Capo: Information Summary Thread

Please, no Posts in this thread -- information only.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...54#post1389354

Capo de Tutti Capi


I'm going to make me a good sharp axe
Shining steel tempered in the fire
Will chop you down like an old dead tree
Dirty old town
Dirty old town
Ewan McCall -- 1985



Fatlington, New Jersey wasn’t humming with energy or buzzing with excitement, it just was. The thick gray clouds of the slow, drenching Nor’easter that had played such havoc with the causeways still loomed over the town – and everyone’s mood – and would for days to come. People struggled to get to work through partly flooded intersections, flinching from the cold and the misting sleet – Aqualung would have a hard night -- as they went and looking forward to a warm summer on the white sand beaches of the town. For some, this hope would be in vain.

This time, Fatlington wasn’t just suffering from the Nor’easter, it was virtually cut off from the mainland. Both causeways were partly washed out, the seas were too rough for boats to sail safely, and most of the phone lines were down. For a few days or weeks, the small gritty city – old factories, old wharves, a few white beaches and tourist bungalows – was on its own. Most folks would simply have to cope – but the leaders of Fatlington would try to do something. Civic virtue? Perhaps, or perhaps it was simply that…

“… our backs are against the wall, here, people!”

Chief Seamus Fermanagh didn’t shout much – not his style – so this time it got their attention.

“You 57 are the movers and shakers of this town. YOU are gonna have to make things happen. Saints preserve us, my officers and I are barely able to handle the problems with the streets, helping the guard with the Marinas, and keeping a lid on one whopper of a riot. I don’t like this any more than the rest of you…

“But a committee of vigilance! That’s Barbaric! I will not counsel it!

Mithradites stood to leave.

Farewell and good luck to you then…But I agree with Hizzoner TosaInu that this may be our only hope.

Mithradites walked quietly out.“Well now, anyone else after joinin’ him?”

Seamus looked around the room slowly, trying to meet every eye in turn. 56 pairs made for a goodly number of stares. < Sa and I’d not be wantin’ to play poker with this crew> he thought. <So many cold eyes….Well, get to it.>

“Fair ‘nough. You are our civic leaders, you will be responsible for putting Mayor Tosa’s plan for martial law into action. Your first task will be to select a Director of the Committee of Public Vigilance. That Director will run what will be – effectively – lynchings so that you can weed out the threat to our town while I and my officers try to keep the mob quiet.”

Seamus paused.

“As a reminder now, we have collected evidence that both causeways were sabotaged – they were set up to wash in the first big storm tide -- and that none of the phone lines on the raised poles made it through the storm. We’ve had a rash of killings lately, killings we now suspect are not random. Some of our sources locally, as well as with the Bureau, have suggested that we’re in for a lot of trouble. Based on this, Tosa declared martial law and imposed the use of this committee of vigilance as a counter to a threat we’ve only recently confirmed. At least one major crime gang – perhaps more – is going to make their play for control of Fatlington. Sadly, what evidence we have suggests that those responsible have to be in this room.”

“It may not be elegant – hell, it’s barely legal if that – but this committee of vigilance may be our only hope. Find the ones responsible and bring them to justice. We’ll meet here each morning and evening to go over the lynch voting and update you on the situation. I’ll even spare 3 or 4 of my micks…officers… to chaperone your director. Time to get started.”

Seamus stared bleakly off into the distance past them, past the confines of the room…

“Good luck,” he whispered, “and may God have mercy on our souls.”


OOC:

Day One Voting – Director Only. Votes must be posted no later than 1200 USA Eastern Standard Time (EST) 1/17/7 to be counted.

All Players have been PM'd their roles. Game Rules on 1st Post. Good luck.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...27#post1390427

The Lawman came with the sun.
There was a job to be done.
And so they sent for the badge and the gun
Of the Lawman.
-- Jerry Livingstone & Mack David


Sunset – Day One

“Well, now, your votes say you’ve selected Beirut as your initial Director of the Committee of Public Vigilance. I must say, though he’s a newcomer here, most of us are aware of his track record as a lawman in some of the toughest towns these past few years – you’ve made a fine choice. Beirut….”

Beirut walked forward, steadily, his features just a hint paler than typical. He kept hearing murmurs from the room….Beirut….swings a mean axe…willing to act in a crisis…<Cripes> thought Beirut as he reached the lectern <I wish I remembered half of what they said I’d been doing. All those memories – to me – are like I’d been some kind of ghost-participant…> He reached the lectern. Chief Fermanagh handed him a lapel badge – the rods and axe – and shook his hand.

“Congratulations. I know you’ll do us proud. As a reminder to you all, Beirut will administer the lynch voting for tomorrow and the next day, he’ll decide the method of execution and cause them to be carried out, and he’ll resolve any ties in the voting by whatever means he sees fit. We’ll have another round of voting to select the next Director on the day after tomorrow if our problems aren’t solved by then. That vote’ll run at the same time as Beirut’s 2nd lynching vote – if we need a second.”

Seamus gazed out over the room, the atmosphere inside was as gloomy as the weather without.

“I have sad news to relate as well. This afternoon a note was found pinned to the old Coast Guard Watchtower bulletin board. The note was written by Mithradites Seleukios. He claimed he wasn’t comfortable here anymore and that he was taking a leave of absence – perhaps forever. Seemed a little cryptic to me, but my precinct captains report that he has disappeared without a trace. With this gang threat looming over us, I’m not sure what to make of it – just thought you should know. A good night to you all.”

But would it be?


OOC:

Director selection concluded at 1200 EST 1/17/7.

Night One begins, please send in your PMs.

Selection Voting:

Beirut = 12 (Alexander, BKS, Caius, Cowhead, Crazed, Ituralde, JimBob, Orb, Pindar, Sigurd, Moody, Stig)

Pevergreen = 8 (General, Hepcat, Hughtower, Ignoramus, Kralize, MRD, Pevergreen, Warluster) [late vote by Masy]

Sasaki Kojiro = 6 (Drisos, Kage', Prole, Sasaki, Boo, Xdeath)

Banquo's Ghost = 3 (Omanes, Pannonian, Hagen) [late vote by Dutch]

Kommodus = 3 (Doc, Luigi, Phil)

Ichigo = 2 (Ichigo, Guru)

Abstain = 2 (Byz-Knight, Redleg)

AggonyDuck = 1 (Aggony)

Pindar = 1 (Kommodus)

Tribesman = 1 (Banquo)

Not Voting = 17 (Beirut, Berzerker, Arach, Destroyer, Dutch*, Ironside, Marcus, Masy*, Moros, Motep, Papewaio, Reenk, Stranger, Tribes, Ultra, Xiahou, Zalmoxis)

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...02#post1391802

Night One Wrap Up


Sasaki Kojiro walked home through a drizzle of sleet after a quiet dinner at a local caf&#233;/diner. The food had been good, the wine had imparted just a bit of a pleasant glow. He looked up as the big Packard rounded the corner, splashing water and slush onto the folks waiting for the light to change.

He was in the middle of the block, standing there as the Packard cruised closer, windows dropping and shotgun muzzles coming into view.

A jolt of adrenaline gave him speed – but there was nowhere to go!

Then the even more unexpected happened. As the Packard slowed, two figures in trench coats and hats leaped out coming, seemingly, from nowhere. One got between Sasaki and the Packard, took a shotgun blast in the gut and went down. The second swept Sasaki’s feet out from under him, knocking him flat and stunning him…just as the steel doors of the loading elevator for the caf&#233; snapped up – absorbing the shotgun blasts that didn’t go over the now-prone Sasaki. The second figure never stopped moving, rolling through Sasaki’s legs, into the slush of the gutter and then getting up and sprinting into the shadows across the street.

The Packard stopped suddenly, an arm sticking out from inside lobbing a grenade back at the still stunned Sasaki. A third figure swept out of the shadows, whipping a Louisville Slugger around to bat the grenade back toward the Packard. It exploded in mid-air, doing no harm except to the paint. With sirens already closing, the hit team in the Packard sped off into the night. By the time Sasaki got groggily to his feet, all three of his masked saviors had disappeared….one leaving a trail of blood. Sasaki warily returned home – sleep no longer an option.

Across town, Proletariat was pulling out the key to the front door of her Brownstone, when a shadow broke away from the alley between her home and the neighbors place – a cloaked shadow with a very long knife! She dropped her keys in alarm as the shadow rushed forward, bracing herself against her door for a desperate struggle – only to have the door open quickly behind her. She fell through the doorway to safety as her would-be attacker rushed at her – only to be met with a door slamming into his face. A cry of pain was following by the sound of retreating footsteps fading into the dark and rain. Prole’ looked at the now-locked door…she was virtually certain she’d locked it as she left. Adrenaline still giving her the shakes, Proletariat decided she would open that nice Red after all. For her too it would be a restless night.

GeneralHankerchief, by contrast, worked late (nothing exciting) and then went home and slept well – and too deeply. He never heard the soft crack as the window of his back door was broken to get to the lock. Nor did he hear the feet on the stairs or the gentle tiptoeing across his bedroom’s Persian Rug. He heard the gentle <<cough>> of the silencer only faintly, and only very briefly. Then he heard nothing again. When Seamus’ micks swung by to take him to the morning meeting, they found him dead with a note pinned to his pillow. On the way to report in they managed to lose the note.

Chief Fermanagh announced the grim news of the evening’s events and quietly turned over the lynch-voting to Beirut.

He walked away silently, still shaking his head and muttering…

“Just doesn’t seem like it’d be one gang….”


OOC:

Murdered:
GeneralHankerchief

Attacked:
Proletariat
Sasaki Kojiro

Lynch Votes for Day Two due 1400 HRS EST 1/1

Investigation Results by PM shortly.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...14#post1393414

Ask the Green Man where he comes from, ask the cup that fills with red.
Ask the old grey standing stones who show the sun his way to bed.
Question all as to their ways, and learn the secrets that they hold.

-- Ian Anderson, 1977


Sunset, Day Two

Beirut looked up from his recount of the votes. He seemed to gulp, then straightened himself and spoke clearly,

“Kralizec…”

Kralizec looked up in shock at his name.

“…you have received the most votes from the committee and are hereby condemned. Do you wish to be hanged or to meet the axe?"

“This is insane,” shouted Kralizec! He jumped to his feet. Others rose as well.

“But the plurality of votes is yours, according to the procedures TosaInu outlined, you are the one who must die.”

Kralizec turned to leave. “I’m outta here!”

But the path was blocked. He faced a thick semi-circle of faces – some confused, a few carefully “neutral” – but could not step past.

“I didn’t send those messages! You gotta believe me…”

He backed up, but the committee pushed forward. Kralizec raced for a door at the back of the room, bursting through it to find himself on the balcony overlooking the boardwalk. The others rushed after him.

He leapt the railing and the 12’ down to the boardwalk, but landed poorly, his ankle snapping with an audible <<crack>>. Hobbled, he couldn’t race away from the others fast enough to make a break for it. He hopped and ran, pain shooting up his leg with every motion, but the mob piled out of the back doors after him and soon had him hemmed in at the end of the amusement pier – now closed for the winter.

“Face your death with dignity, Kralizec,” said Beirut, trying to maintain a sense of decorum – but only just fending off the mob behind him.

“I didn’t send those messages!”

A voice from the back muttered, “But we don’t care.”

Kralizec’s face fell, then took on the sense of dignity Beirut called for.

“Then I’ll see you all in Hell.”

Before Beirut or the others could close the gap, Kralizec swung himself over the far railing and plummeted 30 feet into the water.

With a broken ankle, he could not swim well; certainly not well enough to counter the rip tide this storm had created. Within 10 minutes he was dead. Exposure? Drowning? No one would ever be sure. The remains that washed up on Staten Island 12 days later were only identified via fingerprints.

Shivering with cold, the chastened mob who had just watched Kralizec fade into the mist, struggling and failing against the tide, returned to the meeting room at the convention center.

When they returned, they were all stunned to find Ichigo lying on the floor. He had been shot between the eyes sometime during the mad rush to chase Kralizec. A note was pinned to his lapel – one of those mafia recruiting notes. On the back was written: “Walloon sympathizers beware. We will not be anyone’s fall guys anymore.” It was signed AndrestheCunning.

Stunned, the entire group was standing around in shock when Chief Fermanagh strode in.

“What’s all this then?”

After a few minutes of discussion, and an even longer time while the body was removed, the Chief stood at the lectern facing the chastened group.

“I hope you got one of them Gangsters this evening. I pray God you did.”

Seamus paused.

“But I suspect it’s not enough. I’m virtually certain based on last nights shenanigans that there’re more than one of them to be dealt with. You’ll have to keep the Committee going.”

Banquo’s Ghost looked as though he were nauseated...but said nothing.

“I must also report yet another death,” said Seamus. “A couple of my lads were over at the “Six Still in Chains” pub this afternoon. They’d gone in to get…uh…sandwiches when they found Tribesman collapsed in a corner booth. It’s pretty dark back there, so nobody had seen him. Apparently, he came in last night, ordered a case of Tullamore Dew, and then drank the lot. One witness said she’d seen him sitting there downing a shotglass, muttering “Slainte,” and then repeating it as fast as he could. The coroner confirmed acute alcohol poisoning and we’re holding the witness to question why she didn’t call for help, but it appears he’d had enough and just drank himself to death.”

A few indistinct murmers answered him.

“Good luck tonight – the police’ll do what we can. We’ll meet again tomorrow. Beirut will oversee tomorrows voting and we’ll also conduct the vote for his replacement.”

Fermanagh exited quickly, a look of worried concern on his face.


OOC:

The Specifics Thus Far:

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1)

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2)

Suicided: Ichigo (D2), Tribesman (D2)

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way

Voting Specifics – Day Two Session

Abstain = 14 (Aggony Duck, Caius Flaminius, CountArach, Cowhead418, Destroyer of Hope, dutch_guy, Ichigo, Ironside, Ituralde, Masy, Omanes Alexandropolites, Sir Moody, Xdeathfire, Zalmoxis)

Kralizec = 10 (AggonyDuck, Crazed Rabbit, Kagemusha, Kommodus, Luigi VI de Fatlington, Major Robert Dump, Orb, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, Sigurd Fafnesbane)

Reenk Roink = 5 (Big King Sanctaphrax, HughTower, Kralizec, Pannonian, Reenk Roink!)

No Lynch = 3 (Banquo’s Ghost, Redleg, The Stranger)

AndrestheCunning = 3 (JimBob, Sir Boo, Warluster)

Proletariat = 2 (ByzantineKinght, Stig)

Beirut = 1 (Tom_Hagen)

Ichigo = 1 (UltraWar)

Kagemusha = 1 (doc_bean)

Redleg = 1 (pevergreen -- e.e.cummings style this time)

Not Voting = 14 (Beirut [director], Copperhaired Bezerker, Drisos, Hepcat, Ignoramus, MarcusBrutus, Moros, Papewaio, Peasant Phil, Pindar, theRTWGuru, Tribesman, Xiahou)

No PM & No Votes = CH Bezerker (limited posts), MarcusBrutus (limited posts), Moros (no contact), Papewaio (no contact). Please help these folks back into the swing if possible.

AndrestheCunning should PM me and I’ll swot up a role for him! He was almost lynched in absentia!

Please note, both suicides were at the request of the players themselves, the rest is narration.


PM’s for night session #2 if you please – FROM EVERYONE please. Night session #2 will conclude at 2000 HRS EST, 1/20/7. (Longer time limit with weekend present).

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...02#post1395102

Night Two Summary

It was not to be a restful night in Fatlington. Despite the mists and rain there were far too many people moving quietly about, watching, and carefully avoiding any prolonged contact. Darkness, in Fatlington, could be a palpable feeling and not simply a trick of the light….


Stig returned home to his fashionable bachelor’s town home as darkness closed in, the sun withdrawing what little support its gray light gave through gaps in the clouds and rain to brighten the beleaguered town of Fatlington. The evening meeting had unnerved him, and he was glad to be back at home.

While racking his coat away in the closet, he noticed a dim light coming from the kitchen, and heard the gentle <<clink>> of silverware on china. Perplexed, he strode around the corner…only to see a stranger sitting at his table, a trio of lit candles at table center illuminating the scene, calmly eating a rare-cooked steak.

“Ah, my good friend, so glad you came.” the man said, putting down his silverware. He was wearing a broad fedora that concealed his features, save for a hint of “five o’clock shadow along his jaw. The man was dressed as though he had just come in from the cold.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded an irate Stig, taking a step forward. Stig stopped abruptly as he spotted the pistol next to the stranger’s hand, the bulbous gray silencer contrasting poorly with the maroon of one of Stig’s best napkins. In the pause that followed Stig noticed other shadows behind him and to his left in the darkest corner of the room. Faint shadows that didn’t “fit” and made his eyes – catching only glimpses peripherally – long to twitch. Stig's heart skipped a beat.

“Ah, yes”, the stranger said, cleaning the remains of the meal from his face with the napkin from his lap, “You see now that I am not here merely for pleasure. I am here to, ah, correct the unpleasantness that has begun to consume this town. I do not delight in what must be done.”

“How can you...” Stig started demanding, but the stranger picked up the pistol and shot him neatly between the eyes. The pistol was of relatively small caliber and the round soft-tipped; a messy exit wound would have been…distasteful. The stranger pocketed the weapon, picked up his fork, and ate a last bite of the steak.

“He had good taste in steak, though,” the stranger said. “I don’t know where he purchased the b&#233;arnaise, but it was quite excellent.” Standing, he nodded to the others in the room that it was time to go and walked quietly out, pausing briefly to drop a single white glove on Stig’s body.


Redleg too was having a bite of dinner. With all the turmoil, he’d decided on a rack of lamb at Iron Felix’s on Lubyanka Street – it had been a tough couple of days and he found himself craving their sauce b&#233;arnaise. He’d start with the asparagus soup, have the steak with a LaTour ’36, and finish things off with some of their Port Salut and an Armagnac. Life is short, he thought – especially these days – so I shall revel in the stuff of life.

There were only a few people at the nearby tables, a pair of well-dressed men engaged in a discussion about Dewey’s loss in the recent elections and a fellow sitting with a rather pretty auburn-haired woman, sipping wine and looking at each other a little dreamily. Sensing no threat, Redleg relaxed a bit, sat down, and began to order his desired meal from Vlad, his favorite waiter.

Shortly thereafter, the sous-waiter came with the steaming soup – <a new guy? Thought Redleg> – setting it on the table as another wait staff member – also a new face – brought over the wine, uncorked it and left it to breathe on the table. <What? No ritual tonight? > Redleg was disappointed, but it wouldn’t matter long. His nostrils drew in the rich scent of the asparagus soup – a scent that completely masked the odor of the poison with which it was laced – while his eyes looked at the bottle across the table, noting its rich color even through the greenish glass of the back of the bottle. Unfortunately for Redleg the rich aroma of the wine would mask the nutty aroma of the cyanide dosing it.

As he reached for his soupspoon, two men from the nearby tables on either side stood and walked by his table – both accidentally brushing into him. Apologizing profusely the gentleman on his right brushed some non-existent lint from Redleg’s lapel with one hand…as the other dropped a counter-agent into the soup. The second man, his table companion staring at him with a look of mild embarrassment, just stood back a bit, repeatedly apologizing and asking if Redleg was all right.

“I’m fine, really...”

“Again, I’m sorry to for any inconvenience,” said the soup-saver, extending his hand.
Ever the gentleman himself, Redleg stood and half turned to shake the man’s hand – giving the overly apologetic second man the opportunity to switch the wine bottle with a freshly-opened red from his coat. The first man withdrew, joined his companion and left as did the second following a polite handclasp of his own. Within moments, Redleg had this wing of the restaurant to himself.

Shrugging, Redleg sat down to eat the rest of his sumptuous meal in peace, assisted in his pursuit of gustatory delight by familiar members of the staff at Iron Felix’s. Only one moment gave him pause. The new ones – whoever they were – had apparently made a mistake…

“Iosef,” Redleg said to his sommelier “This red is fantastic but it’s not the LaTour I ordered…”

Both men were perplexed to find a bottle of Lafitte-Rothschild 1918 on the far side of Redleg’s table. Redleg was quite happy about it…the sommelier was not.

Redleg went home in a blissful glow to a sound sleep and surprisingly pleasant dreams.


The morning meeting was surprisingly business-like given the events of the preceding evening’s lynch effort. The faces were somber, and more than a few showed signs of little or no sleep, but they were attentive as Chief Seamus recounted what they knew of Stig’s murder with its calling card, assured them his investigators would learn what they could and then told them what some anonymous tipsters said had been done to save Redleg – Redleg had looked a little green at that point in the briefing. Some even took notes as Seamus related the doings of the police to counter the riot threat and what little Seamus could provide in the way of investigation results. Seamus continued.

“Oh, and I have a report from the squad that was investigating GeneralHankerchief’s house and effects following his murder. He had quite a private photo collection – bank robbers holding up newspapers with headlines of their crimes and escapes, photos of known gangsters murdered at various locales – and not the photos that were published in the press. He even had a framed letter from someone thanking him for being his “guardian angel” in the mob conflict in Bayonne 2 years ago, regrettably unsigned…in short, GeneralHankerchief was what these mobsters call a “Luca” the special bodyguard of one of their leaders. He was no loss to Fatlington.”

Seamus paused, seemingly discomfited by what he must say next. He cleared his throat.

“I knocked a few heads together and got my officers to look through things properly for a change and they came up with the lost note from Hankerchief’s murder scene. It reads: Sorry, for the inconvenience, my haberdasher was fresh out, so you’ll have to take this promissory note. It didn’t make any sense at first, but then Mort came up from the morgue to tell me that he’d found a white cotton glove on Hankerchief’s corpse on the slab this morning – in the locked morgue in the basement of police headquarters.”

Seamus shook his head wearily, clearly disturbed.

“There really is more than one gang involved in this war…and we’re all right in the middle. I’ll let you all go to think over your votes for this evening.”

“Mr. Beirut? Anything to add?”

Beirut shook his head quietly. It would be a long day.



OOC:

The Specifics Thus Far:

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1), Stig (N2)

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2), Tribesman (D2)

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.


Voting begins for Day 3. All votes must be made no later than 0200 EST 1/22/7.

Remember, there are 2 votes:

Select a director for days 4 & 5, and

Vote for who you want to be lynched day 3.


Investigation and Action results will follow by PM at the usual times.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...88#post1396988

Floating down, through the clouds,
Memories come rushing up to meet me now.
And in the space between the heavens
And the corner of some foreign field,
I had a dream.
-- Roger Waters

Sunset, Day Three

Beirut gaveled the group to order quickly and began with a collection of votes for his successor. Counting the votes wasn’t quite a formality, but the decision was obvious. Redleg’s selection as Director for Days 4 and 5 met with broad approval – he even garnered a smattering of applause. Redleg tried not to appear too happy about having a squad of armed guards to follow him home this evening. Last night’s escapades had him a little spooked, but he was determined to carry out this task effectively.

“Now, a brief announcement before we collect the votes for our lynching effort,” said Beirut.

“Our choice will be executed through a simple exercise in applied gravity. Our newest member of the committee, AndrestheCunning, has agreed to fly a small plane…”

At the mention of that name all of the members of the committee starting commenting or expressing concern.

“…pardon me fellow townsmen,” said Beirut. “You need have no fear of Andres. Despite his name appearing on the note attached to Ichigo’s body, Andres was not even in Fatlington at the time. He arrived only this afternoon, flying his plane through the teeth of the Nor’easter. Chief Fermanagh confirms his arrival – his plane was the only one to land in days – and has further confirmed that despite appearances, Ichigo apparently committed suicide. Having not been here until now, Andres declined to vote today despite carrying bona fides to join our committee from Mayor TosaInu, but volunteered to fly our condemned up to 3500 feet and let Seamus’ lads push him out. THAT will be our means of execution. Let’s get voting.”

As each slip was read allowed and tallied, Beirut’s expression went from businesslike to concerned, from concerned to frightened, and from frightened to angry.

“You chosen me as your patsy, it seems. After all I have done to protect you these past two days, having never harmed one of you in any way! Have it your way then you ingrates! But, as my last act as director I decree that the condemned be given a last meal!"

His request was honored, though the entire committee was stunned to see him sit there and calmly consume an entire bag of Snickers bars, washing it down with a fifth of Jim Beam. The redolent belch with which he finished was practically a crime against humanity. Fortunately, he’d already been sentenced.

After Beirut had wolfed down his last meal, he was driven to the airport by the police where Andre quickly pre-flighted the bird and took up the team to make the drop. At 3500 feet over the town center, Beirut was pushed out into the mist. Whipped and strangley slowed by the viscious winds he fluttered almost as much as he fell, and with a final thud went….<<snap>>

…through the canvas awning atop one of the hotels. Slowed, he bounced off balconies on the side of the hotel and finally crashed through the awning at the front entrance. Bruised, shaken, and more than a little drunk, Beirut actually stood up and walked into the street! He even paused to make a sardonic bow in the direction of the Convention Center. Unfortunately, Big King Sanctaphrax was zipping down that street in a deuce-and-a-half, hauling a bevy of scantily clad working girls BKS had charmed into helping him through the evening’s damp and chill (Being one of Frontroom’s self-assessed “babe magnets”). Too busy watching his cargo, BKS never even saw Beirut as he clipped him with the bumper, tossing Beirut toward the side of the boulevard.

As impossibly lucky as his first fall had been, his second was it’s opposite. Beirut hit his head sharply, went unconscious, and kept rolling until he rolled into the half flooded storm drain and fell into the concrete drain shaft. Badly concussed and freezing, he never really felt the first rats bite him. Having scented his last meal, the rats had no trouble homing in, and by their standards, Beirut was a tasty treat.

Little else was discussed as the meeting broke up. Chief Fermanagh informed them that post-mortem investigation results for Ichigo, Kralizec, and Tribesman should be available in the morning, after which they went their separate ways.


OOC

Begin Night Three: PM’s please. PM’s must be posted no later than 1000 EST 1/23/7.

AndrestheCunning is added to the game.


Butcher’s Bill, to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2), Beirut (D3)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1), Stig (N2)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2), Tribesman (D2)

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.


Vote Tallys:

Lynch Votes:

Beirut = 16 (AggonyDuck, CountArach, Cowhead418, doc_bean, Drisos, Dutch_guy, Ironside, Ituralde, JimBob, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Moros, Lord Motepof Kendermore, r Sasaki Kojiro, The Stranger, Warluster)

Abstain = 9 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Caius Flaminius, HughTower, Kommodus, OmanesAlexandrapolites, Papewaio, Pindar, Redleg, Sir Moody)

The_Stranger = 7 (Banquo's Ghost, Big King Sanctaphrax, ByzantineKnight, Major Robert Dump, Masy, Orb, pevergreen)

Pevergreen = 1 (Destroyer of Hope)

No Lynch = 1 (Tom_Hagen,)

No Vote = 17 (Beirut [director], Copperhaired Bezerker, Crazed Rabbit, Hepcat, Ignoramus, Kagemusha, MarcusBrutus, Peasant Phil, Proletariat, Reenk Roink, Sigurd Fafnesbane, Sir Boo, theRTWGuru, Ultrawar, Xdeathfire, Xiahou, Zalmoxis)

Director Selections:

Redleg = 20 (AggonyDuck, Banquo's Ghost, ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Cowhead418, doc_bean, Drisos, Ironside, Ituralde, JimBob, Kommodus, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Masy, Lord Motep of Kendermore, Pannonian, Papewaio, pevergreen, Pindar, The Stranger, Tom_Hagen)

Abstain = 5 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Dutch_guy, Hughtower, Major Robert Dump, Redleg)

Banquo's Ghost = 2 (OmanesAlexandrapolites, Orb)

Destroyer of Hope = 1 (Destroyer of Hope)

Sasaki Kojiro = 1 (Caius Flaminius)

No Vote = 22 (Beirut, Big King Sanctaphrax, Copperhaired Bezerker, Crazed Rabbit, Hepcat, Ignoramus, Kagemusha, MarcusBrutus, Moros, Peasant Phil, Proletariat, Reenk Roink, Sasaki Kojiro, Sigurd Fafnesbane, Sir Boo, Sir Moody, theRTWGuru, Ultrawar, Warluster, Xdeathfire, Xiahou, Zalmoxis)

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...09#post1398609

Night Three Summary

theRTWGuru was walking home after a tasty dinner at the local White Castle. It had been a rough day and the weather – though drier – continue gray and dreary. However, 37 mini-burgers had definitely perked up his mood – even if the coffee had been lousy. As he stepped into the street in front of his apartment building, an old-fashioned Ford V6 zipped in front of him, with the driver’s window rolled down and a Tommy Gun pointing his way! He moved as the driver opened fire, hoping to get behind the cover of another parked car. He needn’t have worried, the long burst fired by the driver/gunmen was more of a religious shooting experience – spray and pray – than well-aimed fire. The first burst missed, the car was past, and Guru had cover and a couple of places to run. The car did not come back for a second pass.


Major Robert Dump was on edge – the murders of the previous evenings had made him wary – so he was ready when “it” happened. His attacker stood in front of him, masked and wearing a trenchcoat. The alley from whence his attacker had come held a few more shadows of some vague shape, but no other threat came forward.

“Your money or your life!” grumbled his assailant.

“You’re going to mug me,” MRD said, almost chuckling.

“I said your money or…”

He didn’t finish because MRD kicked him in the knee and then went for the knife. They struggled, neither one really dominating the other, when quickly turning a corner was one of Fermanagh’s policemen, out walking his beat in the freezing air.

“What’s all this then?” shouted the cop as he ran up, revolver pointing at the two struggling men. “You there, drop the knife or I’ll shoot.”

MRD’s assailant complied.

“Thanks officer,” said Major Robert. “I never thought I’d be this happy to see the cops.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the cop, raising the revolver quickly to face level and putting a bullet right between MRD’s eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.”

The “cop” tossed the pistol into the nearest storm drain, stripped the white glove off of his shooting hand and dropped it on MRD’s corpse. The uniform was dumped in the trash nearby as both men faded into the alley and made one with the night.


AggonyDuck wasn’t nearly so lucky. He got home safely enough, but when he hung up his Navy pea-coat a chloroformed rag came out of the closet and square onto his surprised inhale. He awoke tied spread eagle to his own fireplace mantle and hearth, a sock taped firmly in his mouth, barely allowing him to breathe.

His attacker faced him – dressed normally, his identity obvious – slowly flexing a triple strand of 1/8-inch steel cable. It had been braided along most of its length, but the last 8-10 inches were loose strands with frayed ends. <swish – thud> Ducky screamed into the gag. As the flogging continued, each slash from the whip would land with incredible power, bruising or breaking bones if the braided portion hit, tearing flesh if the frayed ends hit first. Ducky was a tough character and lasted 20 minutes or so. He lasted through the cracked and shattered ribs, the broken collar and cheekbones; he endured and even managed to stay conscious when the right eye was torn out and left to dangle by its optic nerve and blood vessels. A final slash with the whip crushed his larynx and he, finally, mercifully, choked to death on his own blood.

At dawn that next morning, pevergreen swung open his front door – it moved heavily – and discovered AggonyDuck’s body attached to the door, the braided wire whip under his arms to suspend him from the knocker. He retched uncontrollably, then staggered inside to call the cops. They took Ducky down, finding the following note shoved into the pocket of his pants:

Virtue is unrewarded, death awaits the fair,
Your unneeded kindnesses pollute this rotting air.
Blessed are the avaricious, for they shall inherit Fatlington.


[I]Moros wasn’t sleeping well. He kept having weird dreams about being forced to sleepwalk and of his mom forcing him to eat oatmeal….As first rays of sunlight fell onto his bed, Moros yawned and got dressed, pleased with the ray of sunlight.
Almost immediately he became aware of a strong odor in the air - he couldn't quite place it, but it reminded him of cereal, or oatmeal of some sort. He wondered what the smell could mean. The memory of the recent killings came to him, and he became very nervous, wondering if the smell was indication of some sort of poison. He opened his bedroom door and was stunned to find the smell stronger in his house. He retreated into his bedroom, very worried now. Still, he couldn't detect any symptoms of deadly gas.

Then the phone rang. He swung his head towards it, suddenly extremely suspicious of the phone. It rang two more times before he answered it.[/i]

“Good morning, Moros,” a voice said.

“Who is this?” asked Moros.

“It seems you have a slight problem with the quality of your air this morning”

“Who are you, and what have you done?”

“Relax, please. What you smell is a harmless, natural food product - grain. Nothing to worry about - inhaling it shouldn't be dangerous.”

Moros did relax, slightly, though his voice did not lose its edge, “What are you doing, and what is the meaning of this?”

“Of course,” the voice continued, “In the right grain-to-air mixture, it is highly explosive."

Moros’ mind flashed back twenty years to when he was a 17-year old Marine fighting Sandino’s guerillas. The image of a grain silo suddenly exploding and killing half a platoon vivid after all these years….the adrenaline shot through him.

Why don't you look out your window?” said the voice.

Moros glanced out the window in time to see a flaming projectile arcing through the air…

It lanced through the window of a town home two blocks away, just visible up the street from the window where he stood. Breaking through the window there was a gust of flame, followed by a powerful explosion that gutted the townhome as well as the neighboring homes to either side. It even cracked the window where Moros was standing.

Stunned and worried, Moros glanced at the phone – only a dial tone now – left his room….<wait a second, he thought, then spoke out loud>

“This isn’t my house, it’s just the same floorplan…”

Moros’ house had, indeed, been blown to fragments, he just wasn’t in it at the time. He went down stares warily, his quick search finding the townhome where he was to be empty. Same floorplan, minimal furniture, but essentially empty. On the small table in the kitchen, he found a steaming bowl of oatmeal – the source of the grainy smell in this townhome – with a politle typed note next to it, reading:

Eat hearty, oatmeal is good for your health.

A white glove was found on the doorstep of Moros’ rubbled home.


An hour or so later, a stunned committee took in Seamus’ report of the nights events. Chief Fermanagh looked tired, but not entirely unhappy.

“Alright, me lads…pardon, my officers have been working hard to follow up on our deceased and determine what we could. I have happy news to report. You got one! Kralizec looked squeaky clean on the surface, but rummaging through his accounts and effects we realize that he was another Al Capone – you lynched the Don, the leader, of one of these despicable gangs. Hizzoner may really have come up with a way for Fatlington to live, and you’ve all done your part. Well done folks, well done…”

A short pause.

“Stig too was a criminal. We’d had indications before this, but nothing conclusive. There was, however, nothing to connect him to one of the predatory gangs, so our current theory is that he wouldn’t play ball so he was taken for a ride – well, in his case a bad dinner.”

"Our other losses were, according to all we can find out, both innocent townsmen who committed suicide under the stress of things. Ichigo was distraught for some time, facing turmoil at home, and this appears to have driven him to flights of fancy. He claimed to have attempted a murder, failed at it, and apparently…er…lost his way. Tribesman had enemies – anyone who chatted politics with him would confirm that. They would tell you he knew all the tricks: puns, metaphor, dramatic irony even….sarcasm. Despite which he calmly and deliberately drank himself to death."

"I hope you can continue your previous success today and continue to root out these scum. Good luck.”

OOC

Day 4 voting begins (Lynch only), directed by Redleg. Voting deadline: 1400 hrs EST 1/24/7 -- we'll cycle at 1400 thereafter if at all possible.


Butcher’s Bill, to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2), Beirut (D3)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1), Stig (N2), AggonyDuck (N3), Major Robert Dump (N3)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2), Tribesman (D2)

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...45#post1400445

And as flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died.
-- Don McClean, 1971


Sunset, Day Four:

After a few hours of pale sunlight early that morning, the gray skies had returned. Though no rain fell for a change, the faint fog off the Atlantic and thick clouds made for a dark day. As the voting session began around 6 that evening, it had faded to full dark.

Redleg addressed the assembled committee.

“As you all know, I served with the 160th field artillery during the war. I went through 4 amphibious assaults and a snot-load of fighting near Metz. I am NOT inclined to let mafia scum take over this town. I have therefore decided to employ a tried-and-true artillery solution to traitors in our own ranks. We’ll do what the Brits did in the Sepoy rebellion and strap our traitors to the muzzle of a field gun for a little send-off.”

Redleg’s expression was one of determination, not exultation.

“I’ve had one of the old “Saucy-Cans” guns on display in front of the Guard armory unplugged and quickly reconditioned. It’s deployed on the boardwalk outside this convention center. The tube’s shot out, but then again accuracy won’t be too much of a worry. Let’s get voting.”

Lots of discussion and more than a few sharp exchanges of words accompanied the voting. Pannonian was aggressively calling for people to prove their loyalty to the town while others snapped at the relative newcomer in their midst. At length, with all votes cast, Redleg silently tallied them in the front of the room – witnessed by Fermanagh’s guards – and then announced the result.

“By a margin of votes, this committee declares pevergreen to be guilty of treason against the citizens of Fatlington and hereby sentences you to immediate execution. Guards…”

“So be it,” snarled pevergreen as he stood to his feet. While standing he flicked up his hood and dropped the hem of his garments and what had appeared to be a bulky winter’s coat was revealed to be a full hooded, holocaust cloak. His face and hands were completely hidden. Clearly pevergreen had prepared for his name to be chosen. The guards paused, but then moved forward quickly to pinion his arms and march him downstairs to the boardwalk and the waiting field gun.

The entire committee trooped down after the prisoner and arrayed themselves behind the weapon. As pevergreen was brought forward, he broke free of the guards grasp – they’d become complacent with his quiet compliance – grabbed the extended lanyard of the gun and raced to a place barely 18” from the muzzle of the gun. The crowd paused; pevergreen’s “escape” had lasted no more than 10 feet, he was surrounded on all sides, and the muzzle end of a loaded field piece was not the healthiest place to go when chasing someone – especially when they could fire the gun. Pevergreen stared at the stony-faced committee and spoke:

"You killed my Luca,
you killed my Made,
and now, you seek to lynch me…

But one still remains.

Who is it you think,
Who have we missed,
We killed every Corleone…”

pevergreen’s voice grew harsher, more ominous.

“But One still remains.”

He pulled sharply on the lanyard and the field gun blasted with a harsh, barking crack. At a range of less than 18 inches, the canister round had no time for any significant dispersal, but a five-inch diameter hole was cored through pevergreen’s solar plexus so quickly that his body didn’t even move backward much. The muzzle blast instantly ignited the holocaust cloak and for a brief moment the committee stared at the figure of pevergreen, wreathed in flames from the knees up, sneering at them from the recesses of his cloak. Then pevergreen fell, leaving the committee to stare at the crumpled figure on the boardwalk as the flames slowly guttered themselves out. Night had come again.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3), pevergreen (D4)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3), Major Robert Dump (N3)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie]

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.


Lynching Vote Tally:

pevergreen = 13 (Cowhead418, Destroyer of Hope, HughTower, Ironside, Kagemusha, Orb, Papewaio, Pindar, Moros, Sasaki Kojiro, Sigurd Fafnesbane, The Stranger, Xiahou)

Abstain = 4 (Ituralde, JimBob, Kommodus, Omanes Alexandrapolites the Idiot)

AndrestheCunning = 3 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Warluster)

ByzantineKnight - 1 (doc_bean)

Pannonian = 1 (pevergreen)

Reenk Roink = 1 (Reenk Roink)

Sasaki Kojiro = 1 (Pannonian)

The Stranger = 1 (ByzantineKnight)

No Lynch = 1 (Caius Flaminius)

No Vote = 23 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Banquo’s Ghost, Copperhaired Berzerker, CountArach, Crazed Rabbit, Drisos, Dutch-Guy, Hepcat, Ignoramus, MarcusBrutus, Masy, Lord Motep of Kendermore, Peasant Phil, Proletariat, Redleg [director], Sir Boo, Sir Moody, theRTWGuru, Tom_Hagen, Ultrawar, Xdeathfire, Zalmoxis, AndrestheCuning)

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...86#post1401986

Night Four Summary


Caius Flaminius was moving cautiously – these days, he always did. When the masked stranger popped up from behind the steps of the browstone 25 yards ahead of the portico of the Hotel Abbatoir where Caius was standing, Caius did not hesitate. His Smith and Wesson was up and firing as fast as the masked gunman could close half the distance and squeeze off a burst from his Thompson. Both figures went down, Caius’ revolver flung from his hand by the impact of a round from the Thompson.

Both men struggled to their feet – for both had been wearing bulletproof vests. Caius really was cautious and he had all the extra inserts – hat, vambraces, upper legs and knees as well – so despite absorbing a couple of rounds each, neither man was more than bruised. The gunman once again raised his weapon, this time aiming for Caius’ face…when out of the foggy skies above came a blood-curdling scream!

“Goooodbyyyye…Cruuuuuel …Wor…!”

The last word was cut off by the crash of Copperhaired Berzerker as he smashed the Tommy gun out of the shooter’s hands and crushed the gun – and himself – on the pavement. The gunman was knocked down, but quickly got up and jogged off into the dark.

Caius was dumbfounded, but before he could move to retrieve his gun, before people in the lobby of the hotel had a chance to come forward and see what happened, more figures stepped out from behind cars across the street. Curiously, each was dressed, rather incongruously, as a Gypsy fortune teller…

“We know your past,” the figures chanted, “and it was not Ichigo’s time.”

Cauis began to edge backwards.

“We know your future,” the chanting continued, “and here’s your swan song!”

Each carried a Thompson and all of them had the big drums attached. They walked forward behind a stream of .45 caliber projectiles. It didn’t matter that Caius flung up his vambraced arms to protect his head. It didn’t matter that he was armored as well as – and a lot more stylishly than – Ned Kelly. The shooters each had more than one drum and between them fired nearly 400 rounds at Caius. Almost half of the rounds hit, pinioning him against the fa&#231;ade of the hotel and punching dozens of holes in his arms and legs and shattering most of his ribs, both collar bones, and both arms with the repeated impacts of nearly 200 slugs at less than 30 feet. The assassins faded back into the night. Rapidly bleeding out from his many wounds and internal injuries, Caius simply faded to black.


For Sir Moody, it was his innate sense of chivalry that proved his undoing. Observing one well-dressed fellow in opera hat, white tie and tails fending off a shabbily dressed and club wielding, would-be mugger with his walking stick just outside of the Yebba Road theatre, Moody darted forward to render assistance. As he reached the pair, the scruffy fellow backed away from the opera fancier – while holding onto and removing the ferule of the posh fellow’s walking stick. Ferule removed, the walking stick revealed itself to be a slim but exceedingly sharp Wilkinson blade. The blade proved its quality by transfixing Moody with a neat thrust up and in between the ribs of his left side and out between spine and scapula. Moody stared at his well-dressed killer, not even really feeling any pain, and tried to speak…

“But…you…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the dandified swordsman. He quickly rotated the blade ninety degrees, watching the light fade in Moody’s eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.”

He pulled the blade from Moody’s body as Moody crumpled to the ground, cleaning the blade on his left glove. Handing his blade to his partner to sheathe, the swordsman gingerly stripped off the soiled glove to deposit it in a nearby trashcan. The second glove was also removed and dropped gently onto Moody’s body. Both men quietly walked away from the scene.


Sir Boo was enjoying a late dinner in front of his radio. The sky outside was dark and overcast. Boo’s room was lit only by the light from the big radio dial. Boo liked listening in the dark, as he could imagine he was there in the scenes with the characters he so enjoyed. So intently was he listening to the show, a crime drama he enjoyed called The Shadow, that he did not hear the gentle click of the front door as the lock was picked and it swung softly open. Nor did he hear the footsteps approach down the hall.

Then, coming into the room, one of the figures spoke, “Good evening, Mr. Boo.”

Boo froze in fear, then slowly straightened in his chair, squinting and straining to see the several dark figures standing in the entryway, but the light from the big radio dial was between Boo and the figures – he could barely make out their silhouettes in the dark – shadows within shadows.

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” said the figure, mimicking the voice of Boo’s radio hero. “The Shadow knows.”

And with that, the stranger shot him in the head. Another figure placed a white glove on his body, then all exited the house. The light from the dial cast weird shadows over Sir Boo's injured face. On the radio, the Shadow triumphed again.


AndrestheCunning hadn’t gotten all that much sleep during the night, so when his alarm woke him at 5 a.m. and sent him downstairs to begin the day he wasn’t quite at his most cunning and observant. He missed the cup with the first half-ounce of coffee he poured from the percolator; he missed the edge of the rug and nearly stumbled into his own front door while navigating his hallway; he even missed the trigger wires of the two “Bouncing Betties” that some unkind soul or souls had placed under his morning paper. They bounced, he blinked, they blew, and he bled. Riddled by dozens of ball bearings, Andres could barely moan as he rapidly bled out from multiple wounds. As his vision faded, he couldn’t help but notice the headline of the torn front page of his paper lying next to him: Fermanagh Says Things Looking Up! <<Fermanagh…what an assh->> Then nothing.


Fermanagh was his usual business-like self at that morning’s briefing.

“AggonyDuck grew up as a criminal and for years had been what the gangsters call a wise guy, but hadn’t done anything really bad since his last stint in jail. As far as we know, he was behaving himself – we even have a few unconfirmed rumors that he was trying to go straight. Maybe that’s what got him killed in so horrible a fashion. These monsters are just plain mean to someone they view as a traitor.”

<<Holy Mother save me from a death like that>> thought Seamus.

“Major Robert Dump, on the other hand, was an even worse character. A few of our snitches have confirmed that he was what the mobsters call a “Made Man” – a confirmed criminal working for one of the crime outfits we’re fighting. It seems he was rubbed out by some of his competitors. They’re all a bunch of rats but this time they got rid of someone this town didn’t need.”

Seamus’ mood was brightening with each passing utterance. The night had been bloody, but so had the days been – for the mafia.

“We’ve discovered the same thing about Beirut. He may have been gen-teel on the surface, but he was clearly conducting recruiting efforts for one of the gangs when you folks stamped paid on his account. He too was a Made Gangster and we’re better off without him.”

Seamus smiled – a small grim smile.

“We’re winning this one folks, you’ll make TosaInu proud. Still, keep a good eye out; we’re reasonably certain we haven’t got them all rounded up yet. Good luck with your voting. I wish you continued success.”


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4), Sir Boo (N4), Sir Moody (N4), AndrestheCunning (N4)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4)

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way. Warning: several are close! Get active! Warning PMs have and will be dispatched.


Day 5 Session begins. Vote for Lynchee of choice; Select Director for Days 6 & 7. Votes/Selections will be accepted through 1400 EST 1/26/7.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...01#post1403601

I'm gonna tell your mama
Yeh I'm gonna blackball your name
Ain't no way you'll go without me
Every chance I'll make you pay
-- Alice in Chains (Staley?)


Sunset Day Five

Redleg called the committee to order at a little after 5:00PM. He’d been chatting with various people all day, and knew that the discussion had ebbed and flowed. To prepare, he had a couple of ornate hand-carved wooden cases with him. Inside were the means to resolve any ties – it would turn out they were not needed.

The committee was called to vote by secret ballot, though many chose to remain in their seats. The first tally, for selection of a new director, was quickly resolved. Though Redleg's supporters had worked hard that afternoon to sway the undecided, a groundswell had clearly built for a fresh face to take his place. Sasaki Kojiro was selected as the director for days 6 and 7. Redleg congratulated him.

Redleg counted the lynch ballots especially carefully, with his designated guards dutifully checking the tally. What he thought might have ended as a two – or even three – way tie had been broken.

“Lord Motep of Kendermore,” Redleg announced. “You have been found guilty of treason against the City of Fatlington. This committee sentences you to be keelhauled. If you manage to survive that, you may, as tradition holds it, go free.”

“You’re not serious?”

Motep looked more stunned then scared.

“I told you I didn’t actually kill anyone. I only voted to lynch Beirut and he was mafia! I tried to Protect YOU, Redleg! Okay, well, I tried to help pevergreen too, but that was before I knew he was mafia…I…”

The full personal significance of Redleg’s announcement finally began to sink in. Motep stood quietly as the guards handcuffed him and then left the room under escort.

Fermanagh stood.

“I have some sad news, folks. While assisting some of the committee to attend the meeting, two of my officers discovered Banquo’s Ghost in his bathtub. He had slit his wrists sometime this morning. His note – and we confirmed he wrote it in a steady hand -- said he was tired of being scorned as a slipshod detective and tired of being the butt of everybody’s “nice-guy” jokes. Not sure what the finish of the note is – seems like an odd bit of poetry:

I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table,
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss;
Would he were here! To all, and him, we thirst,
And all to all.

Anyway, that’s how his note ends. We’ll check him out as well.”

It was now time for the committee to see justice done. Motep was taken by the guards and brought down to the beach. At the same time, the remainder of the committee filed out, went down to the boardwalk, and walked to the end of the fishing pier where Kralizec had met his end.

Perhaps 50 yards from the end of the pier was a largish fishing trawler, it’s twin screws turning fairly rapidly to maintain its station relative to the pier against the tide and wave action. Rust-streaked and just a bit shabby, the “Alice In Chains” had seen better days.

Motep was taken out to the “Alice” in a launch. Once aboard he was shackled to four long chains and then, at a signal from Redleg on the pier, tossed over the bow of the little ship. Each of the 4 officers pulled up on one chain and began a slow steady walk, 2 to each side, towards the stern.

Keelhauling is a brutal punishment. The condemned holds their breath as long as they can while being dragged along the bottom of the ship. The bottom of a ship is rarely clean and the barnacles and other parasites encrusting the keel act like razors as the condemned is scraped along the underside of the vessel. Survival was almost impossible and even those who did were usually mutilated. Motep was a bit luckier in that the metal hull of the “Alice” was not home to nearly as many barnacles and pests as were the old wooden hulls of the vessels when this punishment was invented. Nor was the “Alice” so large a vessel that he was doomed to drown. Motep was cut, torn and bleeding and the pain was like fire across the front of his body, but the officers were nearly finished their slow walk.

Unfortunately for Motep, though the hull was metal and clean enough to survive, the Alice had one thing those old-time rag wagons had lacked – twin screws churning at 900 rpms. Motep was very quickly reduced to chum and the officers quickly tossed the chains – and what little came up with them – back into the sea.

The committee stared at the dissipating red cloud at the stern of the trawler, and then turned to move away. Just as they began to do so, a Narwhal broached the water near the end of the pier and, with a fantastic leap, skewered MarcusBrutus straight through the heart. It hung there for a split second…

<<Narwhals are exceptionally rare off the Jersey coast>> thought Redleg, puzzled.

…and fell back into the water. MarcusBrutus was dead before his body hit the pier.

It was a poor omen for the night to come.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4), Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4), Sir Boo (N4), Sir Moody (N4), AndrestheCunning (N4)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4), Banquo's Ghost (D5)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5)


Tallies:


Director (Day 6 & 7) Selection:

Sasaki Kojiro = 11 (Crazed Rabbit, Dutch_Guy, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Moros, Orb, Pannonian, Pindar, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, Sigurd Fafnesbane, The Stranger)

Redleg = 6 (CountArach, Cowhead418, Ironside, Ituralde, Redleg, Xiahou)

Banquo’s Ghost = 2 (JimBob, Omanes Alexandropalites the Idiot)

Omanes Alexandropalites the Idiot = 2 (HughTower, Kagemusha)

ByzantineKnight = 1 (ByzantineKinght)

Kommodus = 1 (Kommodus)

No Selection = 20 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Banquo’s Ghost, Big King Sanctaphrax, Destroyer of Hope, Doc_Bean, Drisos, Hepcat, Ignoramus, MarcusBrutus, Masy, Lord Motep of Kendermore, Papewaio, Peasant Phill, Reenk Roink, theRTWGuru, Tom_Hagen, Ultrawar, Warluster, Xdeathfire, Zalmoxis)


Lynching Votes:

Lord Motep of Kendermore = 10 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Crazed Rabbit, Doc_Bean, Dutch_Guy, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Moros, Omanes Alexandropalites the Idiot, Pannonian, Saskai Kojiro, The Stranger)
The Stranger = 6 (Ituralde, Kagemusha, Orb, Pindar, Proletariat, Sigurd Fafnesbane)

Sasaki Kojiro = 5 (ByzantineKinght, CountArach, Ultrawar, Warluster, Xiahou)

Abstain = 2 (Cowhead418, Ironside)

Moros = 1 (JimBob)

Pannonian = 1 (Kommodus)

No Vote = 18 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Banquo’s Ghost, Destroyer of Hope, Doc_Bean, Drisos, Hepcat, Ignoramus, MarcusBrutus, Masy, Lord Motep of Kendermore, Papewaio, Peasant Phill, Redleg [director], Reenk Roink, theRTWGuru, Tom_Hagen, Xdeathfire, Zalmoxis)


Night Five Begins. PM's due by 1400 EST 1/27/7. Warning: weekend schedules are not my own. I will try to keep to our 24 hour cycle as best I can but....family trumps gaming.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...08#post1404808

Summary Night Five


The Stranger was exiting the evening meeting when a strange gust of wind sent a large object of glass and metal hurtling through the air at him. It revealed itself to be the round-screened cathode ray tube of the amazingly new RCA television sets being constructed in Camden. Somehow, there was even a picture displayed on the screen! The screen showed a single word – Screenies – with a gray circle (no color tubes of course) with diagonal slash superimposed on the bold-typed word. The Stranger was stunned, but not dead. <<What are the odds of such an occurrence,>> everyone wondered?


Ultrawar was taking no chances. He wore armor under his trenchcoat. He drove a vehicle with discretely armored sides and bullet resistant glass. His neckband had metal D-rings sown into it so that a garrote would find no purchase. He carried a Broom-handled Mauser submachine gun. He even had a syringe of epinephrine with him – just in case. He never made it home from the voting.

On the slick roads he traveled toward home, a heavy Packard touring auto braked sharply in front of him. The Packard had an unusual rear grill, with three long spikes protruding from the reinforced bumper. His armored vehicle had but one weakness – the reinforced grille at the front of the radiator. All three spikes plunged through the radiator, tearing it apart and slamming it back into the motor’s fan.

Two men leaped out of the Packard, carrying heavy pistols. Ultrawar smiled – his car was proofed against anything shy of a bazooka – and the cops would be along before too long. Both men dropped metal facemasks over their already masked faces and each quickly pulled a welder’s torch from their packs. Within seconds, the locks on both sides were slagged and very shortly thereafter all of the doors – and the trunk – had been spot welded shut.

Ultrawar tried to get out, but with the doors welded, the heavy immovable glass and thick armor of the car now prevented him from exiting. He hammered on the windows to no avail.

Meanwhile, the welders had returned to the Packard and driven it quickly into a garage while a third person, dressed as a police officer, calmly directed what little traffic was on the street around the “stalled” vehicle. Within minutes, the welders had returned driving a tow truck. Ultrawar’s armored car was hitched up and slowly towed to the docks.

There, one of the cranes they’d used to ship Shermans over to kill krauts was employed to quickly lift the car up, out, and gently down into the water at the side of the pier.

Water slowly made it into the vehicle – it was armored, not hermetically sealed – but the trapped air formed an air bubble in which Ultrawar could cling to life – for a while. The air bubble ran short on oxygen, and anoxia is every bit as painful as drowning. It would be nearly 4 AM by the time Fermanagh’s boys found the car – hours too late. They were also perplexed to find a “tin star” like those used by the Texas Rangers welded to the driver’s door.


For no discernible reason, at least according to the 12 witnesses interviewed afterwards, at about 1:15 AM theRTWGuru finished a final shot of rye whiskey, put his revolver to his head and blew his brains onto the wall at the far side of the booth.


Dutch_Guy was not going to be anybody’s fool. When the man knocked at his door at 9:30 PM that night and said he had to “read the meter,” Dutch didn’t hesitate. The man was pulled through the door, slammed into a chair in the parlor and treated to a close view of Dutch’s .38 police special. The meter man peed himself.

“Not too tough now, are you Wise Guy,” said Dutch. “Now it’s time for you to make like a canary…”

The man looked up, perplexed and scared, but then looked past Dutch towards the front Door. Dutch glanced away quickly, and was surprised to see two police officers standing behind him, guns drawn. He recovered quickly.

“Officers! This man is one of the mafia assassins we’ve been hunting. He was trying to masquerade as a meter man – after 9PM – like I’m supposed to believe the power company is ever THAT responsive to its customers.”

“He’ll end up dead quick enough,” said the younger officer. He then calmly shot the meter man in the chest twice, killing him.

Dutch wasn’t expecting that to happen, so he missed the second police officer’s quick shot from the hip – though it didn’t miss him. His gun arm was shattered by the dum-dum round, the arm almost severed at the elbow. He stared at the blood pulsing from the wound in shock then looked up at the face of the cop.

“But…you…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the officer. He fired the coup de grace. “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.”

As he dropped the white glove on Dutch’s body, the younger “officer” spoke.

“Pity about the meter guy.”

“It got the door opened,” replied the second faux-gendarme.

“True, but Dutch is gonna have one hell of a penalty charge on his next power bill.”

“We should help him a bit then.”

The second “officer” walked over to the doorway, carefully turned off all the lights, and then both of them left.


Peasant Phil had had enough. Distraught over all the carnage and just unable to reliably feel “connected” anymore to his fellow Fatlings, he had decided to end it all. Liking fast cars, he had chosen autocide, figuring a high speed run down the main boulevard would be a thrill and that when he hit the obelisk in the center of the City Hall traffic circle, he wouldn’t feel much of anything. His plan worked – more or less. His high speed run – topping 110 in the last stretch – was a thrill, and he did reach the circle at speeds guaranteed to squelch him in an instant. He hadn’t counted on the blowout, however, so when his car veered into the café just across the street from City Hall he realized he wasn’t going to crush that stupid obelisk he always thought looked so out of place.

Instead, his car went through the front of the café, through the booth occupied by Hepcat, Ignoramus & Zalmoxis – wrong place, wrong time, and into the brick wall at the far side of the building. Phil’s objective had been achieved. Hepcat, Ignoramus, and Zalmoxis just weren’t quite active enough to see this one coming and get out of the way.


Sigurd Fafnesbane thought his role in Fatlington important. As a leading voice on the committee of vigilance, he knew that he could help bring about a better place – but dealing in secrets is hard. He needed time to collect his thoughts, gain perspective and revive his zest for life. He needed an anodyne for these trying times.

This is what brought him to a small room off Boyle Street. The red light coming from the buildings outside mixed with the smoke inside to give the place an other worldly quality. This was how Sigurd liked it. Even more, he liked what was moving in the red haze in front of him, a nubile form with long black hair.

All of his senses were alive and the troubles of Fatlington far away. As she came close, her hair brushed his face and her nails trailed lightly across his cheek. His breath caught in a delighted gasp. Sigurd hardly noticed the prick at the base of his neck. She continued to sway slowly in front of him, each gentle turn suggesting, inviting, taunting. His eyes reached for her, but his hands didn't follow.

<<That’s odd, I’ve had nothing to drink yet.>> And that’s when the tingle of fear began.

His body was no longer his. What was happening? His head swam. She stepped back and away. He was no longer her concern. Things went numb and he crumbled to the floor. Lying there unable to move, his head throbbed and his vision was hazy, but he could see shiny black shoes and realized someone else was now in the room. It was difficult to focus.

<<What were they saying? Who was this other?>> The words floated over him.

A quiet, resolved woman’s voice spoke. “I mixed in twice the amount of jando.”

“A bit excessive,” a man’s voice replied. “Anyway, here is the rest of the money and the ticket. You'll have a comfortable passage back to Sao Paulo and your family won't need to worry ever again.”

Sigurd saw a white glove drop to the floor in front of his face.

<<So clean,>> he thought. <<Like an endless field of pure, new snow.>>

Whiteout.


The morning briefing followed its usual sad course. As always, Chief Fermanagh tried to finish up with the “good” news of the post-mortem investigations.

“Well, it would seem that pevergreen wasn’t lying. We’re not sure what group he was officering, but his claim to be a mafia “Don” is checking out. We’ve got payment receipts and orders to anonymous associates – he was as bad an egg as Dutch Schultz. Moroever, our informants are now singing a little, and it would seem that two more Wise Guys were taken out of the picture. Sir Boo and AndrestheCunning were players and met up with some folks who took offense to their actions. On the down side, information from all sources makes it pretty clear that Caius Flaminius, Sir Moody, and Copperhaired Berzerker were just what they always claimed to be, regular old townies.”

“Keep after them folks, don’t let up the pressure on those scum!”

Seamus turned and walked from the room.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5), Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5), Ultrawar (N5)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4), Peasant Phill (N5), theRTWGuru (N5)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5), Hepcat (N5), Ignoramus (N5), Zalmoxis (N5)


PM's with results and investigation results will be delayed.

Day 6 voting will begin, Sceduled to finish at 1600 HRS EST on 1/28/7.


NOTE:

I am very upset at the screenshots thing. It is possible that someone "did not know" that screenshots were forbidden by the rules even outside the thread. I will accept such an explanation for now.

Please be advised, however, that if this kind of cheating continues, I will have to consider my game compromised and unplayable. Yes, this is one thing that will upset me enough so that I take my marbles and go home.

The goal here is fun, not real life police work.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...65#post1406265

Standing in the pouring rain
All alone in a world that’s changed
Running scared, now forced to hide
In a land where he once stood with pride
But he’ll find his way by the morning light
-- Louis Perez, 1984


Sunset Day Six


Few people sat down in the meeting room with anything approaching enthusiasm. The excitement only days earlier with the effectiveness of the lynching effort had paled. Too many people had died, too many people were still dying each night. Disputes about evaluation methods and evidence had reached a boiling point.

Sasaki Kojiro was very businesslike at this session – not upbeat, just matter-of-fact.

“We will tally the votes, and the person or persons achieving the highest vote totals will be injected with this variable action poison. It has an unusual effect, causing cumulative nerve damage resulting in brain death. However, the onset of death can be substantially delayed by absolute silence since the initial focus of the drug is on what the shrinks tell us is the part of the brain responsible for speech.”

The balloting concluded and the count began. There had been many changed votes, one or two who waited too long, some odd scribbles, even a few of what the future would come to call “hanging chads,” but in the end two names stood at the top of the list in a tie: Director Sasaki Kojiro and The Stranger.

The committee was chanting: Both…Both…Both…but they knew it was not to be so. Kojiro directed the guards toward The Stranger…and toward The Stranger alone.

The Stranger was taken forward by the guards and injected with the poison. He lasted 20 minutes.

The meeting broke up in silence as the members of the committee went home for the night. Sasaki gazed out at his peers but was not encouraged by the looks he received in return. It would be another long night.


OOC

Begin Night Six. PM’s please. PMs must be received no later than 1400 EST 1/29/7.


The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5), The Stranger (D6)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5), Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5), Ultrawar (N5)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4), Peasant Phill (N5), theRTWGuru (N5)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5), Hepcat (N5), Ignoramus (N5), Zalmoxis (N5)


Tallies:

Lynching Votes:

Sasaki Kojiro = 9 (ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Doc_Bean, Ironside, Kommodus, Omanes Alexandropalites the Idiot, Redleg, The Stranger, Warluster)

The Stranger = 9 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Cowhead 418, Crazed Rabbit, Ituralde, Kagemusha, Orb, Pannonian, Pindar, Proletariat)

Tom_Hagen = 2 (HughTower, Moros)

Abstain = 2 (JimBob, Xiahou)

No Vote = 10 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Destroyer of Hope, Drisos, Luigi Vi di Fatlington, Masy, Papewaio, Reenk Roink, Sasaki Kojiro [director], Tom_Hagen, Xdeathfire)

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...39#post1407439

Night Six Summary


Kommodus was tired – exhausted even – after today's voting. He stumbled through his front door and went to the kitchen to pour a drink. Tonight would be a stiff glass of the absinthe he had brought back from France. The house was dark and clammy. The wind off the Atlantic was still rattling the shutters and the thick clouds of the fading Nor’easter still hid the moon and stars.

<< I hope this weather breaks,>> thought Kommodus, << the mildew will drive me bats if I can’t air this place out.>>

The howling winds and dim lighting aided those lying in wait for him. They had hidden in the long shadows, and took careful advantage of the noisy winds and Kommodus’ moment of relaxation over his drink. Kommodus was concentrating on relaxing - he put his mind to the soft cushion of his chair, the taste of the drink, the pleasant feeling of his long tensed muscles relaxing. He spilled his drink when he looked up and saw multiple shadows facing him. They did not look of this world. Perhaps it was his weary mind, but Kommodus pictured them as some sort of grim, dark statues come to life. Hats prevented what light there was from reaching their faces. When one spoke, it looked as though some faceless shade was addressing him.

"Your time is up. No longer will your evil harm this town. It is unfortunate you must go like this, but necessary."

Kommodus was not one to give up easily, and jumped to his feet to arm himself and counter-attack, but he was kicked back into his chair before he could get his balance. One of the figures raised a gun.

"So long."

Two quick shots through the center of mass kept Kommodus in his chair – and probably would have killed him in short order. The third and somewhat slower shot of the “Cooper Method” took him between the eyes and sped up the process. Another figure dropped a white glove and then the attackers faded away into the howling dark.


Across town, the howling winds masked the sharp report of the single gunshot Pannonian put through his right temple. His body would be found seated neatly in the shower with all of the resultant mess contained by the tiled walls. A neatly folded suit with all of the usual accessories had been laid on the bed with the typed label “For funeral/viewing.” The remainder of his possessions had been neatly packed in two steamer trunks with a notarized copy of his last will and testament on top. The only thing odd was a simple hand written note: “Honor is foremost and the needs of the community surpass those of the individual.”

Crazed Rabbit was sleeping the sleep of the sated and did not hear the intruders who stole in through the skylight of his tastefully appointed studio apartment. Neither did his companion. With the howling of the winds the soft snap of the first pane of glass as cut circle was removed from it just didn’t carry far enough to be heard.

The intruders stole softly across the oriental rugs Rabbit had laid on the parquet flooring – no nightingale would chirp to warn of their intrusion – and gathered around the bed. The companion – the intruders would comment later that they almost envied Rabbit as she had a pleasing combination of the best features of Rita Hayworth and that Jane Russell doll from Hope’s dentist flick – was quickly put under with chloroform.

The still sleeping Rabbit never woke. Silencers coughed repeatedly and the heavy caliber bullets were more than enough to kill him. The choice to attach the tin Texas Ranger star to his forehead using a staple gun was a little vicious, but Rabbit never felt it. When his companion finally awoke hours later and began the screaming that would shortly thereafter call the police to the scene, the intruders had long since faded into the wind-swept dark and made their own way home.


JimBob too was resting comfortably. He never heard the car pull up across the street from his one-floor bungalow by the beach. He never heard the bolt being pulled back on the Tommy gun. But he heard the shooting.

Before the gunman could even open fire, a hail of gunfire erupted from the bungalows neighboring JimBob’s. Glass shattering, tires bursting, the gunman gave up the attack as a lost cause and coaxed his crippled vehicle away from the scene. It would be found in the morning – serial numbers removed and free of prints – about a mile from JimBob’s home. JimBob still had a little trouble getting back to sleep.


Warluster was used to weird dreams – especially lately. He wasn’t sleeping too soundly either. He was worried about being attacked in his sleep and the noisy winds had startled him awake a half dozen times since he’d dozed off. This time, however, he’d been awakened by the shattering of his window by some form of small spear and a shout from below.

“Awaken Warluster! Face me if you dare!

Warluster looked out the window, carefully not getting too close. Below, in front of the building site for the new apartment across the street, was a figure dressed in a bright red anorak and wielding a long spear and a large round shield, its face concealed by an ancient helmet! <<I have got to be dreaming,>> thought Warluster.

“Your death is demanded,” shouted the figure! “Come forth!”

<<Okay,>> Warluster thought, <<if that’s the way he wants to play it.>> Warluster slipped on his robe and racked a round into the chamber of his Colt. <<Anyone dumb enough to bring a spear to a gunfight needs to update his tools a bit.>>

Warluster bounded down the stairs and flung open the door to his row home. He glanced carefully to make sure no one was lying in wait and then strode down his steps to the sidewalk. He held his gun steadily, planning on careful shots to avoid the helmet and shield. The figure spun his spear in an arc and struck the ground with the point – snapping a small string that Warluster never saw. The string was connected to a control lever in the crane on top of the 14-story construction project across the street. The crane, in turn, held a 1.4 ton (or so) weight -- curiously shaped like some kind of flat-sided measurement weight -- suspended roughly 110 feet above Warluster’s head. As Warluster let out half a breath and prepared to squeeze the trigger the weight smashed him to paste, cracking the sidewalk beneath him into the bargain. The scarlet-clad spearmen quickly disappeared.

On each of the wide sides of the weight, message plates had been welded. The first read:

Duty
Moros
Omanes

The opposite side was somewhat more poetic:

Cowardice and feeble dreams, folly makes bold
The Athenians, and all they'd dearly hold
They would have at once to a prophet sold

Your "hero" butchered. Obey me.

Other than noting the names of several prominent citizens, the police officers at the scene could make no sense of it.


It was an hour shy of dawn, not that down seemed likely to be any brighter today than it had for the past week. The library was not officially open yet, but the desk clerk was always early and knew HughTower by sight, so more mornings than not he could be found having a coffee and reading the papers in the deserted reading room. HughTower was enjoying a quiet book in the library when he heard a door slam open and footsteps approach.

"HughTower! I have come for you! This is the end of your criminal career!"

A sudden glance gave him a glimpse of a man dressed for the damp cold walking towards the news lounge he was in - with a gun in his hand. HughTower quickly dropped his paper and slipped quietly into the library stacks. He could see the man continue down the middle aisle toward the lounge area, scanning to each side.

With each step, he came closer, and sweat stood out on HughTower's face. His heart beat so loud he thought he would be discovered by it. The footsteps of the stranger continued, but had slowed – one step on the floor, a soft <click> and then another. The man was still scanning. Just as he passed by the other end of the stack of books that HughTower hid behind, HughTower dashed to the stack closest to the lobby door, which had already been passed by the figure.

HughTower made his way, as silently and quickly as he could, toward the circulation desk and the front door, glancing over his shoulder as he went. He passed the last of the massive lobby pillars and stood in front of the desk. He looked at the clerk and began to urge him to run, but the man standing there – no longer the kind soul who would let him in – spoke too soon.

"If it is your wish, you shall have no part in this."

He had a fierce, steady look in his eyes and stared at HughTower over the barrel of his gun. Hugh tensed to move but the stranger quickly squeezed the trigger. The first hit was not lethal - the gunman had aimed for and hit his kneecap. HughTower collapsed in agony, clutching for his destroyed knee. As he fell, the gunman shot his other kneecap. HughTower screamed in pain. The gunman hopped the desk, using the unconscious body of the desk clerk as a springboard, and walked over to Hugh. The shooter proceeded to kick him until his back was on the floor.

“Shhhhh…keep your voice down,” said the shooter, “This IS a library after all.”

Then the shooter shot him twice in the gut. The gunman looked down at the writhing, now-moaning figure.

Despite his pain, HughTower crawled, or rather tried to crawl, to the doors, but merely succeeded in flipping over. Groaning and cursing he began to drag himself slowly toward the door, leaving a swath of red on the gray marble of the lobby floor.

The second gunman, who had flushed HughTower out of the stacks, walked up to the feebly crawling HughTower, then pinned him in place with his foot.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said to HughTower. He then methodically shot HughTower in both shoulders and both elbows. Hugh screamed with each shot, and then lay there, barely breathing. “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.” He stripped off a white glove and dropped it on HughTower’s back.

Both watched as the blood flowed out of HughTower’s body; they watched as his feeble twitchings slowed, as his cries subsided, until finally he was still. The gunman began to walk quietly out.

“Bit of a mess on the lobby floor there,” said the ersatz desk clerk.

“True, but they shouldn’t have any trouble convincing the rest of the patrons to pay off their library fines,” said his partner.

They left quietly to head for the committee meeting.


Seamus Fermanagh faced the dwindling committee, his face as white as a sheet.

“Ahem…well now…it would appear that we didn’t do all that well lynching Lord Motep of Kendermore. Despite rumors to the contrary, we’ve been able to determine that he was no more than he claimed – an innocent townie.”

Seamus paused, his expression grim.

“This 5th day following TosaInu’s committee of vigilance was our most deadly yet. All told, 11 died that day: Banquo’s Ghost, Dutch_Guy, Hepcat, Ignoramus, MarcusBrutus, Lord Motep, Peasant Phill, Sigurd Fafnesbane, theRTWGuru, Ultrawar, and Zalmoxis. Our sources have been working overtime, and I regret to inform you that each and everyone of them was a Townie and not part of an mafia. There were rumors about a few of them – only a few – trying to be anything else, but even those we can’t confirm. One thing I can confirm is that Guru was one of my secret detectives. I think he passed on his information to a successor, but I can’t even confirm that.”

Seamus stared a bit before continuing.

“Between this night and the last, I am beginning to fear for the worst. You’ve got to lynch the bad guys today…you just have to!”

He left quickly, with the committee quickly breaking up. They would return that evening for the lynch decision.

OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6), HughTower (N6), Kommodus (N6) Warluster (N6)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Banquo's Ghost (N5) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie]


Day 7 Voting Commences – Lynch Vote and Selection of Director for Days 8 & 9. Deadline: 1400 EST 1/30/7.

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...25#post1409125

We, father and son, have chosen
To live in the world of blood shedding.

We’re not afraid to face any danger,
Known or unknown.

We live at the crossroads of Hell.

Kozure Okami (scored by Hideakura Sakurai)


Sunset, Day Seven

Sasaki Kojiro seemed just a bit distracted as he began the meeting for that evening. This would be their 6th lynching and the results of the 5th effort had left him upset.

The tallies for director were counted and double-checked. Though several candidates had secured votes, in the end Redleg was chosen as director for days 8 and 9 of this controlled exercise in self destruction. However reluctantly accepted, the lynching process had garnered few fans – rarely had more than half of the committee voted and only Chief Fermanagh seemed pleased with the results.

As he tallied the votes for the night’s lynchee, Kojiro could see that the grim resolve of many from the night before had not changed. His initial blaze of anger faded to a tone of defiance – he had had time to consider this possible fate – when he spoke.

“Despite all logic, despite all sense of self preservation, you have chosen to remove me from your ranks. Most of you will regret this, I swear.”

He paused, swallowed, and then resumed.

“Let’s do this with style shall we? I want a Brass Band playing at full volume! So let’s do it up appropriately. I will be crushed to death on the boulevard outside with the band on a flatbed wagon to do the deed. And the rest of you can join your dead mafia pals in Hell when it’s your turn.”

And so it was that about 45 minutes later Sasaki Kojiro was crushed under the huge wheels of an old-style beer wagon pushed by a diesel truck – driven by Redleg. A largish brass band had been hired, “Aristotle’s Rejects,” to play upbeat music for the occasion, with Luigi VI sitting in on tuba. Perched atop the heavy wagon the band played a couple of Glenn Miller covers – “Adios” and “Farewell Blues” chosen by Sasaki. For no apparent reason, all three French Horn players stood and blew a passage from a recent piece by Prokofiev at the moment of Kojiro’s decapitation – he wasn’t dumb enough to let the wheels crush him anywhere else – though that was quickly replaced by a quick segue into “The Saints…” to close things with a bang, just as Sasaki had requested.

The committee returned briefly to the meeting room where Seamus informed them of the suicides of Xdeathfire and Masy that afternoon. From Xdeathfire there had been a brief note: “Can’t take this anymore,” and a plunge from the top of the Abbatoir Hotel. By an odd stroke of luck, Xdeathfire had plunged directly on top of the flagstaff of the Hotel’s own corporate flag, sliding all the way to the bottom. The Police were still debating whether his corpse should be lifted the 35 feet to the top of the pole or simply sawn free. It was clear that no other person had been involved.

Masy had locked himself in his own tightly closed garage, cranked up the radio, turned on the motor, and quaffed the lion’s share of a bottle of Glen Morangie 30. The coroner, who confiscated the remaining liquor for testing, informed the Chief that Masy would have felt no pain.

Seamus wished them luck, confirming the time for the next morning’s briefing.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6), Sasaki Kojiro (D7)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5), Crazed Rabbit (N6), HughTower (N6), Kommodus (N6) Warluster (N6)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6), Masy, (D7), Xdeathfire (D7)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie]


Vote Tallies:

Selection of Day 8/9 Director:

Redleg = 8 (ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Ituralde, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Papewaio, Pindar, Redleg, Tom_Hagen)

Reenk Roink = 4 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Orb, Reenk Roink, Xiahou)

Moros = 2 (Moros, Omanes Alexandrapoites the Idiot)

Doc_bean = 1 (doc_bean)

Not Selecting = 12 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Cowhead418, Destroyer of Hope, Drisos, Ironside, JimBob, Kagemusha, Masy, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, Tom_Hagen, Xdeathfire)

Day Seven Lynchee:

Sasaki = 9 (ByzantineKnight, Cowhead418, Doc_bean, Moros, Papewaio, Pindar, Redleg, Tom_Hagen, Xiahou)

Alexander the Pretty Good = 2 (Omanes Alexandrapolites the Idiot, Orb)

Reenk Roink = 1 (Reenk Roink)

Not Voting = 10 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Destroyer of Hope, Drisos, Ironside, JimBob, Kagemusha, Masy, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro [director], Xdeathfire)

Edit, FYI:

23 Players are still alive: AtPG, BKS, ByzK, CtArach, Cowhead, Destro, Doc, Drisos, Iron, Ituralde, JimBob, Kage, Luigi, Moros, Omanes, Orb, Pappy, Pindar, Prole, Red, Reenk, Tom_H, X.

Night Seven PM’s commence; Deadline: 1400 EST 1/31/7.

Night Seven Summary

CountArach was lost in thought about his French estates destroyed during the war and the circumstances that brought him to Fatlington -- vineyards torn and burned, the chateau a shell housing pigeons.

“Comte de Rien” he muttered to himself with a hint of bitterness.

The taxi came to an unexpected halt, interrupting his reverie.

“Sorry Mac, there's a crowd jammin’ things up,” said the hack. “Some group of Christer’s I think. I could try Baltic through Chinatown, but I don’t trust them Japs much, not after Pearl.”

Arach began to reply, but thought better of it. He suspected that an explanation of the difference between China and Japan would be wasted on the driver. He also knew Chinatown would take him out of his way. Arach threw enough to cover the fare in the front seat and stepped out of the cab. They were only 6 or 7 blocks from the Library, he’d just walk over, pay his fines and head home.

The reason was clear. There was a small but loud man preaching from the back of a truck. Arach couldn't help but listen as he worked his way through the crowd.

”Do not think the Lord will simply let filth into His House,” shouted the holy roller! “'The Lord is just and His vengeance is terrible! Repent or face His wrath!”

<<The troubles of the city breed these types,>> Arach thought. <<People will look to any hope – even fables – when in fear.>>

“Those with dirty hands, who will not have them cleaned, are worthy of death!”

Arach’s thoughts were interrupted when a man crashed into him knocking him back several steps. He fell, along with a couple of other men in a tangle of arms and legs. As the men stood the man who’d started the tumble spoke.

“You! You’re bleeding!”

“Huh?” He looked down. The man who’d informed him he was bleeding made the statement correct with a quick thrust from a long knife. Before the shock of the stomach wound had really registered, a second knife – wielded from behind – had ripped across his throat from left to right creating a bright fountain of blood under the glare of the streetlights above. Then the first killer got a good look at their target.

“Oh, Crap…”

He was looking into the shocked and uncomprehending eyes of Drisos. In seconds the light in those eyes faded and went dark. The two killers quickly bundled the body into an alley as the crowd dispersed screaming; dropping a white glove on Drisos as they went. Their stained coats would end up in a basement incinerator.

Somehow, in that small tangle of men falling on the sidewalk, Drisos had been outfitted with Arach’s distinctive hat and shoved forward to meet the fate of another. Arach would not sleep well, but he would live to muse again of France and better times.


Destroyer of Hope had kept very quiet throughout this horrible process. Rather than skulking around, however, he’d tried to hide in plain sight. Tonight, he was at a coffeeshop having a late supper. It was one of those pay-as-you-go places, so when it was time to leave he could just leave. Besides, there was a new coffee-slinger behind the counter every time; with that kind of turnover, he could save himself the cost of a tip. He was seated in the last booth, his back to a brick wall, and nobody at all was sitting at the counter. Safe enough.

Without warning, two men burst through the front door with pistols drawn. They fired shots into the roof and shouted for the other patrons to hit the floor. Destro just quietly drew his gun under the table while miming shock and horror on his face. As the other patrons and the counterman dropped out of sight, the two gunmen turned toward Destro – who was now facing them with his own pistol out and leveled.

“We’re two to your one,” said the younger of the two gunmen – being very careful not to move.

“Yeah, but your guns are pointed the wrong way,” said Destroyer. “You might get me, but not before I drop at least one of you. Any volunteers?”

“Besides, you’re outgunned,” said the counterman standing up, a leveled double-barreled 8-gauge shotgun in his hands. “Everybody always overlooks the coffee-slinger. Drop ‘em.”

Both gunmen dropped their weapons.

"Well, now," said Destro, placing his gun in easy reach and grabbing a note pad and pencil. "How about we start with your names and the names of your family members? Unless you want John Q. Public here to wax your asses – this witness will swear you were going for your guns..."

“Don’t worry about it.” Said the older gunman.

The other added, “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.”

The counterman adjusted his aim and blew Destro's hid – quite literall – off.

"Did you have to use both barrels? I mean that was a LITTLE excessive, you know," said the younger gunman?

"Cheap jerk didn't even leave me a tip," replied the faux counterman.

"Let that be a lesson to you folks," the older gunmen said to the hiding patrons. "Always take care of your servers."

The gunmen looked at the counterman expectantly.

"What's up," the counterman asked?

"The Glove" they said in unison. The older one continued, "you do have it?"

The counter jockey looked sheepish.

"Fortunately," said the older gunman, "I was a boyscout."

He removed a white glove from his pocket, dropped it, and they all made their way out into the night.


“Well,” said Seamus the next morning to the few who remained, “the results of our posthumous investigations have given us a ray of hope.”

“It would appear that both Crazed Rabbit and HughTower were Made Gangsters, so we can all hope that this mafia scum will continue to weed out one another. Both had criminal pasts, both were deserving of the chair by all accounts. Good riddance!”

“Another criminal who met his end is Warluster. I should note however, that though he was one of these “Wise Guys” we hear tell about, we don’t have any solid leads on his involvement in a crime land gang, though some accuse him of participating as a vigilante. We’re not even certain about what some of the witnesses were saying about his death – some of the things eye witnesses come up with are a little far-fetched to say the least.”

“I can also, sadly, confirm some of losses we suffered to be good honest town-folk. Pannonian was a townie of solid repute as was Kommodus. In fact, we have some indications that Kommodus was what we have nicknamed a “doctor” and had been actively involved in saving the lives of some of those who have been targeted for assassination. They will be missed.”

“Lastly, while we were able to confirm The Stranger’s status.”

The committee paused, while Fermanagh’s officers whispered among themselves. There had been some contention over this. Some people claimed he was one of the Dons’ protectors, acting weird to create a diversion. If that was so, he had done a splendid job. Others, however, said that he was nothing more than an obsessed townie who had a score to settle with the Mafia who he believed had killed his wife.

“Apparently, The Stranger had gone a bit round the bend after the death of his wife last year. He blamed the gangs for her death, so when this all blew up, he turned vigilante. We know he was guilty in connection with at least one murder – AndrestheCunning – but it would appear that he was, after all, just another townie.”

Seamus put away his notes.

“Gentlemen, and Lady, I wish you continued success.”


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5), Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7), Xdeathfire (D7)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7)


Day 8 Voting begins, lynch only, Redleg directing. Deadline: 1400 HRS EST
2/1/7

I have a 3:30 apt. I'll pM investigation results and night action responses as soon as possible hereafter. Thanks.

Everyone gets there anyway...
In this place there is no shelter,
Blood and flesh upon the altar,
Blames of fire getting high
Oh, my dear its time to die...
This will come to everyone
Cruel justice must be done
-- Via Dolorosa


Sunset, Day Eight


Redleg sat at the front of the chamber, framed by the large picture windows to either side of the small dais. On a table behind him were 3-4 ornate wooden boxes (chests?) – the same boxes that had been present at his last director’s meeting. Through the windows could be seen a pair of field guns, set up in battery on the boardwalk, and a row of what appeared to be a half-dozen long thin stakes bolted to the boardwalk itself. Redleg was a fan of preparation.

“We have met and deliberated,” said Redleg. “We will now cast our final votes for this day.”

One by one the committee filed to the box to drop in their written ballot. If the voting followed the pattern of previous days, many of these signed ballots would bear no name at all – no vote. Others, of course, would name the person whom that voter deemed to be guilty – or at least name the person they thought should die.

Redleg solemnly counted the votes. He recounted them and then asked for confirmation from his attendant guards. Receiving it, he stood to declare the vote.

“It is the will of this committee that Moros be put to death. Guardsmen, take charge.”

Moros bolted upright, a stunned expression on his face. Redleg paused a moment before decreeing Moros’ fate, his expression grim.

“You will be taken to the stakes below. Your hands roped behind your back, five pound weights attached to each ankle, and you will be impaled. I’m sorry, but it’s not a quick way to go – we’re trying to send a message here.”

Moros went for his gun. The cops went for theirs. The committee went for the floor. Redleg stepped back, surprised, then went to one of his boxes. Moros fired at the cops.

“You maniacs are not gonna kill me,” Moros screamed! Two of the cops went down under the impact of slugs from his .45 – dear, trustworthy ‘Betsy.’

But the cops were firing back. Moros was wearing armor, but the impact of the .38 specials staggered him. Moros continued shooting, emptying the clip into the remaining officers. Moros was wounded in both arms and one leg, and both officers went down.

Bleeding and staggering, Moros threw down on Pindar, only to be rewarded with a sharp <click.> He’d emptied all nine shots into the police.

“Moros,” called Redleg, poised in a perfect duelist’s pose and staring along the barrel of an ornate 18th century dueling pistol, “you life is forfeit!”

Redleg squeezed the trigger smoothly, generating a sharp barking <crack,> and a small cloud of sulfurous smoke. The .65 caliber lead ball was spun well by the rifled barrel and stayed true to Redleg’s aim. The ball punched through Moros’ right eye, blowing out the entire back half of his head as though smashing an over-ripe melon. Most of the contents of Moros’ skull were sprayed over the committee. Moros’s body collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“I do not believe justice has been served here,” said Redleg to the stunned room, “but the will of the committee has been served as our mayor declares necessary.”

Two of the police were dead, the others wounded badly. Chief Fermanagh, arriving shortly thereafter, quickly assigned replacements and saw to the body’s removal. The committee milled about, sickened by what they’d been through, yet reluctant to face the dark night that was descending on Fatlington. A cleaning team came in and began work. In time, however, the committee began to make their exits. Redleg caught Proletariat’s attention as she turned to depart.

“Cigarette?”

Prole shook her head no.

“I’ve been trying to cut back lately.”

“Pity.”

Redleg left before Prole could respond.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so Far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7), Moros (D8)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7), Xdeathfire (D7)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7)


Day 8 Lynch Vote Tally

Moros = 7 (Alexander the Pretty Good, JimBob, Kagemusha, Pindar, Proletariat, Tom_Hagen, Xiahou)

Pindar = 4 (Ituralde, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Moros, Omanes Alexandrapolites the Idiot)

Proletariat = 3 ( ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Orb)

Reenk Roink = 3 (Cowhead418, Doc_bean, Reenk Roink)

Not Voting = 4 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Ironside, Papewaio, Redleg [director])


Dead: 37, Living: 20


Night Eight begins: PMs due no later than 1400 EST 2/2/7. Happy Groundhog Day.

Night Eight Summary


Xiahou hadn’t walked 4 blocks from the convention center when he decided to hail a cab for the rest of the trip. As he opened the door to get in, he heard a pair of strange metallic <clinks> from the shadows of the recessed entryway of the building to his right. Arcing into the light were two hand grenades!

Xiahou ducked just a little, and both grenades landed in the back of the cab. On reflex, Xiahou slammed the door and dove behind the cab into the wet gutter. A half second later, both grenades went off, perforating the startled drivers face and head and adding another innocent bystander to the casualty rolls.

Xiahou leapt up, gun in hand– it seemed everybody went armed in Fatlington anymore – to face his attackers, but whoever had thrown the weapons had scampered off into the building. Catching them would be impossible. Xiahou did not wait for the police, but quickly ran to a different avenue. He felt the need for a stiff drink.


Tom_Hagen was a little further on his trip home. He too was walking, having decided against a car as too much of a target. Instead, he had taken the boardwalk, choosing open terrain and visibility over stealth or speed. It wouldn’t help.

As he reached one of the stairwells leading to the beach, a dark figure detached itself from the dim shadows near the boardwoalk side of the Abbatoir Hotel and walked towards Hagen. Hagen stood stock still – unsure which way to break. Just as suddenly, figures carrying riot shields leapt up onto the boardwalk in front of Hagen. The move to interpose themselves between Hagen and the dark figure just as the dark figure withdrew a long-barreled pistol from his coat…

A sudden gust of wind off the Atlantic grabbed the shield bearers and kited them off the boardwalk to land on the street next to the hotel – they were out of it.

Atop a balcony several floors up, gunfire slashed out aimed at the shadowy figure with the long pistol. Others were opening fire to defend Hagen! The Shadowy pistoleer ducked and weaved. Suddenly the firing stopped.

Slowly the crouched figure of the pistoleer stood erect. He held the long barreled antique dueling pistol in one hand, drawing a bead on Hagen’s head. Hagen gulped. There was nowhere to run, no way to hide, and in the confusion he hadn’t gone for his own weapon. The gunman gently squeezed the trigger; <fizz;> a misfire! Hagen went for his gun as the shadowy figure broke back towards the building. Hagen got off a few shots, but was too jangled to take proper aim. His target slipped away into the dark streets. Hagen stood shocked for a moment or two, but then quickly went for the lobby – to call a cab.


Ituralde always tried to keep an eye out for trouble, so when he spied two men harassing a young woman outside the drugstore across the street from the restaurant he’d just exited, he had to do something to help her.

As he reached the struggling trio and began shouting for the men to leave her alone, the woman suddenly grew quiet, calmly adjusting her skirt back into place. Ituralde paused, confused.

The younger man spoke. “That’s your exit cue sweet-cheeks.”

The girl departed quickly as Ituralde started to speak.

“But I thought…”

““Don’t worry about it,” said the older man pulling a heavy caliber pistol from his coat.

“Don’t trouble yourself about anything,” said his companion, gun already in hand.

Ituralde was backing up and going for his weapon as well, but he knew he would be too slow…

When suddenly a hail of gunfire – A Tommy gun on what would later be nicknamed “full rock and roll” – erupted from a parked car in front of the restaurant and repeatedly hammered the two gloved gunmen smashing them back through the window of the drugstore as Ituralde dropped to the ground and rolled between two parked cars. When he got warily back to his feet, the two gunmen were gone, having beaten a retreat through the back of the drugstore – they must have come armored – and the car with his savior (saviors?) was only a pair of tail-lights rounding the corner of the next block. Ituralde exhaled in relief. <<All-in-all,>> he thought, echoing Field’s tag-line <<I’d rather be in Philadelphia.>>


A while later, Xiahou, thoroughly upset and just returning home from a bracer at the corner “tappy,” spun quickly at the strange metallic scrape, already leveling his pistol at the shadow breaking away from the alley to his right. He felt his neck being cut even as he completed his spin and jumped back a step. He was ready to fire, but paused ever so briefly in surprise.

Before him stood some kind of ancient Greek warrior, dressed in what someone who was just a bit better versed in history than Xiahou would have recognized as the bright red anorak and full panapoly of a Spartan Hoplite. It also answered how he had managed to cut Xiahou from a distance of nearly 10 feet away, since the spear this hoplite had used had a reach of more than 8 feet. Xiahou blinked and took aim at the still-standing Lacadaemonian, but found he couldn’t make his fingers work…or his legs….blackness.

When the soporific wore off, Xiahou awoke to find himself immovably tied to a post at the far end of what must be a warehouse. He was swaddled head to toe in painted burlap in a fashion that made him appear to be exactly the same as the other two staked-out target dummies — only his eyes were uncovered. He tried to shout, but quickly realized his throat was painfully dry and he could make hardly any sound – his throat was so dry and constricted he had to work to breathe. When he looked the 40 or so yards away to the other end of the large room, he was perplexed by what he saw – unfortunately for Xiahou, his confusion quickly resolved itself into fear.

Standing at the far end of the practice range was the “hoplite” and with him were another dozen folks dressed in ancient Greek tunics – all of them holding javelins! Xiahou was, unwittingly, the guest of honor at the Fatlington Greek Historical Society’s monthly re-enactment meeting. They were talking and laughing – the turnout was better than usual since all of the fishing boats were in port because of the storm. They had been doing their monthly drill practice with spears and swords, proud of their heritage, and had begun to look forward to a little well-earned lamb and retzina, the smell of which was already permeating from the other half of the warehouse sized venue.

The Hoplite shouted something in Greek and the talking died down and everyone took position. Xiahou’s heart began to pound like an anvil in his chest. He struggled, but didn’t even manage to wiggle enough to be noticed.

The Hoplite issued the commands – in Greek of course – for “Two Rapid Throws” and “Let fly!” He and his peltasts complied, rapidly throwing down range, stepping back while switching hands on the second javelin each held and loosing the second shot almost as soon as the first round began to reach the targets.

Xiahou was struck four times on the first volley – the re-enactors were all pretty fresh having not been working the boats for a week now – and twice on the second. They were stunned and horrified to see blood pouring out of one of their straw dummies of course and raced down the range to help. The hoplite quietly exited. It was of no avail. Xiahou had taken 3 major wounds to the chest and a 4th that had gone completely through his neck. He would die within seconds from shock and blood loss.

Afterwards, as the stunned fishermen discussed the horrific events with the police, no one could remember what the hoplite looked like – he’d stayed helmeted throughout – and everybody else had assumed that one of their companions had invited him. Two of the javelins had been both heavier than the others and adorned with writing. The first read:

Duty
Kagemusha
Proletariat

The second, the one transfixing Xiahou’s neck to the post, was more poetic:

Wings of iron, piercer of the sky/From the Cretan's bold hand fly/Betray us not, nor disappoint/And being cast at Xiahou, disjoint.

The cops finished up their interviews, leaving the scene to the coroner, and made their way – after a stop at Flanagan’s which featured no jokes or ribaldry whatsoever – to turn in their reports.


CountArach was cold. The weather was almost clear after a week of rain and clouds, but it had turned even chillier. He had been waiting in the little park for some time and the sense of “dark” was growing, even though there had been no change in the lighting. The dark was dangerous.

He decided his contact could speak with him in the morning, the better course would be to return home. Home was familiar territory, his territory. Arach worked his way through the streets always aware of his surroundings. He didn't relax until he stood at his door – one close call was enough. He turned the key, the door opened and within a step he felt...the warm body of Francoise his cat moving against his legs in welcome. Soon enough, Fifi was curled in a ball at the hearth and there was a warm mug of chocolat – not very sweet – on the small table next to his favorite chair. Arach sat and picked up his 1st edition of “The White Company” in his hand. He had always thought this book outranked any of Arthur Conan Doyle's Holmes' stories. <<There was simply no accounting for an Englishman’s tastes,>> he mused. Reading of Hawkwood in Medieval Italy took him away from the worries of the here and now.

“Reading about mercenaries I see?”

Arach was jolted back to reality. He saw two figures standing in his room. The man continued.

“I supposed those who sell themselves are attracted to the same. In the end they’ve all been reduced to playing the whore.”

The figure behind the speaker pulled the trigger of his silencer. Arach slumped back in his chair, a bullet hole through his forehead. The speaker walked to the corpse. He picked up the book, wiped off the blood that had splattered on the cover and tucked it up it under his arm. He then laid a white glove in the lap of the corpse. As the man walk out the room he spoke over his shoulder:

“Kill the cat as well.”

Au revoir, Fifi. Nous vous avons à peine connu.


Pindar made a rendezvous with destiny at a little after Midnight. He was driving home through the still-wet streets when, coming to an intersection, he started taking aimed fire from three directions.

Both tires were gone along with the windshield and the bullets were tracking with him into the foot well of the front seat. Pindar slid quickly and opened the passenger door – for some reason it was quiet there – and quickly rolled out of the car. With his broken vehicle serving as cover from the slow heavy caliber shots from the other directions, Pindar found himself facing a storefront – a storefront of a completely darkened store.

Pindar was terrified, scanning for a threat from this darkened building, but not seeing any hint of movement. He used his pistol to lob shots at the gun flashes from the other buildings, but only to keep his attackers behind cover – it would take a miracle to stop even one of them.

Finally, low on ammunition, Pindar rapid fired the last of his shots and ran at the darkened building.

<<All or nothing,>> he thought.

He crashed through the store’s door is a spray of glass and rolled into the shop. Empty. No lurking gunman waiting with a final shot, despite the sense that he’d been herded in this direction. Without any further hesitating, he made it out the back, up a fire ladder and away over the rooftops. There was no pursuit. Tonight’s destiny was not final.


Redleg nodded his assent for Fermanagh to begin the morning briefing. A short recitation of the night’s events brought them up to date on the latest carnage. Then Seamus paused before beginning his “post-mortem” updates.
“Well now, we’ve put in the legwork needed to acquire the information requested by the committee. With the subjects dead, there has been far less protest about rights violations and the like, so…

He paused, a little hesitant.

“Anyway, we’ve determined that two of our suicides were criminals. Both Masy and Xdeathfire were players – wise guys – with criminal pasts. They do not seem to have been active at all in this recent crisis however, though we have an unconfirmed rumor that Masy wanted to go straight.”

He shuffled through his papers.

“I don’t know what to make of the information we’re getting on former director Kojiro. Sasaki was, apparently, affiliated with the Mafia gangs – in fact he came over from Palermo following the war and was reputed to have powerful connections with Charlie Lucky and the rest of the crowd at Murder, Inc. It seems his skill was as some kind of fixer or trouble-shooter. It was claimed by one caller from New York that he could make an axe-murderer come off looking like a dime-store shoplifter if he had a little time to “fix” things. He certainly was glib, but he was an enemy of our town.”

“Sadly, I do have to report we lost a few good guys. Drisos was just a quiet member of the committee – didn’t even participate much – who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His family is taking it pretty hard. Destroyer of Hope was an even worse loss. I can now confirm that he was one of my hidden Detectives. Indications are that he’d been inactive for a while, and we have reason to believe that any information he did have died with him – he wasn’t able to pass the information as Guru was.”

“I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mixed bag here. Good luck in your deliberations.”

Redleg sat straight.

“Thank you chief. We’ll take a 10-minute break and then get started with the morning n discussion session."


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so Far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7), Ituralde (N8), Pindar (N8), Tom_Hagen (N8), Xiahou (N8)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7) [The Wolf], Moros (D8)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7) [Detective], CountArach (N8), Xiahou (N8)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7) [wise guy], Xdeathfire (D7) [wise guy]

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7) [townie]

Dead: 39, Living: 18


Day Nine begins: Selection Votes for Director (10 & 11) and Lynch Votes are due no later than 1500 EST 2/3/7 ( I will count nothing posted later than 1504 -- a small allowance for simul-posting). Warning: I will be as prompt as possible, but the weekend is more in flux at my house. Please be patient.

He's the lonely fear of dying
And for some of living too.
He's your private nightmare breaking
He just loves to turn the screws.
So stand as one defiant,
And let your voices swell.
Stare that Beastie in the face,
ANd really give him Hell.
-- Ian Anderson


Sunset Day Nine


Redleg sat at the front of the room, his mien grim. The final committee meeting of each day was no longer an exercise in tension – instead there was a palpable anger and mistrust.

“Final balloting.”

They all trooped up and turned in their votes. The counting scene was eerily familiar now – and carried out with a certain dreadful efficiency. Redleg stood.

“We have selected JimBob as our next director. JimBob, I offer you my thanks for your work and my thanks to all of you for allowing me to serve.”

He paused, then shifted to the next tally sheet.

“Tom_Hagen, you are found guilty by this committee and sentenced to death. You will be accorded the classic traitor’s death. You will be racked to encourage you to talk with us. Following this, you will be drawn and quartered and the refuse tossed into the sea. May God have mercy on your black soul – for in my heart I find none. Guards!”

Hagen stood and waited patiently, never moving his gaze from Redleg’s face, as the guards bound him and took him to the waiting rack. Only as he was leaving did he glance at Luigi and shake his head sadly. He said nothing.

On the rack he did confess, of course, but Fermanagh’s guards were far more enthusiastic than they were skilled. All four limbs were pulled from their sockets and his ligaments torn. The pain was excruciating and without pause. Under such conditions a man might say anything. Many present felt his confession was mostly true, though all present doubted that his mother had been a mafia Don as Hagen claimed, or that his grandfather was Gavrilo Princep and responsible for the First World War. Eventually, this horror stopped – only to be replaced by more.

Vivisected and then torn limb from limb, what was left of Tom_Hagen was taken to the end of the pier and dumped into the sea.

“Sic Semper Proditor,” muttered Redleg. Then, more loudly, “These proceedings are concluded.”


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so Far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7), Ituralde (N8), Pindar (N8), Tom_Hagen (N8), Xiahou (N8)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7) [The Wolf], Moros (D8), Tom_Hagen (D9)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7) [Detective], CountArach (N8), Xiahou (N8)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7) [wise guy], Xdeathfire (D7) [wise guy]

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7) [townie]

Dead: 40, Living: 17