

Post #3515 of main thread.

"I was born
Six-gun in my hand
Behind a gun
I'll make my final stand"
...Bad Company


Tenth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

scottishranger had departed the Committee for the night, ruminating about the rather mundane execution and what was in store for him in the future. Things weren't looking good, he knew that much, but scott had been through worse. He was a grizzled old survivor after all. This was nothing new to him.

He checked his surroundings, more out of habit than anything, and froze. He saw the setup. There was a silhouetted figure nearby with what looked like a syringe gun, ready to flush him out and get him moving somewhere else. Tracing the line of escape, he found two more people up high, carrying what looked to be a flowerpot (with geraniums) and another with some type of falcon. Obviously they were going to drop that on him. There were two other routes of escape. One was being manned by a suspicious-looking person with an umbrella. The other had a guy who was fingering what was quite obviously a grenade. This wasn't good.

All of this ran through scott's head in less than a second. The syringe man would flush him out any second now, and he would be a dead duck. But then something happened.

The syringe man flushed him out, but soon stopped - because he himself was under fire from a different, unknown source. Scott still ran though in direction #1 (flowerpot and falcon) - but nothing was dropped on his head. While fleeing to safety he took a moment to glance and saw both of his would-be attackers wrestling with his saviors. scottishranger would live to see at least one more day.


thefluffyone93 was jauntily strolling down one of Fatlington's lanes, without a care in the world. Well, this wasn't quite true, as there was always the threat of death, but fluffy was in a better place than most. He had made it known that he would make a run for Director the next day, and there seemed to be a pretty strong dark horse movement brewing around him. Yes, fluffy had it going pretty good.

Which is why it was such a shock when the attacks came. fluffy was hit from three directions at once, with no chance to sprint for cover or even fight back. As he lay on the ground, bleeding out, he remained conscious long enough to hear his attackers closing in on him and catch glimpses of their conversation.

"You brought the knife?" said Voice Number One.

"Yes," said a second. "Remember, this is in addition to the coins. Otherwise the Donna won't be happy."

fluffy moaned. All three heard this and chuckled. "Still with us, eh fluffy?" came Voice Number One. "I'm impressed. You've got a lot of starch in you. Or a lot of... fluff... if you prefer. No matter, we'll be taking it out of you soon enough."

fluffy remained conscious just long enough to scream.


Slash and Earn sat morosely on the curb of a poorly lit street. The dim lighting corresponded well to his mood. Why did this have to go on for so long? Why couldn’t everything have just solved itself by now? It wasn’t fair! This had officially been the worst birthday ever. No gifts. Not even a single acknowledgment from the commissioner or anyone. And so he sat there, head buried in his knees, taking a peek back to his watch every few minutes to keep track of how long he had left.

11:57 P.M.

Slash gave a sigh. But then, his ears perked when he heard two pairs of footsteps approaching. His head turned on a swivel, and he spotted two folks in trench coats, almost completely cloaked by the night. He sat, frozen. The two pulled to a halt next to him. “You know,” the one on the right said. “Not everyone forgot.” Slash’s eyes lit up. The one on the right pulled out a photo from a pocket and handed it to Slash. It was a beautiful, scenic mountain, dotted by pine trees. At the bottom, in neat cursive, was written, “Seward’s Folly”.

“A trip to Alaska?!” Slash questioned excitedly. “Is this my gift?”

“No,” the one on the left answered. He pulled a hand gun from inside his coat with lightning speed, and held it to Slash’s forehead. “This is.” His partner looked at his watch. “11:59. Looks like we were just in time.” Just seconds before the stroke of midnight, the man on the left squeezed the trigger. They left Slash and Earn on the pavement, still clutching the photo in his right hand.

The two figures walked off, nodding to the other two figures nearby who were ready in case the first pair failed.


qlyphz would be spending his night in the penthouse suite at the Hotel Abbatoir. He had made these arrangements sometime prior, reasoning that, if this was to be the end for him, he may as well spend his remaining days in luxury. And so he enjoyed the finest of comforts that Fatlington had to offer, drinking fine liquors and lounging in comfort.

A loud, sharp knock on the door brought qlyphz back to reality. Clearly, some people were trying to break in.

One of the other things qlyphz liked about the penthouse suite at the Hotel Abbatoir was the relative solitude, in which a person had a lot of time to construct an elaborate means of escape if they were so inclined. qlyphz was so inclined, and his quickly made his way to the window where a crude zip line had been set up with the building across the street.

Just as the door burst open and three figures came in, machine guns raised, qlyphz smiled, waved, and zipped along to safety. The best part was, his reservations at the Hotel were still good for another day.


Skotsko had met his end much more comfortably. Like qlyphz, he was enjoying his moments drinking a bottle of a particularly fine whisky - Chivas Regal, 25 year - that he had saved for a particularly special occasion. He figured that his impending death would qualify.

The burst through the door came, and Skotsko found himself face-to-face with two attackers brandishing machine guns. Thankfully, they did not fire immediately.

"Two of you, eh?" Skotsko asked them politely. "Mafia hit, then, I presume. Tell me, which calling card might you be?"

The two mafiosi looked at each other in confusion. "King of hearts," one of them said, finally, breaking the awkward silence.

"Ah, yes. I'm glad it's you," Skotsko said, taking another sip. "Classy. Elegant. Not vulgar like the coins or 'Seward's Folly' or God forbid the amputated toes. I'm glad it wasn't them at least. Come, take a drink with me. Oh don't worry, it's not poisoned or anything," he noticed them still looking at him oddly, "I just want all of us to talk like gentlemen, to prove that they still exist even in situations like these."

After some conferring, the two mafiosi agreed, and after they finished their whisky they put Skotsko away professionally, leaving the King of Hearts behind as promised.


In contrast to the other two, AggonyKing was spending his night in squalor. More concerned with survival than anything else, he had decided to spend the night huddled in a dumpster. Not the best decision as his suit was ruined and the smell was already starting to get to him after thirty minutes, but King kept his eyes on the prize: life. Life was surely worth this.

The dumpster muffled a lot of the outside sounds, and as a result King did not hear the car slowly pulling up alongside his hideout. He did not detect that anything was wrong until the lid opened up and somebody stuffed a fistful of grenades in. The grenadier hightailed it back to the car which was probably a good move as the force of the explosion blew the entire dumpster apart.

"What about the coins?" the driver asked.

"Shotgun can get 'em," the "grenadier" replied, as he was sitting in the backseat. "I've done enough."

"Oh, fine," the person riding shotgun said, and flipped two 1951 half-dollars out his window in the general vicinity of the former dumpster.


It was a relatively quiet night at the tavern, but Diana Abnoba had at least found someone to play cards with. She was pondering a hand when a pair of strangers came up behind and started observing. She was holding a two, four, and five of spades, a jack of diamonds, and a king of hearts. She went to discard the king and jack, but a harsh tsk from behind her made her pause. She looked back at them and gave them a curious look.

“Never get rid of the king of hearts,” he whispered. “Go with it until the end.” Diana just shook her head and deposited it in the discard pile anyways. At that moment, she saw her opponent finally break his poker face. She turned around, just in time to see the advice giver swinging a bat down at her. She ducked just out of the way, and the bat came on the table with a vicious thump. Diana scrambled for the door. The batmen lunged at her with a mighty swing, but in the chaos created by the assault, a small gaggle of people had flooded towards the door, and the bat made contact with the back of a bystander, who fell in pain, but otherwise was fine. But in the flood, the two had lost sight of Diana, and when the room had cleared, she was nowhere to be found.


The end was extremely violent for Diamondeye. He had been running for a while, first being chased by one, then three, then four, then finally five armed attackers before he was cornered in an alley. The attackers seemed hesitant, as if looking for one or two more, but the leader of them signaled to go anyway.

"WAIT!" Diamondeye panted. "...why?"

"Time's up, scum," the leader said. "Time to die." And they emptied no less than 154 shells in Diamondeye's body, evidently making absolutely sure before finally heading off into the night.


The two attackers expecting a similar result on Oh! The Last Days! found their expectations quickly crushed. Not only did they not quite have their full contingent of numbers but when they cornered TLD they found three armed figures waiting for them.

The attackers debated opening up anyway, trying to kill the entire lot, when another figure swooped in from the side and aimed his gun at the two attackers. "Ready!" he shouted and clicked his gun, and this was the two attackers' cue to hightail it back to their cars, dropping two 1951 half-dollars in their midst behind them.


God Emperor was spending his evening in a different penthouse, sipping on a drink of his own and catching the daily news off his wireless. All of it was bad, McCarthy was working his further magic, the Soviets were being the Soviets, general racial unrest. Korea. The economy may have been booming, but Truman was fast wearing out his welcome and there was so much danger ahead, O Discordia.

He turned it off in a rut. None of this was good. Music, music was the remedy. He decided to put on Nat King Cole's hit new single, "Unforgettable". This record was going places, God Emperor could tell. Nice, easygoing tune, it made him reminisce about the times before everything went straight to hell. He put it on and relaxed in his chair.

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A banging on his chair. God Emperor sighed. Really? Now? He got up, prepared to fight. Another bang. And then, the door burst open and a silhouetted figure moved in, heading straight for God Emperor. He was fast. The two started punching each other, and the punching soon gave way to shoving and getting whatever hits in they could. People and things were getting thrown around. The penthouse was getting trashed, all set to the tune of Nat King Cole.

After an intense and brutal five minutes, the attacker gained the upper hand, holding God Emperor in a choke grip and hanging him out the broken window. "At least let me know who it is," God Emperor said, and the attacker, after pausing a moment, complied, showing his face. God Emperor gasped. "You? Why?"

"You know why." And then the attacker, instead of just simply dropping God Emperor off, drew a Mauser C96 and pulled the trigger once. God Emperor was blasted out of the penthouse, falling. "Unforgettable" ended. Life went on.


09:12AM, Tuesday, 8 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"And that concludes today's report," Commissioner Fermanagh said, coughing. "And now, the postmortem results."

"It looks like, despite some of the Committee's best efforts, we had a good lynching, as landlubber was an out-and-out scoundrel, being a confirmed gangster. We believe he was originally a Made with with one of the families, unlike many of you who were at one time good people." He took another stiff drink and continued.

"The good news continues... for the good people, at any rate. Camikaze was another Made gangster, another starter as well. Frozen In Ice was a minor criminal who may have done some wetwork for the families, but was not too far established when he died. fubbleskag is a great loss, as he was a town doctor who was actually working to protect people, though he may have had some mafia affiliations. Ibn-Khaldun was a straight townie who was doing his best in a difficult time. Memnon was the same, as was robbiecon, although he had some shady associates." He let this all out, pausing to reflect on the sheer amount of carnage.

"Lastly, this is terrible news for all American patriots, as Andres turned out to be a special operative hunting down a certain target. Obviously his mark is far beyond my pay-grade, but the importance of Andres's mission was stressed to me several times. We can only imagine his loss and the possible failure of the mission could be a very grave blow for the country."

Director sturmhauke now took the podium. "Thank you very much, Seamus," he said. "We will now commence with the voting and the Director selection."


OOC

Day Eleven begins. You are voting to lynch and select a Director.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out in the next couple of hours. I have a lot of RL work to do this weekend so excuse the possible delay. As always, if you are expecting a promotion, please PM me after feedback has been sent. Thank you.

Attacked = 51: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7, n9), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), guiri (n8), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), Jarema (n9), johnhughthom (n4), Khazaar (n8, n9), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), Psychonaut (n5), qlyphz (n10), Raskolnikov (n1), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), Scienter (n8 x2), scottishranger (n4, n10), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), sturmhauke (n8), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 14: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), guiri (n8), Lord Brennus (n3), Monk (n8), Psychonaut (n6), Sasaki (n9), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 44: AggonyKing (n10), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Andres (n8), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Camikaze (n8), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Choxorn (n9), dcmort93 (n9), Diamondeye (n10), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Frozen in Ice (n8), fubbleskag (n8), God Emperor (n10) Ibn-Khaldun (n8), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Memnon (n8), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), robbiecon (n8), Romanic (n7), Skotsko (n10), slash and earn (n10), slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), thefluffyone93 (n10), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7), woad&fangs (n9), Xenoneb (n3), Zack (n9), Zim (n9)

Lynched = 8: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6), landlubber (d8), Captain Blackadder (d9)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane (n4), Master Necromanver (n4), taillesskangaru (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, edse, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Monk, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phill, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlyphz, Renata, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, sturmhauke, The Stranger, ULC, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II, Yaropolk

Post #3599 of main thread.

Please send your orders to issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.


"Instantly you struck me as
Quite a catch
Luckly I left you with-
Out a scratch
You seem capable of mind control
And you've disabled my very soul
I'll take what's mine before I regret it
And mute this feelling not to often get"
...Take What's Mine
...Baumer


09:03PM, Tuesday, 8 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


An air of menace hung over the Committee. It seemed to Director sturmhauke that the majority of them were now either actual mafia members or people in their pocket. The votes were tallied; edse was sentenced to death. Sturmhauke read the official decision out loud through clenched teeth. Most of the faces in the room wore a look of smug satisfaction; some were carefully neutral and a few eyes glanced around nervously. Edse himself only sat there in stony silence.

“Bring in the last meal,” said sturmhauke. Someone left the room to deliver the message, and sturmhauke turned to edse. “I’m sorry, friend. You were one of the last good citizens of this rotting town. I hope you like the food. It’s simple fare, but well made I think.” At that, a man entered the conference room pushing a cart. He stopped next to edse and placed the food on the table – a large T-bone steak with mushrooms and onions on top, a baked potato, steamed peas and carrots, and a basket with assorted condiments. The man then poured a glass of dark red wine and stepped back.

Edse ate a few bites out of politeness, but then set down his knife and fork. “Thank you, this is delicious but I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.” He glared at some of the other Committee members. “At least have some of the wine, edse. It will go easier for you if you do,” said sturmhauke, nodding slightly. Edse stared back for a moment, then nodded back and raised the glass to his lips. “Hmm, this is not bad. It’s quite good actually…” He quickly downed the rest. “Please… clean up this town… after I’m… after I’m…” Edse collapsed onto the table, dead. The wine glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.

Sturmhauke rose and addressed the Committee. “I see here you’ve also seen fit to choose another Director. He’s welcome to the post, I’ve had enough of this charade. Some of you are still good people, you know what to do. May the rest of you rot in Hell.” He turned and strode out of the room.

Fermanagh gave a grim gaze at Sturmhauke as he departed. Nevertheless, he turned to the newly elected Director, Askthepizzaguy, who . "Good luck, sir. I pray we do not need it." With that, he handed over the gavel, which Askthepizzaguy gave a quick "thump" to signify that the day's events were wrapped up.


OOC:
Orders for Night 9 are due no later than:

Sorry for the slightly short night phase, but the alternative is waiting an extra day, because my Tuesdays don't exist.

Please send your orders to issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.


Lynch Vote Tally:


Edse: 16 (Lewwyn, Kennigit, Double A, Krill, Xehh II, Neri, Daveshack, Tiaexz, GamezruleSprig, Jarema, autolycus, Gibsonsg, ATPG, CR, Cahoma)

Fyremarble: 7(Beefy, quiri, Sturmhauke, DiY, Sasaki, Populus Romanus)

Askthepizzaguy: 2(TLD, Believer)

Sasaki: 1(Diana)

Post # 3631 of the main thread.

"This might hurt, it's not safe
But I know that I've gotta make a change
I don't care if I break,
At least I'll be feeling something
'Cause just okay is not enough
Help me fight through the nothingness of life
I don't wanna go through the motions
I don't wanna go one more day"
...The Motions
...Matthew West


Eleventh Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Psychonaut had not made it ten blocks from the Center when a cloaked man emerged from a dark alley, wielding a machete. The man clumsily swiped for an attack, but Psychonaut easily parried the maneuver, and sent the man flying the other direction with an easy shove. The man stumbled up, but Psychonaut was already well off and away by the time he’d gathered himself. He muttered to himself as he stashed the machete away for the night.


Chaotix found himself in a similar situation. He found himself circling around a light pole, as a cautious attacker with a silver knife tried to get around. But whichever way he lunged, Chaotix lunged the opposite. Finally, annoyed at the shenanigans, he made his largest lunge yet. Chaotix caught him off guard, and slammed his head into the pole. The attacker staggered, stunned for a second. By the time he’d gathered himself, Chaotix was well in the distance, the lack of pursuit glaringly obvious. Grumbling, the attacker stomped off into the night.


Peasant Phill wandered his lonely path once more, straying from dark alley to dark alley, drifting without real thought. His path finally came to a halt, as he found himself face to face with a sprawling brick building. He could hear footsteps behind him. He turned around silently, and found himself facing two shadows, cloaked in the dark of night. Phill gazed quietly at the abyss before him. He could see the outlines of two automatic weapons raised to him. He didn’t struggle, nor scream, nor give any indication of his doom. Instead, with a solemn face, he gazed at the two, as they sprayed a torrent of bullets at their unmoving target. With Phill slightly less animated than previously, one of the shadows stepped forth. He pulled out a gleaming knife, removed Phil’s shoe, and began the diligent work of removing his large toe.


ULC’s night wasn’t going too well. His car was sitting on the side of the street, engine smoking. Another car pulled up slowly. Exasperated, ULC stamped over, assuming help had arrived. Quite the contrary, as two folks in trench coats emerged, and let loose a barrage of tommy gun fire at the poor man. The driver walked up to the bullet ridden corpse, and left a picture of an Alaskan mountain range, bearing the note “Seward’s Folley” around the edges. The other walked up, with an unsure glance at the driver, who simply nodded. With the go-ahead, the passenger removed a shoe, and started slicing away at the big toe with a gleaming knife.


Sasaki sat himself down on the curb, sitting just a block away from Mercy. It had served him well- he owed his narrow escape to them, as much as he did the divine. So, he sat, appreciating a starry night, and the positive vibe he got from the nearby hospital. The harmony was disrupted at the sound of footsteps behind him, coming from the hospital. Sasaki whipped around, tensed and ready. A pair in trench coats stopped a few feet away, looking curiously at him.

“Did you tip them? The nurse and doc, I mean,” One asked, nodding his head back towards the hospital. “Heck of a service, ya know. Not everyone gets a second chance.” Sasaki slowly shook his head. “Here,” the other said. “This should do.” He tossed a large, silver coin in the air. Sasaki’s eyes opened wide, but he saw the hand guns being pulled out too late. The coin never reached him, outpaced by a small barrage of bullets. The original mobster stepped forward, picked up the coin, dated 1951, and placed it over Sasaki’s left eye. A second was pulled from a coat pocket and placed over the right. Their business finished, the two departed.


Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, Lewwyn found himself being pursued quite madly by a black armored car. His own vehicle was proving capable of spinning ‘round the tight corners of Fatlington, but the pair pursuing were relentless. The passenger gave a constant hail of fire from an automatic weapon. Lewwyn could hear the bullets tearing at the rear of his vehicle. He knew he couldn’t keep weaving forever on the streets while under fire.

It was then that the idea struck him. Whether madness or genius, he would soon find out. He spun the car into a vicious u-turn, facing down the pursuing vehicle. A stream of bullets passed on his left, and Lewwyn gunned the car as fast as he could urge it. He could hear the pursuers wheel their own car around. He bore down the street, and plowed his car headlong into Mercy grounds. He kept the pedal stuck, and at the last second, hit the brakes. The vehicle crashed into a side wall. Lewwyn almost blacked out from the collision, and could feel a stream of blood trickling down his face. But he could also hear the sounds of crazed doctors and nurses milling near his car. At least for a night, he would be safe.


Craterus’ night was similarly poor. At one of Fatlington’s seedier taverns, a small, but significant lot had been lost on cards. Sitting at the end of the bar, with a forlorn look, Craterus spent his last bit of money on a stiff drink.
“You know, it’s not healthy to drink and gamble at the same time,” a man said from behind. “Doesn’t lead to very good decisions. Like, say, leaving your back open.” Craterus immediately whipped around, only to find a knife in his gut. A hand muffled his cry. A partner helped drag Craterus into the restroom. The original mobster quickly hacked off the left big toe of Craterus, and the two departed, leaving the bloody mess for the custodian.


Khazaar’s night wrapped up a few blocks away from Fatlington’s reputable Club. He was smoking his last cigar. The shop was closed for the time, not wanting to incur the wrath of mob bosses. But still, sometimes a smoke was just needed. With his last puff, he saw a vehicle wheel around the corner. A person leaned out of each of the passenger side windows, and a wild spray of bullets ensued. Khazaar flinched on the spot, but was unharmed as the vehicle shot past. He immediately took off in the other direction, and by the time the attackers were turned around, Khazaar was long gone.


Neri’s drive back was eventful, to say the least. Whether it was the barrage of gunfire he’d received as he dashed into the car from a pair of gunmen, or the explosion that rocked it from an improvised gasoline explosive at a street corner, he could hardly complain of boredom. Neither could he complain of luck, for as his car tumbled in a flaming heap, a Mercy ambulance happened to be pulling up at the next street corner. As the medics hauled him into armored car, he thanks whatever omnipotent being that was watching over him that night.


09:10AM, Wednesday, 9 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"And that concludes today's report," Commissioner Fermanagh said. "And now, the postmortem results." The commissioner unveiled an unusually large sheet of paper, which had been rolled up several times. He requested several assistants to help pin it to the wall.

"It looks like the committee had a poor effort with our lynch choice. As you can see here, Captain Blackadder/GeneralHankerchief was completely and utterly innocent." The commissioner pointed to the sheet, which simply declared in enormous red, block font, "Innocent." "We found zero evidence of him being in cahootz with any mafia family, shady characters, communists, anything. It was a shame to lose a stalwart rock of honesty to lynch. Disappointing, to say the least." The commissioner gave a glare at the crowd, before moving on.

"Similarly, it appears that Zack, Choxorn, dcmort93, woad &fangs, and bestrfcplayer were ordinary townspeople as well, with no clear ties to criminal organizations at all. Losing this many people, who'd done their best to keep this town decent.... it's flabbergasting." He paused for a second to reflect on the sheer amount of destruction of good, decent people.

"There is some good news, at any rate. Zim/Issaikhaan was another Luca gangster, an established starter with the Barzini family. But I'm not sure that really compensates for all the good people we lost. There's not much time left, I'm sure of it. If there's any of you left- good luck. And God's speed. Director Askthepizzaguy now took the podium. "Thank you very much, Seamus," he said, with a solemn expression. "We will now commence with the voting. Good luck..."


OOC

Day Twelve begins. You are voting to lynch.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out in about 7 hours. I have sleep to get to, as it's 2 am. As always, if you are expecting a promotion, please PM me after feedback has been sent. Thank you for your patience.


Attacked = 51: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), qlyphz (n10), Psychonaut (n11)

Wounded = 16: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11)

Killed = 48: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye (n10),
AggonyKing (n10), God Emperor (n10), Skotsko (n10), slash and earn (n10), thefluffyone93 (n10), Craterus (n11), Peasant Phill (n11), Sasaki (n11), ULC (n11)


Lynched = 9: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat (d10), Edse (d11)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith,
Cahoma, Chaotix, Clitsome, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Monk, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlyphz, Renata, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, sturmhauke, The Stranger, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II, Yaropolk

Post #3749 of main thread.

Please send your orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to khaan.

"I know that there's a reason why I need to be alone
I need to find a silent place that I can call my own
Is it mine, Lord is it mine?
When everything's dark and nothing seems right,
there's nothing to win and there's no need to fight
I never cease to wonder at the cruelty of this land
but it seems a time of sadness is a time to understand
Is it mine, Lord is it mine?"
...Lord Is It Mine
...Supertramp


9:05PM, Wednesday, 9 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



The air was particularly chilly that morning. Something seemed very wrong in the city, as the usual sounds of traffic and police sirens went silent. The Committee meeting was particularly depressing; it seemed the fighting spirit of many Fatlings had disappeared. They seemed almost resigned to their fate. As they tallied up the votes, the law-abiding citizens realized they were hopelessly outnumbered, and that yet another one of their own was about to be wrongfully executed. Populus Romanus was the clear "winner", and could only stare blankly as his name was called.

The Director was nowhere to be seen, and his hand-picked gang of armed thugs, clad in dark red suits, made sure no one left the Convention Center without permission. Some citizens wondered why, if the gangsters were in possession of their city, the charade was allowed to continue? Why didn't they just open fire and get it over with? Perhaps the Director had something special in mind for them. The thought of that made them very uneasy. It seemed worse than a quick, honorable death. What was he planning?

Populus Romanus wasn't planning on waiting around to find out. A group of law-abiding citizens had been whispering to one another, plotting some civil disobedience. When the men in red suits motioned at the condemned with their guns, Populus Romanus and the others put the plan into action. Several members of the Committee stood up and rushed for the various exits, prompting the men in red suits to react. They opened fire, trying to put down the insurrection, and almost as quickly as it started, it was over. Some were wounded, others simply gave up, and no one else dared oppose the men in red. But in the confusion, Populus Romanus managed to sneak out of the front door.

As Populus Romanus hurried down the steps of the Convention Center, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach as he saw the Director Askthepizzaguy's motorcade pull up right in front of him. A man opened the door, and out stepped the Director, dressed in a white suit with a red tie, with a black fedora. He was sporting his trademark umbrella, dark blue in color.

"Greetings, mister Romanus. I did not realize that you were so eager to get started, that you would come out and meet me. Are you prepared to face the justice you so richly deserve?" said the Director.

"This isn't justice. This is a terrible farce; a purposeless slaughter. I will resist you with my last ounce of strength."

"Strength is irrelevant, mister Romanus. Resistance, as I'm sure you're aware by now, is quite futile. There is no escape. Come with me now, and I will give you a very civilized execution, quick and painless, one you might actually enjoy. I rented out Club 30 for the entire evening, just for you... and the entire Fatlington Devils cheerleading squad. Join me and I'll give you a night you'll remember until the day you die.... which will be at precisely 12:01 AM tomorrow."

Populus Romanus was about to make a break for it, willing to be gunned down rather than be toyed with by a mad criminal, but to his surprise, twelve police cars appeared out of nowhere. Their lights and sirens engaged only after they had screeched to a halt, surrounding the Director's motorcade. A van pulled up and a S.W.A.T. team poured out, laying down suppressive fire. Populus Romanus didn't ask any questions, he just ran toward the police van and thanked the Almighty. Men in expensive Italian suits stepped out of the Director's motorcade wielding automatic weapons of their own, and brazenly returned fire, shooting up the police cars, the police van, and the S.W.A.T. team itself. The officers dove back into their vehicles and drove off toward Fatlington Police Headquarters. Director Askthepizzaguy had stood silently in the middle of the firefight, unflinching. He looked displeased that his generous offer had been refused. He snapped his fingers, and he and his men got back inside their vehicles, and drove toward Mercy Hospital.



10:55PM, Wednesday, 9 November 1951
Holding Cells
Fatlington Police Headquarters
Fatlington, New Jersey




"I demand to speak with my lawyer, immediately!" shouted the man in the holding cell.

"Shut up, DJ Slice. You're not going anywhere. Don't you remember? You were judged as guilty and sentenced to death. You might have gotten the death sentence annulled with legal trickery, but nobody ever said anything about letting you go free." replied Populus Romanus, flanked by several police officers, doctors, surgeons, and a S.W.A.T. team.

"Your time on this Earth is short. Soon, my father comes." defiantly replied Slice. The well-armed group of law-abiding civilians and law enforcement officers grinned. Nobody had ever taken Fatlington Police Headquarters by force. The building was a fortress, crawling with Fatlington's finest. Even when the Pentangeli family temporarily held control of the city several years back, the Police station remained intact and loyal. It helped that the building was a veritable fortress, with heavy iron gates, high concrete walls with barbed wire encircling the entire complex, reinforced windows and solid metal security doors preventing access to the jail. "Let him come then. We shall stop him!" remarked one of the men in blue.

"Behold! He is already upon us!" shouted the DJ. He pointed behind them, and they turned to look out the window, and what they saw was unimaginable. It was Mercy Hospital's Aeromedical helicopter, painted black, with "SALIENT SCION" spray-painted in red along the exterior. It was hovering just outside the window, level with the fourth floor which they were standing on. The helicopter turned slowly, revealing that the rear compartment had been gutted and replaced with a platform, where they could clearly see the Director standing. He was wearing shades and holding a minigun.

"No...." mouthed Populus Romanus grimly, as he dropped to the ground to avoid being hit. The S.W.A.T. team reached for their weapons, but the carnage had already begun. The windows shattered, and death rained across the sky. Within seconds, most of the officers were already on the ground, and they wouldn't be getting back up. The S.W.A.T. team was down or wounded, and still the hail of bullets continued. The minigun fired 3000 rounds in sixty seconds, and when the Director had finished firing, no one was stirring except DJ Saucy Slice, having stood against the left wall unharmed. Moving quickly, the DJ reached for the keys still clipped to the belt of one of the fallen officers, and unlocked the jail cell. He was free. Santino Slice dropped the mini gun and picked up his umbrella, and used the curved handle to hook onto the railing, leaning as close to the building as he could. He tossed a harness into the police station, connected by a cable, tethered to the helicopter. "Come to me, my son!" shouted Santino.

Before Saucy Slice could exit the cell, Populus Romanus grabbed a pistol from one of the fallen officers and shot him in the leg. As the DJ dropped to the ground in agony, Populus Romanus twisted around and aimed the pistol at the Director, and opened fire. The Director opened his umbrella, using it to shield his body from the bullets. It was obviously not an ordinary umbrella. The layers of armor plating inside the Director's coat helped ensure that nothing got through. Populus Romanus roared in frustration and walked toward the fallen S.W.A.T. team, and grabbed one of their automatic weapons, and fired at the helicopter and the man inside it once more. This time, the overwhelming firepower managed to knock Santino's umbrella out of his hands and he dropped like a man in a lead suit. Populus Romanus continued firing, trying to take out the helicopter's fuel tank, determined to put the Director down for good.

He was completely unprepared when the desk rammed into him from behind, pushing him toward the edge of the floor, where the window used to be. He dropped the weapon, and turned to see DJ Saucy Slice limping toward him, pistol in hand. "Business is business, mister Romanus. But when you mess with my Family, then it's personal." said the radio DJ, before firing several rounds into Populus' stomach. The wounded man fell over the edge and plummeted 4 stories to the concrete below. The fall was graceful, but the landing was spectacularly messy.

Santino felt like hell. An armored suit might stop the bullets from killing you but it doesn't do much for the pain. Still, he was pleased to see that his son had made it into the helicopter, and they both made their way back to Mercy Hospital, to treat their wounds. Commissioner Fermanagh watched it all happen from a nearby street... and shook his head. There was no safe place left in Fatlington. What law enforcement remained seemed to be no match for a crime wave of this magnitude. What they needed now... was nothing short of a miracle.


OOC

Orders for Night 12 are due no later than:

There will be no extensions, because I only have a short window in which to get everything done tomorrow before I'm out of commission for the next 36-48 hours.

Please send your orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to khaan.


Lynch vote tally:

Populus Romanus: 20 (fyre, Niklas, Diana, Jarema, Cahoma, hero, Lazy, SisterC, Johhog, shlin, Scienter, DaveShack, gibson, Sprig, Krill, Gamez, Winston, Double A, Kennigit, Xehh) :skull:

fyremarble: 3 (Populus, guiri, Erebus)

Cahoma: 1 (DiY)

Chaotix: 1 (Chaotix)

Diana Abnoba: 1 (TLD)

Abstained: 2 (sturmhauke, Ironside)

Post #3772 of main thread.

Cold wind blows into the skin
Can't believe the state you're in
It's so far, so far away
It's so far, so far away
Who are you trying to impress, steadily creating a mess?
Step in front of a runaway train, just to feel alive again
Pushing forward through the night, aching chest blurry sight
...Far Away
...Jose Gonzalez

Twelfth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

Two separate cars came hurtling down opposite directions of one of Fatlington's streets. Both of them had identified their target - Khazaar, crossing the street, unprotected. Both of them had their lights turned off and had their engines specially modified so that the muffler was extra-effective. The bottom line was, Khazaar would not see or hear them coming. The issue was that neither would the other car.

A three-way collision happened, the cars colliding into Khazaar and then each other head-on. Both vehicles were wrecked. Khazaar himself was now more or less jelly. Everybody got out and started arguing with each other, pointing guns and making wild gestures. One of the cars had five passengers, and in the midst of their arguing one of them dropped an outline of Alaska with the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled on the inside. The other car had a mere two passengers, one of them dropping two 1951 half-dollars in the general vicinity of where Khazaar's face would have been.

It looked like it was going to come to blows (or gunshots) for a while, but then finally both factions heard the police sirens go off. Rather than chancing it, they both scrambled off into the night in opposite directions.


"End of the line, Chaotix," a rather ugly-looking man at the bar said, rudely interrupting Chaotix's drink. "I'll let you finish your alcohol and then we'll do it out back, nice and quietly, so no mess is made."

Chaotix put his drink down, somehow cool as ice considering the circumstances. "I hope you'll understand that I'm going to need to see proof of numbers before I agree to this," he said. The would-be attacker smiled to himself, nodding his head. Two other patrons at the bar nonchalantly opened their jackets to reveal high-powered semi-automatics. Chaotix nodded to himself.

"And your calling card? Don't lie to me and tell me this isn't a mafia hit."

"I hope these will meet with your approval," the other man said, and flipped him a 1951 Franklin silver half-dollar. "Get familiar with the feel of it, this and its partner will be going over your eyes in a little bit."

A third voice chimed in, that of a neutral bar patron. "Not yet it won't. Fatlington's still got some fight in it yet. Get out of the bar."

Now all three of them laughed. "Or what?"

"Or else." And this new patron too opened his jacket, but not to reveal a gun - this one had a live grenade, its pin attached to the would-be grenadier's finger by a string. Cursing, the three would-be attackers finished their drinks and left the bar without killing anyone, leaving a quite-relieved bartender to continue his night as usual.


Three was a far unluckier number for Johhog, although one could argue that three was never lucky for Chaotix as it was the inclusion of a fourth that saved him.

Johhog was alone in his home, catching the reports on the wireless when all of a sudden he heard one of his windows shatter. Running to the scene, he found a rock amongst all of the broken glass, a rock with a note attached to it.

"This was just to get your attention."

Beneath that note was a king of hearts taped to it. Johhog looked up in surprise, expecting to see a car pulling away, but instead he found himself face to face with an armed attacker. It took one blast to the head to finish the job, and the attacker was quickly back in the car, taking the backseat as his partner had annoyingly switched to shotgun while he was out killing Johhog.


qlyphz was back in his penthouse at the Abbatoir. Two days after the attack, he was still alive, what else was there to lose? He would continue extending his reservations. Relaxing, ready to pour himself a glass of brandy for the night, suddenly deja vu kicked in in the form of a loud banging on the door.

>>>These people never learn<<< he thought, automatically making his way to the window where the crude zip line was still set up. The situation was almost exactly the same as it had been two nights' prior. Two figures came bursting in, wielding automatic weapons yet strangely no sign of any calling card, be it coins, outlines of Alaska, knives in which to cut toes off, kings of hearts, or otherwise.

"Amateurs," qlyphz derisively said before ziplining over to the next building and out of sight.


Crazed Rabbit was certainly not expecting this. Yes, the prospect of facing death was nothing new to experienced Fatlings, but they had been Pavlov'd into expecting it via numbers. Twos and threes and sometimes larger groups if someone *really* wanted you dead. But not in the form of singular attackers. Not usually.

However, there was no mistaking this man or his intention. Carrying two golden lugars, both sights set precisely on CR's body, this man meant business. CR was so used to scanning everywhere for possible group attacks he had entirely discounted this possibility, and now he was paying for it.

"It's good to finally meet you, Mr. Rabbit, I came here to discuss business with you. You owe me one milllion dollars for important services."

"Oh great, a killer with an act," CR replied. "I've never bought anything costing a milllion and never will. Now either kill me or beat it."

However, the man with the lugars was persistent. "But sir, this is a very important service. I admit, the advance cost is very steep, but it's definitly worth it, particular in these times."

CR, now confused, was running through the possibilities in his head. This man had a clear shot on CR, that much was for certain. And yet he insisted on continuing with this line of questioning. Could it be that he was perhaps legitimate? CR figured he had nothing to lose. "Alright, fine. Let's hear it."

But CR never got to hear the man's proposition, because at that moment the value of one was realized yet again as somebody turned around and trained a gun on the man with the lugers. "For future reference," he said, "If you want to kill somebody, well... just kill them. I actually probably wasn't going to protect CR but you just kept talking. Now scram."

The black dressed man with the lugars left the scene, mumbling something about the business plan needing improvements.


Erebus's attackers weren't going to take any chances. They were going to blow up his entire house. One of them (also the one tasked with carrying the 1951 half-dollars) would cover all possible exits and make sure that Erebus wasn't going anywhere. One of them would rig the explosives all around Erebus's house. And one of them was in charge of handling the detonator and do the final honors.

After a few tense hours, the rigger announced that he had finished... but there was no "kaboom". This was because the man with the detonator never showed. With the detonator being offsite, they essentially were supervising a bunch of wires.

The two men decided to wait, but after a few hours of this, one of them said he was getting hungry and they left for a quick nip at the closest pub.


The protectors in Fatlington seemed to be out in full-force tonight, as guiri was the recipient of yet another save.

With him, it began with a drive to the 24-hour convenience store to get a pack of cigarettes. He knew his nicotine addiction would get the better of him, and surmised as much when a black car pulled up alongside him and the man in the passenger seat rolled down his window and stuck a gun outside.

However, this steady driving continued for only about a half-second, when the attacking car got rear-ended. The driver swerved wildly to keep moving, but this had the unfortunate side effect of making his passenger nearly fall out of the car entirely. He managed to keep himself in but a few personal items spilled out, including a picture of Alaska with the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled in between the outline.

As for guiri, well, he bought himself an extra pack of cigarettes.


qlyphz, after spending a couple of hours in hiding, figured that the coast was clear to go back to his penthouse at the Hotel Abbatoir. Entering the building as usual, he suspected that nothing was wrong until he actually got to his room, where there were two people waiting for him.

"We cut the zip line, qlyphz," one of them said. "The third time's not the charm for you."

"It's funny, the zip line was actually the reason for your demise this time," the second one said. "It attracted attention. You can't keep doing the same thing over and over, qlyphz. It attacts attention. The wrong kind of attention, if you know what I mean." And the two of them opened fire, leaving qlyphz unable to ever properly apply the lecture they had just given him to real-life.

The two of them departed the Hotel Abbatoir via the front door, *not* the zip line, but not before leaving the customary "Seward's Folly" calling card by qlyphz's corpse.


Much like Crazed Rabbit, BillMC too was the victim of not recognizing the danger of one, but unlike Crazed Rabbit BillMC survived through incompetence and not protection. His attacker, brandishing a knife which was obviously meant to amputate one of his toes with, failed to realize that Bill could simply outrun him, which he did.

By the time the attacker finally pulled out a gun, Bill was out of sight and there was nothing in which the attacker could really do.


09:33AM, Thursday, 10 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"And that's all for today," Commissioner Fermanagh said, giving the Committee a dirty look. "Before I step down, the usual postmortem reports. Your lynch target, Riedquat, was an upstanding Fatling. He may have had some criminal inclinations, but I doubt that this leaves out anyone on the Committee these days. In addition, he was legitimately trying to protect targets earlier on." He paused, going farther down the list.

"Now, let's see. As for the people you outright murdered, Diamondeye was a Wiseguy working with a number of different families, though he hadn't worked his way into the inner ranks with any of them. AggonyKing was a good townie, which is probably why he was murdered. God Emperor was a Made gangster. as was Skotsko. slash and earn was another good townie, and finally thefluffyone93 was apparently a Detective who had taken the law into his own hands and was pursuing a target of great importance... that's all I know about that, but anyway..." he trailed off, taking a long swig of whiskey, leaving Director Askthepizzaguy to commence the day's proceedings.


OOC

Lucky Day Thirteen begins. You are voting to lynch and select a Director.

Phase ends:

As I will be absent all of Saturday, this is why I rushed the night phase.

Feedback PMs will be out within a few hours. As always, PM me if you are expecting a promotion after they go out.


Attacked = 51: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12)

Wounded = 16: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11)

Killed = 51: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus (n11), Peasant Phill (n11), Sasaki (n11), ULC (n11), Khazaar (n12), Johhog (n12), qlyphz (n12)


Lynched = 9: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse (d11)

Wogged = 4: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith,
Cahoma, Chaotix, Clitsome, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Monk, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlyphz, Renata, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, sturmhauke, The Stranger, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II, Yaropolk