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

Post #3858 of main thread.

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

The ants go marching seven by seven, hurrah, hurrah
The ants go marching seven by seven, hurrah, hurrah
The ants go marching seven by seven,
The little one stops to pray to heaven
And they all go marching down to the ground
To get out of the rain, BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The ants go marching eight by eight, hurrah, hurrah
The ants go marching eight by eight, hurrah, hurrah
The ants go marching eight by eight,
The little one stops to shut the gate
And they all go marching down to the ground
To get out of the rain, BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
...The Ants Go Marching One By One
...Children's Traditional


8:47PM, Thursday, 10 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



The day seemed to drag on. The city was completely silent, except for the Convention Center. There, Crazed Rabbit was giving a speech about how boring things had gotten, and that it was time for a change. It was a powerful speech, absolutely riveting. The man continued, offering his services as Director, and giving examples of just how awesome he would be if selected. Unfortunately for Crazed Rabbit, people's trust in him had been shaken by his lack of participation in certain activities, and there were rumors that he had turned against his former associates. As such, his words were wasted on the crowd. When he realized he wasn't getting through, and that his fate seemed sealed, he decided to drop the charade and speak his mind.

"You people are all a bunch of mindless automatons! Why do you follow someone whose loyalties are nebulous, rather than someone whose loyalties are proven? You're a bunch of sheep, you shouldn't listen to anyone! Listen to me! You've got to make up your own minds! Don't follow anyone! Follow me!"

For a moment there, it seemed as though he had a point. But, there was still something a bit odd about what the Rabbit was suggesting.

"You're mafia! Don't you understand? You're supposed to be ruthless and evil, not hold hands with each other!" shouted the Rabbit plaintively. This was a disgrace, Rabbit knew this to be true. He was on a mission to demonstrate that it was wrong to behave this way. The Director had been sitting in the crowd, watching the events unfold. Finally, he stood up.

"Mister Rabbit, I do beg your pardon, but.... I believe that you are objecting to the very idea of 'organized' crime. You see, crime families become powerful for a reason. They keep their word to one another, and stand together against the law-abiding; they don't break ranks just to save their own skins, they don't allow one of their own to be mistreated without reprisal, and they form intricate networks of alliances and keep close-knit relationships. They also keep their silence about family secrets. Indeed, whichever family is most effective is the one which can demonstrate their strength, by standing together, by following the most effective leader, by deposing ineffective or inactive leaders, by weathering attacks and destroying threats. You appear to be an advocate for a certain methodology. I can respect that. Indeed, I've been watching you and your friends closely, and I admire everything that you've been able to accomplish. You've done very well. And yet, while you attack the unity of others, and attempt to undermine their confidence, and cause the chaos you crave, you turn around and seek out alliances with others like yourself; you wish to stand together with certain factions to bring down your opponents. You remain loyal to your friends, or at least the ones you've chosen to be loyal to. Perhaps you intend to betray them later, this is all beside the point. The point is, you cannot convincingly attack a group of people for behaving in a way that is at the very least similar to how you operate. Finally, if your way is better, then it will be demonstrated by trial. The trial is over, and I do not believe it has passed the test. You certainly had enough time... if your way was better, then thirteen days will have passed, and you would be standing where I am, telling everyone that the time has come for me to die. Do not think me unsympathetic. I find you brave and cunning, evil and ruthless. I respect that. But we are equally ruthless, and we are in competition. And the time has come for you to die."

Crazed Rabbit was not a whiner, not in the slightest. He was a man, after all. Although he had objections and stated them for the record, he was not a man who would dwell on mere lamentations. What he expected now was a death that was fitting for a man of his stature; a death fitting of a man, period. One that would be memorable. "Take me into custody then. Do your worst, Pizza man."

"As you wish." said the Director, who removed his fedora, and placed a brown and red hunter's hat atop his head. He removed his overcoat, revealing a brown hunter's outfit beneath it. He snapped his fingers, and was handed a shotgun by one of his goons. The crowd began to groan, expecting something more original. Several of the Director's goons approached Crazed Rabbit, holding a large trunk. They set it down next to him and opened it up to reveal an old, tattered, bloody Rabbit costume. Crazed Rabbit recognized it not as a Bugs Bunny outfit, but something more familiar... and sinister. It still smelled of cigarettes. "You expect me to wear that thing again, just so you can chase me around Fatlington dressed as Elmer Fudd? That's your idea of creativity? What happens next, are you going to quote classic lines written by better writers than yourself?" muttered the Rabbit.

The Director nodded grimly, eye twitching. "That is the sound of inevitability, mister Rabbit. When you hear the words, and know exactly what is going to happen next, but you cannot do anything about it. It's akin to Fate. You're familiar with Fate, aren't you Mister Wabbit? It is that which renders free will and choice to be nothing more than an illusion. An illusion that I'm afraid, you need to wake up from."

Crazed Rabbit's heart sunk. This wasn't how he wanted it to end at all... this was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Perhaps you need to be shown. Let us try an experiment, Mister Rabbit. Try to do something unscripted. Perhaps you don't wear the Rabbit costume. What if the whole Elmer Fudd scenario doesn't happen? Look inside the Rabbit suit, you wascawy wabbit."

Crazed Rabbit approached the familiar Rabbit suit, worn by a ruthless and undetectable gangster. But suddenly, the suit began to move.... and the head slowly turned toward the Wabbit, grinning madly. Just as the Wabbit was about to touch the old suit, the head burst open, revealing thousands upon thousands of rats, who had been feasting on the corpse within the suit. The rats seemed almost demonic, and they were instinctively driven to attack Crazed Rabbit. Within an instant, they were scurrying up his body, biting him all over.

"It will all be over soon, Wabbit. But I offer you the illusion of choice.... do you wish to be eaten alive by the rats, or do you want to be hunted down by Elmer Fudd? Look inside the suit and you'll find two pills, one in each pocket of the Rabbit suit. The blue pill will put you to a merciful sleep, and you'll be a feast for my pretties. The red pill will make you very unpalatable to the rats, and they will disperse."

The rats were very painful, and Rabbit thought that he could outwit the Director and escape. It was time to take the red pill, even if it was a 'Matrix' rip-off. And as soon as he swallowed the red pill, it was exactly as the Director promised. The rats dispersed, leaving his clothing tattered, but he was otherwise all right.

"Be vewwy vewwy quiet...." began the Director.

But Rabbit was already out the door, bolting for freedom. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, until he found that he had an extra spring in his step. Whatever was in that pill was doing wonders for his energy level. He actually began skipping, bounding, and hopping, as he scrambled down the sidewalk, looking for a way to escape. Something large and loud flew by his head, and then disappeared. Wabbit looked up, and saw aurora borealis in the sky... a very rare occurrence for Fatlington indeed.


They're coming to get you, Crazy-Waisy. They love how you scamper. And they're going to get you unless you GET WITH THE PROGRAM, AND STOP WASTING TIME!


Another one of the creatures flew toward Crazed Rabbit, and severed Rabbit's left arm completely off, quickly gulping it down with its razor-sharp, insatiable maw. Rabbit looked at the gaping wound and felt the pain, but kept running. If he ran, he could outrun them... and he didn't look back. He knew what was happening. They were swarming all across Fatlington, gobbling up everything in their path, like locusts. As Rabbit turned the corner, he saw himself face-to-face with a man with a potato sack over his head, wielding a chainsaw. Crazed Rabbit dodged the swing and scampered away from the maniac, only to find himself surrounded by the living dead. He could see them everywhere, they were all around him, waiting for him.... and they were hungry for human flesh. Wabbit reached for his gun, determined to go out fighting. In its place, he found only a tennis ball.

"Be vewwy, vewwy quiet..." said a far away voice.

He stared at the tennis ball blankly, wondering where in the blue hell it came from. Then, the tennis ball spontaneously ignited, burning his remaining hand. Undaunted, he threw it at the lead zombie, who happened to be eating a bowl of oatmeal. Inexplicably, this caused a powerful explosion which incinerated the horde of zombies, saving Rabbit's life. The loud explosion caused Rabbit's ears to ring, but he paused for breath and to regain his composure.

He couldn't hear the chainsaw-wielding madman behind him, and had momentarily forgotten that he was there. In one brutal and terrifying moment, the chainsaw tore through the Rabbit's flesh, severing his other arm from his body. Crazed Rabbit screamed in pain, and began hopping away as fast as he could. He turned another corner, hoping to find safety, and instead saw a man standing in the middle of the road wearing a trenchcoat and Fedora. He didn't recognize him at first, but when the man opened his trenchcoat and revealed dozens of kunai blades, Wabbit knew who it was.

"Twilightblade? What are you doing here?" gasped CR, as a ridiculous amount of blood continued to spurt from his gaping wounds. Twilightblade, the original Neutral Avenger, said nothing, but grasped several kunai in his hands and threw them at the Crazed Rabbit, impaling him in several places, causing the wabbit to fall to the ground helplessly. "Just kill me and get it over with..." pleaded the Wabbit. As if acting on command, Twilightblade nodded and dumped a bag of golden powder on him, and the powder promptly exploded, completely obliterating both the Wabbit and Twilightblade.

"Be vewwy, vewwy quiet..." said the familiar voice.

Somehow, Crazed Rabbit was still alive. What was going on? He found himself wearing the tattered Rabbit costume from before.... and it smelled like death. He could barely see out of it, as all around was dark and cramped.

"Do you know where you are, Mister Rabbit? You're right back where you started. You see, what you call freedom is only an illusion. There is no freedom, no choice.... only destiny. You're back inside your suit.... and you're about to meet your destiny."

Crazed Rabbit felt tiny bites all over his body.... he was being eaten alive by rats! He was the corpse inside the suit, that the Director showed to him earlier! This was impossible.... the rats tore him to pieces, feasting on his whole body, and Crazed Rabbit couldn't move... he struggled to free himself from the trunk, but he couldn't escape. They ravenously devoured the Wabbit, who screamed and screamed. But it couldn't be real.... it wasn't real....

"You're right, Mister Rabbit. It's not real. Everything you've experienced is a result of that red pill you took. It has played tricks with your mind."

Rabbit was starting to panic. He wanted to be let out.... he wanted freedom. He wanted the fresh air of freedom! He couldn't breathe.... he couldn't speak....

"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT OF THIS PRISON! HELP ME!!! HELP ME!!!" screamed Crazed Rabbit, as the horror of his situation finally set in.

Suddenly, the trunk opened up, and there stood the Director, dressed in the same hunter's outfit. The shotgun was pointed directly at Crazed Rabbit's face.

"....I'm hunting wabbit."


*BLAM BLAM BLAM*


"huh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh...." laughed the Director, as he turned to face the assembled Committee. The look in his eyes clearly demonstrated madness, as they twitched involuntarily.

"Meeting adjourned." he said, coldly.


OOC

Orders for Night Thirteen are due no later than:


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


Lynch vote tally:

Crazed Rabbit: 15 (Diana, fyre, Jarema, hero, Neri, Cahoma, Xehh, Gamez, Krill, TLD, TS, Beskar, Niklas, Kennigit, gibson) :skull:

fyremarble: 6 (CR, Chaotix, sturmhauke, Lewwyn, guiri, DiY)

Chaotix: 3 (Seon, AA, shlin)

Cahoma: 1 (gnarly)

Post # 3875 of main thread.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing."
...Macbeth, 5.5 17-28
...William Shakespeare


Thirteenth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


White eyes wasn’t much for sweets. His house was always stocked with a supply of wholesome foods, ranging from a variety of in-season fruits and vegetables, or else, thick breads and an assortment of canned fruits. So, it was with a puzzled look that he stared at the strange person standing in his doorway. The bell had been rung politely enough, but the person before him was quite odd. Clearly a tall man was standing with a large, white bed sheet in his doorway. The suit pants and sleeves could be seen hanging out. His request for a “treat” was quite odd for such a time.

Nonetheless, White eyes returned, holding a ripe red apple in his hand. “Do you mean something like this?” he asked. The person before him visibly recoiled, hissing.

“Devilry!” he screamed. “That is no treat! This means war! This means…. You deserve a trick!” A pair of tommy gun emerged from the crazed man’s cover. White eyes immediately slammed the door in his face, before sprinting to the back of the house. “You won’t escape me!” The crazed man screamed. “The neutral avenger shall have his treat!” A storm of bullets tore through the door, before it was kicked down. The man leaped through the splintered frame, looking about for the home’s owner. He let loose a random spray of fire from each weapon, the bullets tearing into the house’s walls. He gave a short pause. A loud bang indicated the back door being slammed behind a fleeing homeowner. “Excellent, excellent…” the avenger muttered to himself. “Now, the house is to myself. I know he’s hiding the treats here somewhere. Now, where to start…?”


Monk simply sat at the steps of the convention center, letting the crowd just filter out. He didn’t feel like going home tonight. It was a fair distance, as far as Fatlington is concerned anyways, and the car would just attract mob attention. No, no… this was best. At least, it was until about midnight.

With his back to the convention center’s cement wall, Monk had established a surprisingly decent sleep. He didn’t hear the pair of footsteps approaching him. He didn’t hear the gun cocked. Didn’t hear the small chuckle as the two assassins gave smart looks to each other. A loud shotgun shot rang through the air of the convention center. Monk was left there, still propped against the wall, a surprisingly content look on his face, in spite of the large hole in his chest. A simple trademark was left in Monk’s lap- a photo of the icy Alaskan coastline, with the words “Seward’s Folley” written at the bottom.


The night was similarly quiet for Yaropolk. He had ceased his vigilance ages ago, and instead greeted possible doom with a sort of malaise and acceptance. He arrived at his home, and quickly prepared for a long night’s sleep. He turned the lights off, and simply plopped onto the mattress, still in his clothes. Much like Monk, he didn’t hear the group that entered his doorway. The band of five tiptoed their way through the house, and up the stairs to the bedroom. When they opened the door to find their target snoozing away, they sighed a bit in relief. Each one pulled a lead pipe from the inside of a jacket, and the five quickly descended on the prone target, and delivered a swift, but brutal death.


Meanwhile, across town, Lewwyn was not quite ready to submit to imminent doom. He was driving briskly down a little-used side road, intent on reaching a safe place. However, his venture had not been unnoticed. A black, armored car had been following for nearly ten minutes. They were neither engaging, nor letting him out of their sights. If Lewwyn increased his pace, it kept up. Hence, he kept a steady pace, traversing the increasingly dark side streets of Fatlington.

Finally, he found a street that was completely unlit, the lights evidently a casualty of the conflict. He pulled to a stop. Lewwyn opened his door, and immediately made a crouched spring for an alleyway, to lose his pursuers. However, a pistol shot rang out in the night, and Lewwyn collapsed to the pavement when a single bullet pierced his right knee. The two in pursuit were already on foot, and found a howling Lewwyn writhing in the darkness. Lewwyn glared at the shadows which stood over him, finally gathering his senses from the pain. In spite of the near darkness, he could see the gleam from their new weapons- long combat knives. One immediately plunged down into Lewwyn’s chest, and pinned him down with the force of the stab. The other immediately began removing Lewwyn’s shoes. Despite his best effort, Lewwyn couldn’t remove the man pinning him, couldn’t remove the knife from his chest, and couldn’t stop the man who began to carve at his toes….


Beefy found himself in a bit of a pickle. Two assailants had been chasing him up and down the street he lived on for a good ten minutes. One was insisting on tossing sticks of lit dynamite as though they were grenades, while the other madly raced around after the poor man with a knife. There was no reprise, only continued running, as the knife-wielding lunatic seemed to never tire, and the other seemed to never be short of more explosives. But a saving grace came to him at least, as an armored car wheeled into the street from behind the attackers. A single figure stepped out, pistol ready and aimed. The crazed attackers immediately turned their heads backwards. A single warning shot was all it took to send them scampering away. Beefy just collapsed in a heap on the street. “What did Beefy ever do to them…?” he asked himself.


For Secura, the night was young. It was reward in its own right to peruse the streets on foot, looking for whatever might chance by. In good times, it usually yielded a possible new friend, or at least the entertainment of watching a drunkard stagger back from Club 30. But tonight, in very different times, she had found a very different crowd. Three figures stood before her on the street, wearing white masks that made a very good imitation of porcelain. One was flipping a silver coin with leisure, likely the result of many hours of practice. The two on each side advanced slowly, as Secura backed slowly up. The two reached for the insides of their coats.

BANG

Secura flinched as she heard a gunshot, but she felt no pain. A new figure had emerged from an alley behind the three, and aimed a warning shot just over their head. As the three turned slowly, Secura made a run for it down the street. But when the three had turned themselves fully, the lone gunner had melted back into the shadows of the alley, lost to the eye.


The Abbatoir was always a generous sort of place, if you knew how to ask. It was with such knowledge that The Stranger checked himself in. The man at the counter gave him a friendly sort of smile, as though he was in on a joke of some sort. The Stranger shook his head, and headed for the elevator. He stopped before it, waiting for the doors to open. Finally, a faint ping indicated that it had made its way to the bottom floor. Two folks in trench coats were waiting inside, grinning.

Each drew a hand gun from their coats with lightning speed, and it was only by equally quick reflexes that The Stranger rolled to the side. The Stranger immediately ducked for the side door. The two gunmen broke for the main lobby, but a loud gunshot sent them scattering back into the cage. The man at the desk had hefted a shotgun, and was leveling it at the two. One quickly started hammering the button to take the lift up, and it complied, taking them away from the irate desk man. As for The Stranger, he couldn’t help bug grin as he scampered into the street, thankful for the Abbatoir’s protection once more.


The roulette table wasn’t being kind to Sturmhauke. Following his short adventure as Director, he’d taken to gambling as a way of dissolving his moroseness over the situation. Things had been going pretty well over the last few nights. He’d taken the table to town the first night, and had been breaking even since then. But tonight… well, it was probably a night to forget. All those winnings had gone down the drain following an incredible run of double zeroes. It was with a deal of sorrow that he finally called it a night, and started to drag his beaten, sorry hide from the casino.

It seemed, however, that sometimes, even lady luck can feel bad. As Sturmhauke trudged down the street, an armored car whipped around the corner, spraying bullet fire from the nearside. Despite only a few feet of distance separating the two, only a single stray bullet found its target. It struck Sturmhauke in his right shoulder. The car ultimately overshot, trying to recover its position, but instead flipped onto its side. Sturmhauke just stood his ground for a few seconds, so confused he didn’t notice the wound in his shoulder. Finally, pain alerted him to it, and he immediately took off at a sprint to Mercy for a bit of medical care, rest, and relaxation.


For Scottishranger, it was a similar snag of fate that awaited him at the end of his journey. As he wheeled around a corner, his car was sideswiped from the left by another vehicle. His own car twisted around, screeching to a halt. The door had been crushed inwards, stunning Scottishranger for a few seconds. The other vehicle was less lucky, having screeched into the nearby pastry shop. Gathering himself, Scottishranger winced as he found several shards of his window lodged into his forearm. Fortunately, nothing was bleeding too badly. He was sure it wasn’t anything the good folks at Mercy couldn’t patch up in a night or two.



09:24AM, Friday, 11 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"And that's all, folks," Commissioner Fermanagh said, before mopping his brow once more. "Now to finish up with the usual postmortem reports. Your lynch choice, Edse, was not just an upstanding citizen. He was a surgeon who had taken it upon himself to protect us from the continuing attacks by the mob. That he was selected with such a wide margin... is troubling, I must admit. He paused, going farther down the list.

"Now, let's see. As for the other people you killed, Craterus was a fairly normal townsman. He may have had some connections with shadier folks, but I don't think that is much news anymore. Similarly, ULC was a decent, normal person as well. But, on some better news, Peasant Phill was a Don! As well, we've determined that Sasaki was also a Don! I can only hope this helps us narrow down our suspects, and that we can finish off the leaders of these scum!" With that, the Commisioner gave the reigns back to Director Askthepizzaguy, to start up the day's events.


OOC

Day Fourteen begins. You are voting to lynch.

Phase ends:

Feedback PMs will be out within a few hours. As always, PM me if you are expecting a promotion after they go out. Apologies for the great delay, thank you once again for the patience. One last thing- People need to vote, or the wogs will have to come down. Sending night orders will not be enough.


Attacked = 53: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13)

Wounded = 18: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13), Sturmhauke (n13),

Killed = 55: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar (n12), Johhog (n12), qlyphz (n12), Lewwyn (n13), Monk (n13), Yaropolk (n13)


Lynched = 11: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus (d12), Crazed Rabbit (d13)

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, Cahoma, Chaotix, Clitsome, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Psychonaut, qlyphz, Renata, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, sturmhauke, The Stranger, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II

Post # 3966 of main thread.

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

"Plagiarize,
Let no one else's work evade your eyes,
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,
So don't shade your eyes,
But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize -
Only be sure always to call it please 'research'."
...Lobachevsky


8:59PM, Friday, 11 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



The recently re-selected Director stood before the assembled committee as they deliberated. This was the part of the job he found difficult; the waiting. When his business associate and friend of many years was declared guilty by the committee, he knew that things were only going to get more difficult for him.

The well-dressed young woman stood up. Fyremarble was the youngest person ever to serve in the position of authority that she held, and yet her fierce determination and boldness inspired confidence from even her most grizzled and cynical partners. She shook off her inexperience quickly, and became one of the most powerful women in Fatlington... indeed, one of the most powerful women in the whole United States. She wasn't just cunning, ruthless, and powerful, she was also pleasing to the eye. But when she dealt with matters of business, she was a frightening presence. When her name was called, many well-dressed men stood up and loudly protested the decision. "No, you can't do that! If you do, there will be hell to pay!" one of the men shouted. Others joined in loud agreement, as the Director slammed the gavel repeatedly to bring the meeting back to order.

"Calm down, gentlemen. Remember, this isn't personal, it's just business. You've been outvoted, now sit down." said Director Askthepizzaguy. The Director's gang of thugs in red suits reached into their jackets, ready for whatever was about to happen. The businessmen in the crowd did not back down easily, but realized that now was not the time. The look on their faces was one of fury and vengeance as they sat down silently.


The air in the meeting room suddenly seemed very chilly. Tension filled the room, suffocating everyone.


The Director ended the silence by turning to Fyremarble and addressing her. "Are you prepared for whatever awaits you, my dear?" Fyremarble nodded, as several stretch limousines pulled up to the convention center. The Director asked everyone to please get into the vehicles, quickly and orderly. They drove across town in style, with champagne on ice and hors d'oeuvres served to everyone. Given the total absence of any other vehicles on the road and a flagrant disregard for traffic laws, they arrived at Club 30 within ten minutes. They stepped out of the limousines and saw that Club 30 was lit up like never before. The doors were opened, and the Committee was led inside by men dressed in black. They entered the main ballroom, where Director Askthepizzaguy and Fyremarble were led away in opposite directions by armed guards.

When they came back, Director Askthepizzaguy was standing in a white tuxedo and fedora, white shoes, and a red tie. His shoes were strangely affixed with sandpaper on the soles, perhaps for additional traction? He was holding a .38 caliber revolver in one hand, and a rose in the other. Fyremarble entered from the opposite side. She was wearing a glittery red dress which showed off quite a bit of leg, almost all the way up the side. She was wearing red slippers, and looked absolutely lovely. The Director tucked his gun away for later.

In the corner, the local radio DJ handed out sheet music to the musicians. The lights dimmed and the spotlight shone on the Director and his dancing partner.


"The hall is rented, the orchestra engaged. It's now time to see if you can dance. Not only dance, but dance with absolutely perfect poise and precision. If you misstep at any point during the dance, you will die. You must follow my lead exactly, do you understand?" said Askthepizzaguy.

"Yes, of course." said Fyremarble, calmly.

That's when several men in red suits drew their weapons. They ranged from simple knives, to revolvers, to Tommy guns. They were all aimed at the Director and his dance partner. "But this dance requires audience participation. If everyone would, please partner up... and show me what you've got." said the Director, snapping his fingers to indicate they were ready to begin.


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The Director took Fyremarble in his arms, and held her tightly to his body. "Do not allow even one ray of light to pass between our bodies at any time, my dear. Your life depends upon it."

They began to dance in perfect unison, spinning and twisting across the dance floor in one smooth unbroken motion. The crowd parted as they danced, as they too began to dance along with the music. A gunshot blared above the music, and Fyremarble felt something whiz by her face. It couldn't have been more than an inch away, as the Director twisted her to the left. Another gun pointed at Fyremarble, and the Director quickly turned so that she was shielded by his body. The gun fired, and hit the Director in the back, but he seemed unhurt, and continued to dance.

The crowd backed away from the dancing couple as the bullets flew. The Director dipped his partner to avoid being hit by the swing of a lead pipe, and spun her around to avoid being hacked in two by a machete. More bullets fired over their shoulders, past their legs, and shot the fedora off of the Director's head, and still they continued to dance.

A group of thugs wielding baseball bats, tire irons, crowbars, and brass knuckles approached. The Director guided his partner directly into the middle of the gang, as they swung for her head, and legs, and torso. A quick dip, and the baseball bat smashed the face of the man with the brass knuckles. A lift, and the crowbar missed Fyremarble's legs and hit the legs of the man with the baseball bat. The man with the tire iron tried to bust it over Fyremarble's shoulder, but the Director twisted her out of the way just in the nick of time, and once again, the goon only ended up hitting his own partner, who responded by hitting him in return. Soon, they were all sprawled on the dance floor, as the Director smoothly led his partner to the middle of the dance floor. He put the rose in his mouth and stared directly into the eyes of his partner, as he snapped his finger. One of his associates brought him his trademark umbrella, this time made of lead plating and steel bars. Unlike the previous iterations, this particular umbrella was welded together, and forever frozen open. It was clearly only useful as a shield, or a cumbersome umbrella.

A man carrying papers burst into the ballroom, and tried to shout something about the Governor, but no one could hear him over the sound of gunfire and the loud music.

As the dance began to pick up speed, the director held his partner tightly with one arm and held the umbrella in the other, and they began to twirl around the dance floor in circles. Several men with Tommy guns opened fire on the dancing pair. The bullets impacted the umbrella loudly, but otherwise failed to reach Fyremarble. The men on the opposite side had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit by bullets as the Director glided to the left, and then to the right. They kept firing, and they kept advancing. The bullets rained upon them, but the umbrella stopped them all.

The Director danced toward the far end of the ballroom, where there was a white circle on the floor. The well-armed gang kept advancing, as the song reached its climax. The Director struck his heel against the white circle, causing a spark. The circle on the floor then ignited, being made out of some highly combustible powder.

The ring of fire encircled the two dancers, and kept the advancing goons away. The Director gave his partner one final spin, and then dipped her in the center of the ring of flames. The song ended, and Fyremarble heard the sound of a gun being cocked.

Askthepizzaguy held his .38 revolver against Fyremarble's temple, as the man on the other end of the dance hall frantically tried to get his attention. "She's been pardoned! She's been pardoned!" said the lawyer.

Askthepizzaguy smirked. "How cute." He pulled the trigger no less than six times. Each time, there was no bullet in the chamber.

"You didn't really think I would allow such a beautiful woman to die in my arms, did you?" asked the Director. He held the umbrella over their heads and gave the woman a kiss. As smoke filled the dance hall, the overhead sprinklers came on, soaking the entire crowd, except for Fyremarble and Askthepizzaguy.

"Thank you for the lovely dance" he said, as he handed her the umbrella, and was escorted away by his gang of thugs.

"Meeting adjourned"


OOC

Orders for Night 14 are due no later than:



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

Lynch Vote Tally: No Lynch Occurred.

Fyremarble 22 (GnarlyCharlie, Krill, Cahoma, Autolycus, Gamezrule, gibsons, Neri, The Stranger, Renata, Niklas, Sister Coyote, Backwards Logic, Secura, Silver Jan, winston hughes, Bsmith, Chaotix, Sprig, Ironside, White eyes, Kennigit, Daveshack)

Chaotix 13 (DiY, BillMC, Lazy McCrow, Double A, Beefy, Tiaexz, Jarema, Erebus, Hero, Shlin, Diana, Guiri, Xehh II)

Sturmhauke 2(sigurd, Believer)

Sigurd 1 (Sturmhauke)

Askthepizzaguy 1 (B_ray)

Secura 1 (TLD)

The Stranger 1 (Fyremarble)

Scottishranger 1 (Seon)

"Thy dawn, O Master of the world, thy dawn;
The hour the lilies open on the lawn,
The hour the grey wings pass beyond the mountains,
The hour of silence, when we hear the fountains,
The hour that dreams are brighter and winds colder,
The hour that young love wakes on a white shoulder,
O Master of the world, the Persian Dawn.
That hour, O Master, shall be bright for thee:
Thy merchants chase the morning down the sea,
The braves who fight thy war unsheathe the sabre,
The slaves who work thy mines are lashed to labour,
For thee the waggons of the world are drawn—
The ebony of night, the red of dawn!"
...The Story of Hassan of Baghdad
...James Elroy Flecker


Fourteenth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


A chill November rain swept through Fatlington, dropping temperatures and hopes. Many decided to stay inside, under the comfort of insulation. If that didn't provide enough warmth, there was always the alcohol to remedy that. The figures that remained outside under these conditions were obscured, shadow-like. Yet still their work continued.


Cahoma lived close enough to the Convention Center where he always walked home from the meetings. He had the path taken down to muscle memory, so the dulling of much of his senses from the rain didn't matter much to him. He would know the way home even in a blizzard where he couldn't see five feet in front of him.

However, unfortunately for Cahoma, his muscle memory did not protect him against impediments that were not usually there. This came in the form of two gunmen that Cahoma did not see until they had a clear shot at him.

"Oh -" he began, but the rest of it was lost due to the rain and the gunfire, and soon enough his blood was flowing down into the sewers of the city along with the rainwater.


Renata was playing poker with some of the boys. They had been going deep into the night until there were only three of them left: Herself and two other gentlemen who had been playing solidly but had been bleeding chips for a long time now. Finally, as the last hand was dealt, one of them looked at the other. "All in," he said, pushing his meager stack into the center of the table and topping it off with a single 1951 half dollar.

"Call," said the other one, adding his own half-dollar to the pot, and before Renata could react they both had their guns out and trained on her.

"Well, if you boys are going all-in, I guess it's only right that you show your hand. I suppose I have to do the same," she said, grinning, and an instant later both gunmen each had *two* guns pointed directly at their heads from four people that had showed up seemingly out of nowhere.

"I'll just take your money this time, I think," she said, nodding at the four. "Next time, though, you had better hope you're playing with better cards." And without another word, she collected her winnings and exited.


B_Ray was quickly walking down one of Fatlington's streets, commenting on the weather with a friend of his whom he had met.

"Brutal, eh?"

"Yeah, now I see why this is only a popular town in the summer."

Two figures came in and joined the conversation out of nowhere. "You want to see brutal? Try Alaska in late December or early January."

"Yeah," said the other, "There's a reason why they call it Seward's Folly. Imagine if you're up past the Arctic Circle too. No sunlight during the Solstice. Just 24 hours of straight... darkness."

B_Ray and his friend looked at each other. B_Ray was more afraid for his life. His friend, however, was taking charge of the situation. "That's why I always carry other lighting sources with me," he said, and took out what was obviously a Molotov Cocktail from his coat. "Shoot me and in my dying breath I set all of you *#%!s on fire. Find somebody else to give your song-and-dance to."

Without a word, the two attackers blended into the night.


Sobbing, BillMC took another step.

The attack had overwhelmed him. He thought he was safe, having driven back to his house without any incidents. He had gotten out of the car, shut the door, and was halfway to his front door when *they* came. Led by a man in a crimson suit, three of them had pumped up to a dozen bullets into his body until things reached the point where the only thing his blood-filled eyes could distinguish were the smoking barrels of the guns.

Sobbing, he took another step.

That hadn't been the end of the misery, though. No. He was done flat on his back, bleeding from more wounds than he could count. The rain was washing away his blood as fast as it continued to pour out. The man in the red suit, though, he wasn't finished. Kneeling down, his suit the precise color of Bill's blood (how convenient, this, it wouldn't stain his suit, how well thought-out this plan was), he unearthed a knife and proceeded to take Bill's right shoe and sock off.

He remembered the toe amputation the most vividly out of the entire events of the night. It was pain beyond pain, somehow serving to heighten all of his other wounds in addition to being its own misery. He was so hurt that he wasn't even able to scream or cry. He remembered the three of them conversing afterward, but at that point was too incoherent to understand what they were saying.

Sobbing, he took another step.

He remembered wanting to die, but realized after time immemorial (five minutes) that death wasn't going to come. So he decided to live. Getting up, tearing his suit to pieces, using each one as best he could as a tourniquet, he struggled to his feet and began to limp all the way to the only place he could go: Mercy Hospital.

Thrice, he fell. Each time, he didn't think he was going to get up. His energy was leaving his body, along with his blood.

Sobbing, he took another step. But then, there it was. Mercy beckoned ahead. Sobbing with joy, he took another step.


Winston Hughes had a terrific headache. He had taken sleeping pills, about twenty too many truth be told, but sleep was still not coming. Instead, there was a pounding coming from the apartment next door. They were playing some of that new-fangled music, probably "Rocket 88", and the bassline was far too loud.

Enough was enough. Winston struggled out of bed, leaving his apartment and knocking on next door. Expecting to yell at them to quit that racket when they opened the door, he instead found himself face-to-face with two people carrying very large guns.

"Uurrrghh" he managed, and collapsed to the floor. The two gunmen looked at each other for a second, and then one bent down to check his pulse. Nothing. Confused, they looked at each other again before putting the requisite 1951 Franklin silver half-dollars over his eyes and going back inside.

"Easiest job we ever pulled," one said, laughing.

Three hours later, Winston woke up, struggled back to his apartment, and called 911. He had overdosed on the sleeping pills, and now was going to pay the price in the form of hospital bills from Mercy.


Scienter had outrun a lot in her time in Fatlington. There was the double attack on her a week or so back that she had survived. Things had died down a bit after that, but they were clearly going after her with a vengeance tonight. First, she had survived an attempt to run her off the road when the other car had spun out due to the slippery surface. After that, there was the attempt to poison her drink that she had survived by changing her order at the last second and noticing the bartender scrambling around. Finally, back when she was home, relaxing, she had noticed an odd stench in her house and got out seconds before the entire building exploded from the buildup of too much natural gas.

Now, though, there was nowhere to run. She had driven over to the Hotel Abbatoir to try and find a place to stay the night (the penthouse was now open) and was washing up in the lobby's bathroom when the door crashed open.

Three armed figures faced her. They were blocking the only way out. There were no windows to climb out of, and the protection the stalls provided was laughable.

"A clean, single shot, please," she said, facing the inevitable. "I don't want to make this needlessly messy." The attackers agreed - this was a fair enough request - but as they were conferring, Scienter turned the sink on as hot as she could and let the water flow. Cupping it in her hands, ignoring the scalding they were receiving, she splashed it in their faces and charged, aiming to barrel right through them and out to safety.

It worked, but not well enough. Two gunmen were down, screaming in pain. The other one, though, fired incoherently, chipping tiles and spraying shells all over the floor. None of his shots hit Scienter, but he still did well enough, as she ended up slipping on one of the shells and landing flat on her back.

"Uh-oh." Scrambling into the corner, trying to buy still more time, she knew she was cooked. The gunman's look was merciless as he lined up his shot and fired once, this bullet going directly between her eyes. "At least one of us keeps his promises," he said, depositing two 1951 half dollars on her person and helping his comrades up.


The Stranger didn't know where he was going exactly, but he knew he was being pursued. That was reason enough to gun the car and drive recklessly, even in the night's less-than-ideal conditions.

He heard the pitter-patter of raindrops, the screech of the car behind him, and the occasional bursts of machine-gun fire. What he did not hear, however, was the yell of the pedestrian nearby to watch where he was going.

It was an intersection that had no signs or traffic lights, and as a result TS missed the turn entirely. He ended up slamming his car into a fire hydrant, completely dislodging it from the ground. It launched a fountain into the sky but the impact was enough to bring his car to a dead stop.

Without a word, the two men in the car pursuing him came to a slow stop, exited the car, and made their way over to TS's vehicle. They fired two shots. The first one took care of the window. The second one took care of The Stranger. They then drove off.

The next day, when the authorities finally stopped the constant spray of water from where the fire hydrant used to be, they found a soaked-beyond-belief outline of the state of Alaska with the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled in. However, there was no actual car, as The Stranger had managed to survive the wound and drive himself to Mercy for treatment.


Psychonaut had been sleeping when he was jarred awake by the sound of duct tape ripping off. He tried to move instinctively but found that his arms, legs, and body were bound to the bed.

"Ah, I'm sorry my friend, but you woke up a might too late," said one of the two men who had been tying him up. "A little earlier in the process and you might have been able to get out of this. Now, unfortunately, there's not much else to do. Knife him." The man's partner complied, and removed Psychonaut's big toe, ignoring Psychonaut's muffled screams. Satisfied with the task, the two attackers left the room momentarily.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" one of them asked.

"Oh, right," the other said, and went back in the room to actually kill Psychonaut.


guiri, God bless his heart, was still trying to get some work done. Committee duties had prevented him from showing up to the office these past two weeks, but he had arranged with his boss to work from home. He didn't have that much time to work but did enjoy unwinding at nights by typing up reports and crunching numbers.

As he pushed another piece of paper into his typewriter, guiri got really into his work, as per usual. Fully concentrated on the task at hand, he failed to notice the sounds of two people finishing up work on an elaborate bomb they had mostly set up before guiri returned home.

Finally, he noticed that something was wrong - his filing cabinet was starting to rattle for some inexplicable reason. Not thinking at all, guiri opened the cabinet to see what was wrong, activating the detonator. The cabinet blew up in his face, killing guiri and utterly filling the room with semi-charred pictures of the state of Alaska with the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled on them.


"It is time, Tiaexz."

That was the voice that had been following him for thirty minutes now, cutting clearly through the rain and wind. Time. Time for what, he thought? There was an obvious answer to that.

He had no idea where he was. He had been walking quickly down various town streets ever since the voice had started, not particularly caring where he turned so long as it was "away." He couldn't keep this up forever, after all. Fatlington had its share of dead ends.

"It is time, Tiaexz."

Enough. Enough with that voice. Enough with everything. He turned around. There was one attacker, his face silhouetted through the rain and shadows of street lamps overhead. He was holding a Zastava M88. Seeing Tiaexz, he nodded, and raised his gun, preparing to fire.

Click.

"Time for you to get a new gun, I guess," Tiaexz said, not quite believing his luck, and walked off into the night with confidence.


09:11AM, Saturday, 12 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"And that's the daily report," Commissioner Fermanagh said, rolling up the peace of paper. "And now it's time for everyone's favorite part of the day: The postmortems." Nobody on the Committee made a sound.

"Your lynch choice, Populus Romanus, was a rousing success for you scum, as he was a surgeon dedicated to protecting the innocent of Fatlington. I congratulate you on your work, Committee. As for the night deaths, Khazaar and qlyphz were loyal townies and Johhog was a minor scum, not yet affiliated with any of the families. No wonder why they're on the report. Okay, everybody, get to work, I guess," he finished, taking a long swig of his drink and passing the gavel off to Director Askthepizzaguy.


OOC

Day Fifteen begins. You are voting to lynch and select a Director.

Phase ends:

I'll try to send out feedback PMs today. As always, PM me if you are expecting a promotion.

Please continue to vote. Sending night orders alone will not be enough to save you from the WOG.


Attacked = 56: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14), Tiaexz (n14)

Wounded = 21: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14)

Killed = 59: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn (n13), Monk (n13), Yaropolk (n13), Cahoma (n14), guiri (n14), Psychonaut (n14), Scienter (n14)


Lynched = 11: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit (d13)

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, Chaotix, Clitsome, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, sturmhauke, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II

Post #4057 of main thread.

Please send orders to issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.

"This is the excellent foppery of the world, that,
when we are sick in fortune,--often the surfeit
of our own behavior,--we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as
if we were villains by necessity; fools by
heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards,
liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of
planetary influence; and all that we are evil in,
by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion
of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish
disposition to the charge of a star!"
...King Lear 1.2
...William Shakespeare


9:13PM, Saturday, 11 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



The Director was late, arriving today exactly one hour before the deadline, having been completely exhausted by non-Director related activities. He conferred with this friends regarding the method of death, and for a moment, he was completely stumped. Panic began to set in.... and he noticed that the votes for the lynch seemed to be headed for a tie. He needed something, something big to prove he was still worthy of being Director.

The minutes ticked by, and he had plans that night... he couldn't afford a delay or extension. He needed a show-stopper, and he needed it now. Various ideas were tossed about, but the Director, being picky, shot them all down. Then, there was a discussion about whether or not someone could be dealt enough drugs to hallucinate they were being eaten alive by a turducken. That was the final straw... Santino needed to take matters into his own hands. Finally, inspiration struck.

When the Director heard the names being called out, he sprang into action, making several phone calls to his friends down by the port. There were warehouses full of items they could use. So the trucks were loaded in record time, and sent down to the convention center, where the Director's goons set to unloading them.

"Gentlemen" began Askthepizzaguy, "I give you the most elaborate, fantastic death ever! It will be like nothing you've ever seen before! You will begin constructing the stage that I have designed."

The Director handed out several blueprints to his goons, the committee members, and even the condemned. They set to work, with only 45 minutes left to go. In a very short time, there were several platforms, each with oddities and horrors more frightening than the last. There were bars around the outside of the platforms, preventing escape for anyone trapped inside.... except by moving to the next platform as quickly as possible.

There were locked doors and hidden keys, pits filled with live scorpions, starving monkeys, complex spiked booby traps, and gangsters wielding all manner of weaponry. There were electrified floors with tiles that needed to be stepped on in the correct sequence to avoid being shocked. There was a rope ladder leading up the side of a building which was soaked in gasoline and would be lit on fire as soon as someone began climbing it, leading to the roof, where a massive aviary had been constructed, containing "attack pigeons" as the Director called them. In order to cross this area safely, they had jump into a pool of honey, then climb out and jump in a vat of birdseed, and then climb out and run as fast as they could to the other side, where they would be able to ride a water slide all the way down to the bottom, which led to a massive drainage canal filled with alligators. From there, they would float off into the river, to relative safety.

The Director checked his watch, and noticed that there was only fifteen minutes left. There just wasn't enough time! He ordered them to work faster, harder than ever. And soon, the magnificent arena was complete. Askthepizzaguy nodded with approval. It was truly a work of art.

The names were called, and Sturmhauke and The Stranger approached, looking at the various gruesome deaths that were in store for them. It was just too much.

"No, I can't do it, Askthepizzaguy. I just can't. I want something more dignified. Please... do something else..." said Sturmhauke.

The Director sighed, and offered his hand. In it were the familiar blue and red pills. "If you take the red pill" the Director began....

Before he could continue, Sturmhauke snatched the pills out of his hand and quickly ate them both.

"HOW ABOUT THAT, Pizza guy? Bet you didn't see that coming. You gave me a choice between blue and red, and I picked both! Now you have no idea what's going to happen! You can't predict the future. There is no fate, pizza man, only choice, don't you see? I've chosen something you couldn't possibly plan for, and now your creepy fate talk is all worthless. Hahahahaaha!!!"

"You really shouldn't have done that..." said Askthepizzaguy.

The ground began to shake. The pavement started cracking, and a loud, demonic roar was heard off in the distance.

"You can't mix those pills, the effects are rather extreme" he continued.

"You don't frighten me, pizza. I know it's all an illusion." said Sturmhauke.

"No.... no, you don't understand. This is as real as your so-called life gets..." The Director ordered his goons and everyone else he could fit into his limousine, and they peeled off in an instant, leaving Sturmhauke and The Stranger behind, puzzled.

The ground shook, as loud, thunderous booms were heard getting closer, and closer.... and closer....


"It's not real, Sturmhauke.... it's not real!" said The Stranger.


But there it was.... it stood 80 feet tall. It was monstrous, and bloated, and making a terrible screeching noise that sounded like three different voices at once. It was a crime against nature, an affront to God himself. It was a being that should not be, it was unnatural.... it was wrong.


"It isn't real." Sturmhauke said to himself, believing it less and less each time.


The gargantuan creature knocked over buildings as it approached, and Sturmhauke stood frozen, trying to convince himself that it was all just an illusion. But the police car that was crushed under the monster's feet, and the subsequent siren, led Sturmhauke to conclude that somehow.... this thing was real. He could see its powerful beak about to swallow him whole, and finally he bolted.

He ran as fast as he could, determined not to be eaten by the massive turducken. He ducked and weaved around the gigantic arena of death that Pizzaguy had constructed, not being silly enough to actually go inside it, and dove into the drainage ditch, hoping that he could make it to the river safely.


Oblivious to what Sturmhauke was seeing, the Director, The Stranger, and the others watched in puzzled amusement as he screamed "NO MISTER TURDUCKEN, DON'T EAT ME!!!" and dove head-first into the alligator-infested water, where he was promptly eaten alive.

"What's a turducken?" said one of Askthepizzaguy's associates.

"I have no idea, but it sure makes me hungry. Anyone want to join me at the all-you-can-eat buffet around the corner? My treat." said Askthepizzaguy. The arena of death would be there tomorrow...

"Meeting adjourned!" said the Director.

The giant Turducken, however, said nothing.

________________

There were shouts of approval, and the entire committee (minus the dearly departed) went off to enjoy a fabulous feast befitting this time of year. They all piled into the limo, starting with The Stranger. They kept coming in, and it became a tight squeeze. There wasn't quite enough room for all of them.

"Somebody has to get out" said the Director, as they zoomed down the street at 70 miles per hour.

Everyone looked at The Stranger, who silently cursed to himself. Askthepizzaguy rolled down the window, and The Stranger was pulled kicking and screaming toward it, and was shoved headfirst out the window. Unfortunately the driver was passing a bit too close to a street lamp at the time, and The Stranger's body became less acquainted with his head. The body was pushed out the rest of the way.

The rest of the committee had a lovely evening, though.


OOC

Night Fifteen orders are due:


Please send orders to issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.

Lynch vote tally:

Sturmhauke (11): Sigurd, Autolycus, Neri, gnarlycharlie, Xehh II, scottishranger, hero di classico, Ironside, Double A, Seon, Sprig
The Stranger (11): Backwards Logic, White_Eyes:D, Jarema, BSmith, gibsonsg91921, Erebus, Chaotix, Renata, Tiaexz, Krill, Kennigit

Secura (1): Oh! TheLastDays!
Renata (1): B_Ray
ATPG (1): Believer
Sigurd (1): Sturmhauke

Abstain: LazyMcCrow, SisterCoyote, Death is yonder, Niklas

Post #4,065 of main thread.

"In 666 there lives a Mister Miller
He's our local vicar and a serial killer
Ohhhh if you find the time please come and stay a while
In my beautiful neighbourhood, my neighbourhood
My, my, my beautiful neighbourhood, my neighbourhood
My, my, my beautiful neighbourhood
Who lives in a house like this?
Who lives in a house like this?
They want to knock us down cause they think we're scum
But we will all be waiting when the bulldozers come
In a neighbourhood like this you know it's hard to survive
So you'd better come prepared cause they won't take us alive"
...Neighbourhood
...Space


Fifteenth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


For Erebus, it was a long night’s walk. He departed the council in a bit of a hurry, wanting to get home quick to avoid getting caught in any mob war crossfire. But it seemed that someone had their sights set on him. He was striding across an empty street when a lone man emerged from the shadows, standing in his path. A knife gleamed in the darkness. Cautiously, Erebus started to saunter to his left, down the other street. The man started to pick up his pace to follow. But he kept a slow pace, seeming content to follow. When Erebus hit the cross-section, the man stood upright, and waited. And waited… and waited… When Erebus was well off in the distance, it finally occurred to the man that whatever grand strategy he had planned was not going to come to fruition.


Gibsons stared back at the odd man before him. He was lurking at one of Fatlington’s seedier bars tonight, hoping to lay low. But an irate poker player has marched over and started accusing him of signaling the man’s opponents. Gibsons merely inched backwards on his seat, trying to get some space. “Look, I don’t know anyone here. I’m just t trying to enjoy my night. Now… if you’d kindly go back to your game, I’m sure you could enjoy yours a bit more too, right?”

“Oh, this is more than just poker, bud. There’s a whole lot more, I think you’ll find.” The man pulled a hidden knife from his coat, and swung his arm in an arc, bringing the knife with full force right at Gibsons’ exposed face. Gibsons winced, recoiling backwards, waiting for the sweet kiss of death.

“Now now… , what’s this? No need to get this poor guy involved, right?” Gibsons opened his eyes, and saw the other three card players behind the enraged man, one holding the man’s arm and twisting it backwards. The one holding the arm nodded to Gibsons. “Now, why don’t you move on, fella?” Not needing to be told twice, Gibsons picked himself up, and bolted from the tavern without a second thought.


Renata was strolling leisurely down her home street. She was pretty close to home, and it had been a quiet night over. She hadn’t heard the usual echo of gunshots or vehicles skidding. She pulled up to her porch, sighing. The quiet seemed almost unbecoming of Fatlington. But she couldn’t quite contain a grin when she heard the click of a shifting gun barrel behind her. She turned slowly, hands raised. “So, that’s how it is? Just coming for me? Is that why it’s been so quiet?”

Two men in trench coats stood a few feet before her. One in the back was flipping a silver coin to apparently pass the time to himself. The other held a pistol to her at point blank range. “Can’t speak for the rest of the mobs, but yeah… we’re coming for you. And it’s time to-“ the man’s words were interrupted when a shot rang out in the night, and the pistol went flying out of the man’s hands. He cursed, a small spatter of blood going flying. The two immediately began to fall back, heads swiveling to find the gunner. In the dark of night, they couldn’t see anything. A second shot rang out, piercing through the gunmen’s fedora and blowing it off his head. He felt the breeze of the bullet blow past his hair. Still baffled, the two panicked, and immediately scampered into the shadows.


Kennigit was just hoping for a relatively stress-free night. His walk home had been quiet. The streets seemed so much quieter than previous. He had to admit to himself, in spite of tempting fate, that it seemed hopeful he could get his wish. He found himself at a crosswalk. He peered left, then right. Back, then forward. He couldn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. Breathing a sigh of relief, he trotted out from the sidewalk. Not three steps out, a man emerged from the shadows, wearing a smart suit and fedora. Kennigit froze on the spot. How’d he miss him?

“There you are. Sorry, no time for pleasantries, but you need to die. It is time for me to reclaim my honor!” The man leaped at Kennigit, pulling a butcher knife from inside the coat. Kennigit managed to unfreeze himself enough to stumble backwards, away from the first strike. But he tripped over his own heels. The man stood over him, a maniacal grin on his face as he raised the knife, ready for the final blow. But for a moment, his face froze up. Three more figures were approaching from down the street, each dressed in identical pinstriped suits and Baretta handgun. Now wait a minute, he missed them too?

“I think your welcome is outstayed,” the center gunmen drawled. “Think you should be on your way now, before you make a decision you’ll regret. Now, don’t that seem wise?” The knife wielding man growled for a moment, before admitting defeat and scampering away down the other direction. Kennigit sighed. At least it was all over…

Well, at least for the moment. As soon as he picked himself up, he could hear a rumbling down the street. A vehicle could be heard, but not seen, coming from the direction the maniac had departed. The three gunners readied their attention, and raised their firearms in the direction. The rumbling grew louder. Finally, a black car, with the headlights off, came into sight at the last second, and screeched to a halt. Both passenger and driver door opened, a shadowed figure emerging from each. A tommy gun could be seen in their hands. But neither had time to do much, as they found themselves under a barrage of Barettas. Each figure ducked back into the car, which immediately came to life. The headlights came on at last, temporarily blinding the four folks in the street, giving the car the perfect opportunity to escape.


09:07AM, Sunday, 13 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"So.... yeah. That was it. Honestly." Commissioner Fermanagh sorted back through his notes to double check. "Anyways. For your postmortem results. We found that your lynch choice, Crazed Rabbit, was a made man in one of the mafia families. Not a high ranking person, but still a crucial element of their efforts. Meanwhile, for those who fell in the night. Like the Rabbit, Lewwyn was made mafioso. Unfortunately, both Monk and Yaropolk were fairly innocent townspeople, in spite of their lackadasical approaches to mob hunting."

The Commissioner sorted his notes back into a single pile, then picked up the gavel.

"Alright, folks. We had a pretty successful night. Now, let's try and carry that over to the lynch. Let's keep up the momentum and drive them all out!" With his bit finished, the Commissioner handed things over to Director Askthepizzaguy to kick the day's events off.


OOC

Day Sixteen begins. You are voting to lynch.

Phase ends:

Scan results will be out in a few minutes. Kill/protect results will probably wait until morning, eg about 6 hours or so. As always, PM me if you are expecting a promotion.

Please continue to vote. Sending night orders alone will not be enough to save you from the WOG.

Attacked = 58: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15)

Wounded = 21: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14)

Killed = 59: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma (n14), guiri (n14), Psychonaut (n14), Scienter (n14)


Lynched = 15: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15), The Stranger (d15)

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, Chaotix, Clitsome, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II

Post #4158 of main thread.

Please send orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to khaan.

"I love my darkness. I love to lie here all alone.
I love my darkness, the only place I feel at home.
I can’t go on. I can’t go on much longer.
I can’t go on. I can’t go on.
This life, this life I’m leading, where does it go, where does it go?
This heart, this heart is beating, how long before, how long before?
These eyes, these eyes I’m seeking, what do they see, what do they see?"
...Black Knight I - I Live In Silence
...Fireaxe


8:56PM, Sunday, 12 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



The meeting today seemed more hopeful than previous ones. Not only had no one died the night prior, but many committee members actually seemed interested in voting. Some, even interested in trying to save their comrades. The Director smiled, obviously enjoying watching the events unfold.

"BillMc, come forward." said Askthepizzaguy.

BillMc was still recovering from his wounds, but was wheeled up to the stage they constructed yesterday. BillMc was no longer sobbing, but had a vacant expression on his face, as if resigned to his fate. The Director picked up a microphone and began speaking.

"You're our next contestant on The Life is Right. You'll be competing not for fabulous prizes, money, or tropical vacations, but the right to avoid a violent ending to your very life! You have ten minutes to make your way through the obstacle course, wielding the weapon of your choice, or you will be killed by a much more painful and sadistic execution method: You'll be hog-tied and buried alive in a trunk filled with 10 pounds of pure, live, grade-A fire ants! So you obviously have a motivation to give our little game a chance. BillMc, which weapon do you choose?"

BillMc: "I choose.... a big slab of roast beef!"

Askthepizzaguy: "Oh.....kay. One slab of roast beef. On your mark, get set, GO!!!"

BillMc hobbled toward the first obstacle, which was a caged room filled with starving, bloodthirsty monkeys. These beasts were much stronger than the average healthy person, and BillMc took no more than two steps inside the cage before it was locked behind him. The monkeys screeched and lunged for the helpless man, who wisely tossed the slab of roast beef in the corner of the cage. The monkeys were confused, and looked at BillMc, then the meat, then BillMc again. Finally they went for the easier meal, and began fighting over the roast beef. BillMc managed to grab the key in the opposite corner and open the door to the next obstacle.

Askthepizzaguy: "Nice."

When he got to the next cage, he saw that the floor was covered with lethal-looking pneumatic spikes. One false step and he'd be impaled. Thinking quickly, he climbed up the side and clung to the roof of the cage, and began crawling very carefully upside-down across the room that way. The spikes activated, and came within inches of killing him, but they didn't reach high enough. BillMc dropped down to the other side and opened the door to the next obstacle.

Askthepizzaguy: "Very nice. Quite impressive."

The next obstacle was the electrified floor. BillMc looked down at the tiles, and had no idea what the proper sequence was. But then he remembered that he still had a cast on his foot.... and so he stepped his other foot atop the cast and began hopping across it unharmed. He turned and smirked at the Director as snagged the key from the far wall and hopped to the door to the next obstacle.

Askthepizzaguy: "Okay... this is just getting embarassing..."

Next up was the pit of live scorpions. Surely these would pose some sort of challenge. BillMc looked around and was a bit creeped out, but bravely continued hopping forward. The scorpions were either crushed under the cast, or their stingers wouldn't penetrate the cast. It was all just.... so.... anticlimactic.Askthepizzaguy: "He can't keep doing that! We should have made him take that thing off. Shoot him, or something!"

The Director's goons began to open fire at BillMc as he crossed a rope bridge to the next platform. The planks weren't made out of wood, but solid steel plating. The rope was reinforced. Very high quality construction, spared no expense. Sadly for the Director, none of the bullets penetrated the steel plated planks, and BillMc made it to the rope ladder unharmed. Several people started staring at the Director, with a look of irritation in their eyes.

Askthepizzaguy: "Well look, if you're going to construct an arena of death, you must always use the finest materials. If this stuff were wood and nails he could probably break out of it. Patience, committee members, patience; he will die."

BillMc was trained to be an officer for the Fatlington police force. Climbing rope was one of the easiest obstacles he'd ever faced. He scurried up the ladder, using just his upper body strength, letting his wounded leg dangle in the wind. The ladder was rigged to light on fire, and it burned pretty quickly, but BillMc was all the way up the building before it was even halfway done burning.

Askthepizzaguy: "I knew he could do that. Seriously. This is all to maintain the suspense. Yeah, that's it.... that's what it is."

BillMc reached the aviary, where tens of thousands of pigeons sat, staring at the man with the wounded foot.

Dead ahead, was a vat of honey, stretched from one side of the building to the other, 4 feet deep and 8 feet wide, and absolutely no way around. BillMc walked as slowly and quietly as he could toward the vat and climbed inside. The birds didn't seem to react. He waded to the far end and climbed out, covered in the stuff. He landed on bad foot, which caused sharp pain and he gasped aloud. Several of the pigeons took flight, but for the most part, they remained perched all along the inside of the structure. BillMc made it as far as the birdseed, which had been covered by a tarp, connected to a chain. The chain lifted, revealing the seed, and BillMc climbed inside. The seeds were smooth and slippery and he lost his footing, covering himself in the seeds as he landed. Still, the pigeons didn't react. The crowd looked on in disappointment as BillMc made it halfway to the water slide without so much as a single pigeon anywhere near him.

Askthepizzaguy: "Ok, that's far enough. Do it."


One of the Director's associates pulled a rope, which hung close to the front of the arena. The rope was attached to loudspeaker system built into the aviary. The sound which blared clear across town was the sound that the pigeons had been trained painstakingly for weeks to understand as "feeding time". BillMc stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the swarm of pigeons blot out the sun, and fill the aviary with feathery chaos.

They were on him in seconds, and he could barely stand, let alone walk. He was an easy target, a living man-sized bird feeder. The screams were muffled, but only got louder and more urgent, more panicked, and more painful. Their tiny little beaks were tearing off bits of his skin as they gobbled up the seeds, and their tiny talons were scratching them all over. The birds were very hungry, it seemed, and were fighting with one another to get every bit of delicious seed from off his body. The rooftop quickly ran red with blood, as the entirety of his skin was ripped from his body one tiny piece at a time. BillMc tried dropping to the roof and rolling to get them off of him, but there were too many. He kept crawling, even as his flesh was stripped down in places all the way to the bone. He passed out from the pain just inches from the water slide, and the screaming stopped.


"Oooh..... so close" said the Director. "Hey Erebus, perhaps you'll have better luck tomorrow. I will be going back to the drawing board on some of those obstacles, so don't think you'll have it so easy next time!"

The Director took one last look at the aviary, then looked at the man who had so many daring escapes. Would tomorrow be yet another? Or would it all come down to a catastrophic finale?

"Meeting adjourned!" said the Director, happily.

Everybody filed out in an orderly fashion, leaving only the rotting corpse of Silver Jan behind. Apparently Silver Jan had passed away from natural causes during the day, but nobody noticed since they never knew she was there in the first place.


OOC

Night Sixteen orders are due:

You will notice the timer is in EST this time. :wink:

Please send orders to GeneralHankerchief ONLY. Do not send them to khaan.

Lynch vote tally:

BillMC: 12 (lazy, WE, Sprig, Winston, Xehh, B_Ray, kennigit, Sigurd, Chaotix, AA, Diana, Erebus) :skull:

Erebus: 10 (Krill, Neri, hero, BSmith, SisterC, gibson, DaveShack, Jarema, Beskar, DIY)

Secura: 1 (TLD)

Abstained: 6 (Believer, Renata, Gamez, Ironside, fyremarble, gnarly)


Silver Jan has been removed from play due to inactivity.

Post #4184 of main thread.

"The Rangers had a homecoming
In Harlem late last night
And the Magic Rat drove his sleek machine
Over the New Jersey state line
Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
The Rat pulls into town, rolls up his pants
Together they take a stab at romance
And disappear down Flamingo Lane

Well the Maximum Lawman runs down Flamingo
Chasing the Rat and the Barefoot Girl
And the kids 'round here look just like shadows
Always quiet, holding hands
From the churches to the jails
Tonight all is silent in the world
As we take our stand
Down in Jungleland"
...Jungleland
...Bruce Springsteen (the greatest)


Night Sixteen -- The Streets of Fatlington


The church bells were ringing in Fatlington. It was Sunday, the day of rest, but for the creatures of the night the killing went on, at once as monotonous and terrible as always.

shlin28 stopped what he was doing to look up at the cloudy sky, perhaps to ponder what it all meant. All in all he took his eyes off what was in front of him for maybe two seconds. That was enough. When he flicked back, he saw two men standing directly in front of him, guns out.

"Seward's Folly?" he asked. They nodded. "Right then," he continued, struggling for words. "Make it quick, I guess? At the very least, make it clean." Again, they nodded. This was not an unreasonable request. Without another word, they cocked their guns and pulled the trigger - but nothing happened.

Double misfire.

shlin, not believing his luck, couldn't help but laugh. "You boys may be Seward's Folly, but I think your guns might be a bit farther west. Can't trust anything made by the Soviets these days, boys." He ran off before they could do anything else.


The church was mostly deserted, not a big surprise considering the time of night and the current circumstances in Fatlington. When Sprig walked in, he had the place to himself. Only the moonlight coming in through the stained-glass windows and the incense burning kept the interior illuminated.

However, he then caught a glimpse of something shiny, somewhere over near the confessionals. He noticed that the priest's door was slightly ajar, almost as if a priest was inside. Maybe it was a sign.

He walked over, fully intent on entering and confessing his sins for the first time in years... and then he looked down. That shiny object was a 1951 half-dollar.

Two figures burst out of both confessional doors - priest and confessor - and gunned Sprig down on the floor of Our Lady of Serenity. "Squeal like a pig, Sprig," He did so with his dying breaths, at least still providing amusement to some left in this murderous town.


B_Ray was under attack. He had been running for three blocks, hoping to turn the corner out of sight and then use the church bells as cover to mask his footsteps. He was lucky he had even gotten this far, as he had caught a glimpse of a picture that outlined Alaska and had the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled on the inside. He looked up and there were two figures, advancing. At that point he had taken off.

His strategy, though, wasn't working. Despite the bells clanging, he could never put enough distance between him and his pursuers to disappear. Worse yet, he was losing ground.

A shot to his leg ended the chase, as B_Ray yelped in pain and fell to the ground, going motionless, waiting for the coup-de-grace. But it never came, his pursuers apparently figuring that he was dead already. B_Ray waited five tense minutes, and then started crawling to the only location open to him: Mercy Hospital.


"Hello, Sigurd."

There were two of them there. Sigurd looked around. No exit to the front or sides. This was bad.

"We don't like you constantly fingering people who might be Don Cunnio, Sigurd. We feel like one of these days you might actually get a name right. That would be bad, Sigurd."

So. The Cunnios. He should have figured. It was only a matter of time, he guessed, after harping about it so much at the Committee meanings. He tried to speak up in his defense, to buy time to... something.

"You've got it all wron-"

He was cut off. "Talking's done, Sigurd. You've said enough these past sixteen days." And without further ado, they opened up on him, riddling his body with bullets but leaving his feet intact. After all, there was still knifework to be done in that area. There was a toe to be amputated. And so the man in the crimson suit began his task, aided by his partner.


In another church, Our Lady of Serenity (this one with the bells ringing), in a different part of town:

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallow'd by Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen." gnarlycharlie finished his prayer, dispensing with the final invocation as was custom with Catholics when praying on their own. However, he remained kneeling, deep in thought.

"A pretty prayer, gnarly." gnarlycharlie didn't have to look up to realize who was talking to him. If this was to be the end, well, he could think of worse places in which to die.

"Your business is difficult on the soul, gentlemen," gnarly replied evenly. "Perhaps joining me will do you some good in the long run."

"We knew what we were getting into when we chose this life," a second voice replied. "Do not think you can talk yourself out of your fate by playing the morality card. Precious few in this town can still play it. We've made our peace."

"And are you satisfied with the life you have chosen?"

"Give it a rest, gnarlycharlie," said the first. "You are no better than any of us. Praying in a deserted church does not make oneself a priest."

"No, it doesn't," he agreed. "But it does allow myself time to study the building's layout!" he yelled, his amplified voice the exact resonant frequency of the building. It was enough to dislodge a chandelier that fell right between gnarlycharlie and his attackers, surely a million-to-one chance but he wasn't complaining about the luck. Instead, he used the diversion to run... and climb. gnarlycharlie was heading for the belltower of Our Lady of Serenity.


The Fatlington graveyard was experiencing a massive amount of traffic over the past year, due to certain circumstances. It was where Death is yonder was found, paying tribute to his fallen comrades and contemplating the meaning of it all. He was alone save for the silhouette of a gravedigger off in the distance, doing his work. He kept his distance from that gravedigger, occasionally marking his position while doing his pondering. You could never afford to be too cautious.

Three freshly-dug graves caught his eye. Usually the new graves due to the mafia deaths were in their own section, but these were off to the side, part of the main body of the cemetery. He walked over there, struggling to read the epitaphs in the moonlight. After some struggle, he was able to make out what they said. Strangely, it was the same thing on all three:

HERE LIES DEATH IS YONDER
MURDERED ON ORDERS OF DON STRACCI
12 NOVEMBER 1951

Then he saw the three Franklin silver 1951 half-dollars. He turned to run, but immediately tripped. A hand with a strong grip had reached out of the ground and taken him by the ankle. This hand used DiY's counterweight to pull the rest of its body out of the grave. He saw DiY paralyzed with fear and shock, and determined it was all right to leave him on the ground for a while while he pulled his other buddies out of the ground.

"Well, that worked," one of them said, as they all drew their guns and prepared to shoot DiY in the head at the same time. But then the middle one went down in a heap. The other two turned - it was the gravedigger! He had been watching the entire thing after all and now stood over the mafioso he had taken down, shovel in hand. He now drew out a gun and pointed it at the other two.

"Two options here, gents. Respect the dead and leave the cemetery, or I put you in those graves for real this time."

They chose the former option.


gnarlycharlie had climbed up the bell tower of Our Lady of Serenity, but now realized this was a bad idea. For one, his ears were nearly bleeding due to the sound. For another, he was now trapped. The chandelier had briefly slowed his attackers. It would not stop them, and he knew it.

He couldn't hear much of anything due to the tolling bell, but he knew that there were most likely sets of footsteps below once the attackers had determined that he didn't flee the church via any of the doors. At least he had the high ground. He would make a fight of it, he decided.

And so he did, wrestling with the two attackers as they came up the stairs, trying to throw them off the tower or drive them right into the bell. His desperation and position only barely held off their numbers, and the fight was evenly-matched. Finally, gnarly held the upper hand, managing to get one of his attacker in a headlock. He quickly adjusted his position and took out a knife and held it out to the attacker's throat.

"Gun off the roof now, or he dies!" gnarly yelled, trying to make himself heard over the bell. "This can still end in stalemate!" The attacker with the knife to his neck, for his part, looked impassive. He would be of no help either way in deciding this.

The Mexican standoff continued for a very long and tense minute, when all of a sudden the door to the bell tower flew open and two more attackers emerged, one of them carrying a harpoon gun.

The attacker from the first set who wasn't in danger of being knifed was the fasted to react. "Drop, NOW!!!" he roared, and his partner went to his knees a split second before the person with the harpoon gun fired it right into gnarlycharlie's chest. He completely left go of the knife and the attacker, staggering back a few steps, already bleeding from the mouth. He had a look of complete shock on his face, which is the last thing anybody ever saw of him because of that moment he tumbled off the bell tower, getting thrown around the roof for a bit before finally crashing on the ground below, dead from both the harpoon wound and the fall.

The four attackers went back downstairs, where they could both talk properly.

"Well done, Seward's Folly," said one pair, smiling.

"Well done, Coinmen," said the other. They all tipped their hats and left Our Lady of Serenity, their task complete, to go their separate ways.


They were after his toe.

That's all Believer knew about his attackers, and that was enough. There were two of them, and both of them had knives out. It was almost kind of an insult, really. What, they didn't think enough of him to shoot him before amputating his toe? Was he not worth the bullets? Was he not dangerous enough to warrant use of quick and effective gunfire?

Of course, he knew the reason. He was trapped in a bar, which was a very enclosed space. He really had nowhere to go for this. Knives worked so much better in tight areas.

There were merits to being in a bar though - there were other people. Two of them, upon seeing the attackers advance on Believer, got up and turned on the attackers. Now they used guns, Believer saw. Very large and imposing ones, and quickly the two would-be defenders went back to their seats at the bar, muttering something about people not showing up. It was the thought that counted, right?

Right?

There wasn't that much time left. He was officially out of space, and they were still advancing on him. He was hoping, praying, begging for another savior, this time an effective one... and he got it. Two guns cocked simultaneously, and his attackers looked back to see a lone man holding two pistols akimbo-style at both of their heads. They were completely beaten to the draw.

Dropping their knives, they muttered apologies and scurried out of the bar.


B_Ray was almost there... almost to Mercy. His leg had hurt more and more on the miserable walk over. He figured it was probably infected. None of that mattered, though, he would get treatment from it. Treatment and safety. He was right at Mercy's doorstep. Literally.

Two armed figured blocked the way. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he muttered. "Since when does Mercy have bouncers?"

"Orders of hospital security," one of them said. "A lot of unsavory figures have been getting treatment here recently. It's been putting the hospital way over budget and we need to prioritize treatment. So we've installed a password. If you know it, you're admitted. If you're not, you need to use the hospital in the next town over. Password?"

"Come on, guys! I'm a loyal townie! I've been working to help protect people at night, please let me in!!!"

The two figures only opened fire on B_Ray in reply, finishing up the job their comrades had started earlier in the night.

"I'm sorry," he said, "That's why we needed to get rid of you. And for the record, the password was 'Seward's Folly'."


9:01 AM, Monday, 13th November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"Right then," Fermanagh said, finishing up the day's briefings, "And now to the postmortem reports." He muttered something about 'khaan getting to do the reports on the days when there were fewer deaths, but nobody quite understood what he was saying.

"It seems as if more mafiosi were hit than townies a couple of nights back, but maybe that's because there aren't many townies left. In any case, Cahoma was a Luca and Scienter was a Made. On the other side of justice, guiri was a good townie and Psychonaut was one of my best men in the Fatlington PD. So congratulations on that hit, I guess." Fermanagh looked like he wanted to get off the podium as quickly as possible and go back to his whiskey, so he obliged Director Askthepizzaguy to begin proceedings as usual.


OOC

Day Seventeen begins. You are voting to lynch and select a Director.

Phase ends:

I'm operating on an extremely tight schedule right now, so you will either get feedback PMs now or sometime after the next 13 hours. Probably the latter, but we'll see.

Remember, night actions alone will not be enough to save you from the WOG.


Attacked = 61: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16), shlin28 (n16)

Wounded = 21: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14)

Killed = 62: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray (n16), gnarlycharlie (n16), Sigurd (n16), Sprig (n16)


Lynched = 16: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15), The Stranger (d15), BillMC (d16)

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BSmith, Chaotix, Clitsome, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, kennigit, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, SisterCoyote, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II

Post #4241 of main thread.

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

"And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy."
...Jabberwocky
...Lewis Carroll


8:37PM, Monday, 13 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey




The Director looked on as they counted the votes. It seemed as though someone wouldn't be escaping their fate this time, as they had so many many times before. Erebus laughed as the name was called out. He was not afraid to die, being so close to his own death in the past made him feel quite comfortable with the idea. He was also half-expecting something to swoop in and save him at the last minute. The Director talked about fate and destiny, but Erebus believed that he was somehow protected by the gods. Something divine, far beyond luck, was shielding Erebus from the doom everyone had predicted for him in the past, and today would be no different. And if it was, at least he got to laugh death in the face.

The sky had been unusually cloudy, and the wind was blowing very cold. But as Erebus walked outside of the convention center flanked by Askthepizzaguy's goons, the clouds parted and moonlight poured down, seemingly a sign from heaven. The wind died off momentarily and things didn't seem so bad. The Director looked up at the sky, and looked over at the so-called arena. Erebus sensed his fortunes turning again. Then, a miracle happened.

"I think I've made a big mistake, Erebus. This whole 'arena of death' concept... it's not fitting for men of our stature. It's not particularly classy or civilized... it's nothing more than a roman colosseum where gladiators die as a spectator sport. I think I've had a change of heart; instead of being hung upside-down in a glass cage full of bees, or drowned in fine wine, or frozen in ice and promptly chopped into cubes, I think the time has come to stop all this bloodletting. I have something better in mind for you."

The Director snapped his fingers, and a limousine pulled up. The Director held Erebus at gunpoint and drove off without the rest of his entourage, leaving his goons and even the committee members behind. "Salvatore's Ristorante, driver." The Director looked at Erebus, studying him carefully. "My cousin Sal runs a restaurant. Only the finest food in all Fatlington, and it is authentic Italian food. You'll love it." Erebus looked back, a little uneasy about what was going to happen. They pulled up to a luxurious restaurant, complete with valet parking and the red carpet laid out for them. It was grand, possibly the most exquisite looking restaurant that Erebus had ever seen. "A little further. This isn't the place I had in mind." said the Director. They continued down several streets, and took a couple of turns down some rather shady-looking alleys. Finally they pulled into a tiny parking lot behind a dilapidated building, where a flickering neon sign read 'Sal's Ris----nte'. It seemed that Sal's was still open for business. The parking lot had a few stripped down vehicles in it, and none of them were in working condition. The Director led Erebus inside, even holding the door open for him. Inside, the place was poorly-lit and filled with cigar smoke. The floor was sticky and hadn't been swept. A burly looking man at the bar didn't even say hello as they entered, merely nodding at the Director while wiping a filthy glass with a dish rag. The swinging doors to the kitchen opened, and an enormous man in a greasy, blood-stained white undershirt came out. "Oh, hold on... I'll get youse guys a couple of menus" said the man. "Please, have a seat anywheres" said Sal.

Erebus looked at Sal, then at the Director, and wondered how on earth Sal was related to Santino. They seemed nothing alike. The Director looked particularly out of place here, wearing only the finest, immaculate white suit and red tie, with a white fedora. There was no way the Director would be able to keep his suit clean in a dump like this. They sat down at a booth which had used napkins and a basket of half-eaten stale breadsticks on it. The seat cushions each had enough crumbs on them to fill a shot glass. The booth was very uncomfortable, as the seats were too high and the table was too low; getting in and out of the booth was a chore and a half.

"What will youse be having?" said Sal, as he plopped hand-written menus down on the table in front of the guests. There were only 3 items on the menu, pasta 'preemavarra', 'chikin' alfredo, and steak. Erebus thought about it, and decided to pick the one item on the menu which was spelled correctly, hoping that Sal knew how to cook something he was at least familiar with spelling. The Director ordered the pasta preemavarra, while staring at Erebus with a stone-faced expression. "Excellent uh, choices... I'll gets right on making it for you" said Sal, as he waddled back to the kitchen, coughing the entire way. "I don't believe in butchers, I likes to save money by cutting out the middle man" he said.

They sat in silence for what seemed like half an hour. Erebus could swear he heard a cow mooing off in the distance, but about ten minutes in, the mooing stopped. Soon enough, Sal came back covered in a fresh coat of blood, wiping the blood off of his arms and face with an even filthier dish rag than before. "It will be ready in about five minutes. You guys need anything?" "I could use a strong drink" said Erebus, as he looked back at the bar, and saw the bartender giving one of the shot glasses a spit shine. "On second thought, maybe I'll pass." The Director continued to stare at Erebus, keeping his gun trained on the man. Sure enough, five minutes later, Sal came out of the kitchen holding two plates. One had the pasta 'preemavarra' and the other had a steak on it. He set down the plates in front of the two guests, and waited.

"Go ahead, take a bite" said the Director. Erebus looked at his plate and saw that the steak looked rather lonely, there were no side items. "Doesn't the steak come with anything?" asked Erebus. "Oh yeah, I forgots!" said Sal, reaching into the front pocket of his apron and pulling out a fist full of french fries, dumping them onto Erebus' plate unceremoniously. "Dinner is served, buon appetito!" said Sal. The Director looked at him coldly, until Sal remembered something else. "Oh right, the mood. Here you go, Santino" said Sal, as he placed a candle on the table and lit it. It was a rather sad display, sort of like putting a brand new set of hubcaps on an old wreck of a car; pointless and absurd.

Erebus pushed the french fries to one side, not intending to eat them, and looked at the steak again. He wasn't sure he wanted to take a bite of it, so he delayed the whole process by cutting the steak into smaller and smaller bites. Eventually the Director got impatient, and raised the gun. "It's considered rude to not even take a bite of a meal someone serves you" warned the Director. "I don't particularly care for impoliteness at the dinner table. Civility, mister Erebus... now take a bite."

Erebus looked at the steak and it seemed to at least have been cooked and it did smell okay. That said, he still took the bite with much trepidation. The steak was surprisingly good. Very good, in fact... Erebus' face lit up as he took another bite, and another.

"Surprising isn't it, Mister Erebus? In this place, in this part of town, with this atmosphere, it's the one thing you'd never expect. It's the absolute best steak in town, and I should know. Ever since I became a... businessman, I've been eating nothing but steak. Never could afford it before. I stayed away from Sal's place because I knew it was like this on the inside, but I never dreamed that the man actually knew how to cook. And I never would have known, if I hadn't bothered to try something unfamiliar and dangerous." Erebus just tuned out the Director. He never did care much for monologuing. He just kept eating the steak, greedily, voraciously. It was worth listening to the Director drone on and on, just to have the flavor of this succulent meat filling his senses.

Erebus ate the steak too fast, and began to choke. The Director just kept talking, about fate and destiny and choice, and seemed to be either oblivious or apathetic to Erebus choking on the meat. Erebus reached instinctively for a glass of water or whatever drink was served with the meal. Then he remembered he had actually turned down the offered drink because the glasses were filthy. What he wouldn't give for a filthy glass of cheap liquor right about now. He turned blue in the face, and began to panic. He tried to stand up but the booth was bolted down and very cramped.

"Is something wrong with your steak, mister Erebus?" asked the Director, just as he was beginning to pass out from the lack of oxygen. "You shouldn't eat it so fast. Even when you find yourself with the good fortune to enjoy the best steak you've ever tasted, always take slow and careful bites. Patience is a virtue I can see you are not fully acquainted with."

Erebus tried to give himself the Heimlich maneuver against the table itself, but was having trouble. "Do you need me to help you, mister Erebus?" asked the Director. Erebus nodded quickly, hoping to dislodge the meat in time. "I would, but there's this matter of your insulting my honor that is holding me back. I should do a favor for you, an impolite man? Why should I? That would be rewarding uncouth behavior. Civility, mister Erebus... always civility. But I will offer you something else. You see, I'm not very hungry. Here, you can share my pasta."

The Director slid the plate of pasta forward, just as Erebus keeled over dead from choking. Erebus landed face-first in the oily noodles, arms sprawled forward.

"And you should keep your elbows off the table. I guess your mother didn't teach you any manners at all." said the Director, as he tucked his gun back into his coat pocket. He left a generous tip for his cousin Sal, and wiped his suit clean with the entire supply of napkins that was on the table. Somehow, the Director made it out of there without a spot on him. Now that was truly a miracle...


OOC

Night Seventeen orders are due:


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


Lynch vote tally:

Erebus: 17 (lazy, jarema, sisterc, seon, krill, diana, nightbringer, xehh, ironside, beefy, diy, beskar, chaotix, secura, aa, white eyes, erebus) :skull:

Seon: 10 (niklas, backwards, renata, neri, bsmith, gibson, daveshack, winston, kennigit, hero)

Secura: 1 (TLD)

Abstained: 1 (GamezRule)

Post #4263 of main thread.


"Wanderers cling to their fading home
A lost train whistle wan and muffled
In the loft night taste of water
Morning light on milky flesh
Turgid itch ghost hand
Sad as the death of monkeys
Thy father a falling star
Crystal bone into thin air
Night sky
Dispersal and emptiness."
...Fear and the Monkey
...William S. Burroughs

Night Seventeen-- The Streets of Fatlington


The Last Days was sitting at a pub, drowning his sorrows under a heavy pint. He sat at the bar, his head buried into the wood. He leaned back, and grazed someone passing by. The man immediately turned and exploded in a fit of rage as to how TLD would dare to shove him. TLD tried to explain, but the man simply didn’t wish to listen. Finally, the belligerent threw a haymaker that connected with TLD and knocked him to the ground, stunned. The bar keep had noticed the ruckus, by now, and a small platoon of bouncers drove the troublemaker out.


But for some, the night was young. Seon had decided the bar scene wasn’t really for him, tonight. He wandered the streets, still buzzed a bit. He came up to a phone booth, and leaned against it, wondering where to go. A man in a sharp suit walked up. “Hey, bud, don’t suppose I can use the phone?” Seon simply shuffled to the side, and let the man through. Seon just sat at the corner, stumped for nearly ten minutes. Finally, a decision came for him. A second man came up from behind Seon. “Hey, bud, don’t suppose I can use the phone?”

“Oh, no, someone else is using it at the moment. “ It was at that point that he felt a gun barrel nudge him from behind. Seon raised his hands slowly. A shot rang out in the night. The gun quickly withdrew from Seon’s back, as the man quickly turned tail. The man in the phone booth had a pistol in hand. It seemed a simple warning shot was all it had taken to scare the rat off. Perhaps it was time to call it a night....


Winston Hughes’ long night just kept getting longer. His vehicle’s engine practically exploded when he’d tried to start it up to leave the center. When he left the center on foot, stumbled crossing the street and nearly was run over by another citizen leaving. He was starting to think someone might actually be out to get him. So, he was picking his pace up, trying to get home, just in case his paranoia was correct. He could see the side street his house would be on just down the block. He was so close.

But, in Fatlington, close doesn’t cut it. When he turned down his side street, he saw a man standing in front of his house, wearing a dark suit and fedora, calmly finishing a cigar. The man crouched down, and extinguished it on the pavement. “I see you managed to make it home,” he said. “Pretty lucky, ya know. I was sure that that the explosives in your car would do the trick. Oh well…” he sighed. “Looks like I gotta do this the old fashioned way." He cracked his neck, and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small Ruger pistol. Winston immediately turned heel, but the man was far too quick. A shot connected with the back of Winston’s knee, sending him to the pavement. The man strolled up leisurely. He pulled another cigar from his coat, giving it a light. “No offense, bud. Business, ya know? Sometimes, people just gotta die. You know what I mean.” He aimed the handgun to the back of Winston’s head, and cut the long night just a bit shorter.


Clitsome’s home was, as a real estate agent might say, “modest”. The three room commode was not by any means luxurious, but it was at least a structure with a roof and sturdy walls. Well, fairly sturdy, anyways. He was resting in the kitchen, enjoying a coffee, when a knock was heard on his door. He picked up a handgun laying on his table, and cautiously approached. Strangers ceased to be a good thing in Fatlington a long time ago. A second round of knocking came. He approached the door, and placed his hand on the knob. He twisted it slowly.

BOOM!

A shotgun blast from the other side turned the door into shrapnel. Clitsome staggered back, and fell on his rear. He tried to scramble backwards, but the man in the doorway was having none of it. He leaped into the doorway, followed by a second, and found nothing but the maimed Clitsome before him, in this small shack, panic and fear on his face. The gunmen smirked, then fired another round of lead into Clitsome’s chest. Giving the thumbs up, the two departed into the night.


Fyremarble was driving her gleaming, black Bentley Mark VI Coupe De Ville away from the convention center. The car handled like none other she’d had, and it held a certain class she admired. But, for the time being, her attention was more on getting to a safe spot for the night than admiring her automobile. Which was really for the better, as it turned out. Her drive home was soon interrupted when a vehicle emerged from a side street behind her. A man emerged from the passenger window, with a tommy gun held aloft. Fyremarble cursed, instinctively swerving around a corner in time to avoid a hail of bullets. But it seemed she was not in luck. Her new road stretched onwards to the beach. There were no side streets. No alleys. She pulled a u turn upon her dire realization, only to be faced with her pursuers, who screeched to a halt about twenty feet in front of her.

Fyremarble gripped the wheel with iron knuckles. She gunned the pedal as best she could, and her Mark Vi responded with a gallant thrust forward. The passenger, still with his torso out the window, gave a hail of bullets in return. Most ricocheted off miraculously, or passed by her through the windshield. With a rand roar, the Bentley blew past the stationary car. But it was impossible for Fyremarble to have seen the duo up in the shadows, lurking on the sidewalk. Each pulled an ordinary colt revolver, and with the aim of marksmen, delivered shots to each of Fyremarble’s left tires. The vehicle immediately spun, and Fyremarble had to hit the brakes to keep it under control. She looked into the rear-view mirror, and saw the other vehicle pulling up behind her. To her left, she could now see the two gunners cautiously approach. With a sigh, she surveyed her prize car one last time. “Well… it was fun while it lasted, I guess.” She took one last deep breath before emerging from the car. She stood tall, looking at the two gunners standing about ten feet before her, their colts still drawn. The other vehicle’s two occupants had likewise joined the street, one with the tommy gun, the other with a Beretta. For twenty seconds, an eerie silence oppressed the street. With a short sigh, one of the colt gunners raised the weapon properly, and aimed for Fyremarble’s forehead. With a flash, Fyremarble pulled her own Makarov, finger squeezing, ready to end the unwary gunner. A single gunshot rang out.

Fyremarble staggered for a second, holding a hand to her bleeding chest. The driver from the vehicle had pre-empted her counterstrike, and delivered a Beretta round before she could strike. Fyremarble staggered to her knees. The man with the colt simply chuckled. “Not bad… not bad.” He raised his weapon, and delivered the final shot to Fyremarble’s forehead. He nodded to the driver. “S’pose I should give you my thanks. Do what you want with her, we’re out.” The driver simply offered a curt nod, and walked up to the body. A small photograph of a pristine Alaskan mountain was tucked into the coat, with the words “Seward’s Folly” scribbled across the bottom.


Gibsons had wandered back to the beach. Sea breeze was quite soothing at night. Walking up to the edge of the water and getting the cool mist was one of the few things that could still be enjoyed in Fatlington. He simply sat himself down, and rested his elbows on his knees. He peered to his right, and he noticed for the first time that a deep pit had been dug about thirty feet away. It seemed that a small sand fort had been constructed at some point recently. How strange…. Shaking off a feeling of paranoia, Gibsons simply turned his attention the other direction. Nobody on the beaches at all… almost kind of sad. As he scanned for any others who might have joined him, he saw another pit about an equal distance away on his left. Now this was strange. Nobody had been here in days. The tide should have ruined such magnificent sand structures.

Perhaps it was time to leave. Gibsons hauled himself up. He dusted the sand off, and began to trudge back through the sand. In his peripheral vision, he saw something move to his right. His head swiveled, and he saw a man in an oddly dressy crimson suit standing from the sand fort, as well as another man in a much plainer, dark suit. The two raised automatic weapons and let loose a hail of bullets. Gibsons immediately hit the ground, and was lucky enough to find just the smallest of cover behind a tiny dune. The bullets kicked up a storm of sand, but for the moment, Gibsons was safe. But then, in his peripheral vision, he saw another blur of motion. Two others had emerged from the other sand fort, weapons raised. Gibsons eyes widened. He was pinned. The two raised tommie guns, and, with nowhere to run, Gibsons finally met his demise. Each pair trudged up from their respective sand forts, dusting off the sand from their unnecessarily dressy attire. “Well, that was fun,” the man in the crimson suit said, nodding to the other two. He looked back to his fort with a bit of longing. “Hopefully it can hold up for a few days. I’d love to be able to make a return visit.” The other two just rolled their eyes. “Well, either way. Best of luck to ya.” The two pairs each departed back for the concrete jungle in separate directions.


9:07 AM, Monday, 14th November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"Well that about wraps it up," Fermanagh said, finishing up the day's briefings, "And now to the postmortem reports, as usual."

"Your first choice for lynch, Sturmhauke, was one of the few remaining decent people in this town. The other, The Stranger, was an odd individual. Seems like he was trying to organize his own detective ring, but we can't really tell what angle he was getting at, exactly. Thankfully, there weren't any other deaths that night, so any remaining townspeople are at least a bit safe. But enough of me. You've got more people to slay, don't you?" The Commissioner grabbed the bottle of whiskey from under the table, and handed Director Askthepizzaguy the gavel before heading off to drink himself under the table.


OOC

Day Eighteen begins. You are voting to lynch.

Phase ends:

I'll try to get scan results and promotions out asap. Others may wait until morning. Feel free to PM me if you think we missed something.

Remember, night actions alone will not be enough to save you from the WOG.

Attacked = 62: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10, n17), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16), shlin28 (n16), Seon (n17)

Wounded = 21: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14)

Killed = 64: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray (n16), gnarlycharlie (n16), Sigurd (n16), Sprig (n16), Clitsome (n17), fyremarble (n17), gibsonsg91921 (n17), Winston Hughes (n17)


Lynched = 17: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15) [townie], The Stranger (d15) [rogue], BillMC (d16), Erebus (d17)

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BSmith, Chaotix, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Erebus, GamezRule, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, kennigit, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, SisterCoyote, White_eyes:D, Xehh II

Post #4346 of main thread.

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

"Everyday it's a-gettin' closer
Goin' faster than a roller coaster
Love like yours will surely come my way
A-hey, a-hey-hey
Everyday it's a-gettin' faster
Everyone said, go ahead and her
A-hey, a-hey-hey
Everyday seems a little longer
Every way love's a little stronger
Come what may"
...Everyday
...Buddy Holly

8:59PM, Tuesday, 14 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey



It started to rain that day, in Fatlington.

The dark gray skies opened up and unleashed a torrential downpour which never seemed to stop or waver in the slightest. It was a hard rain; hard enough to wash the blood from the streets, hard enough to flush the slime from the gutters, hard enough to erase all traces of the crimes that had been committed. It was the day that the sky wept bitter tears, and drowned the whole world. The storm continued well into the afternoon and soon, the sewers and drains underneath the city began to overflow, washing into the streets. In some districts the flooding became so intense that bodies began floating down the streets, as if they were trapped in the river Styx.

The convention center was a designated emergency shelter area, and the Committee members were relatively safe from the thundering and lightning outside, and the rising flood waters. They turned their attention to the grim deed of the day, the summary execution of one of their own, for whatever reason had been cooked up this time. Were they seeking justice anymore, or simply satisfying their bloodlust? When the votes had been tallied, they looked around to see if they could find the latest victim, but they were nowhere to be seen. Nor was the Director... perhaps something had happened to them? A man in a pinstripe suit walked to the middle of the crowd and set up a small folding table, then set a radio down on top of it, switching it on and tuning the device. "Welcome back to the Anachronism Hour. This is the General Manager of Radio City Fatlington, co-hosting the show with the one and only, Saucy Slice. We're broadcasting from the very top of the Radio City building at 2400 Plaza del Universo, overlooking our fair city. We are joined this evening by one of our radio listeners. Is this the winner of our name that tune contest?"

"Even better mister manager, this is the winner of the Committee vote to execute by most violent means available contest. This lucky contestant will be served only the finest, grade-A death, all expenses paid for by contributions from our local businesses. I'd especially like to thank the Law Offices of Dave and Shack. Got legal troubles? Hire only the best criminal defense attorneys in New Jersey, and soon enough you'll live to see your own arresting officer behind bars! If you've got a problem with the law, make the law their problem."

"Well said, Saucy. Now, what's on the itinerary for our lucky winner? Death by a thousand papercuts? Immolation? Or maybe we take a belt sander to their scalp and see how they look after we take just a little bit too much off the top?"

"I'm way ahead of you, Santino. The condemned will be required to take over my old job working at the Mizza Mut! I've taken the liberty of strapping a bomb made out of fireworks to his chest, which will detonate in precisely 30 minutes time if I don't disarm it. I'm sitting here in the most secure studio in the highest floor in the tallest building in the city, and the Mizza Mut is clear across town. If the condemned can deliver me a pizza in under 30 minutes, and the pizza is hot and fresh and isn't all slid around, then I will let them go free. I must warn you, however... no one's ever delivered a pizza on time in this town, in this kind of weather, this far out. But here are the keys to my old delivery vehicle, a blue Jaguar XK 120... with racing stripes that make it go faster! I want 12 slices of pepperoni pizza on my desk in half an hour, or getting no tip will be the last of your worries. Ready? Set? Go!"

With that, shlin28 grabbed the keys to the Jaguar and made a mad dash for the elevator. When he reached the ground floor, he bolted out the door and made his way to the street, where he saw that the Jaguar was pulled up conveniently to the front of the building, but unfortunately someone had left the top down and the entire interior was soaked. Shlin28 tried to see if there was a retractable hood for this particular model car, but there wasn't one. Shlin28 could do nothing but hop inside the vehicle, turn the ignition, and speed off into the night.

The rain poured into the vehicle, and at these speeds, the rain was stinging and violent as it blew into his face, severely limiting his visibility. But he knew these roads, and he remembered the way back home... and the Mizza Mut was only a few blocks away from there. The roads had been almost completely free of traffic lately, but not this time. As soon as shlin28 was out on the road, a trio of black cars appeared out nearby alleys, and several men in trench coats began firing Tommy guns in the direction of the Jaguar. Worse, at every intersection, there were vehicles crossing at breakneck speeds... and smoldering, burning car wreckage filled the streets. Even after he lost the gunmen on his tail, when shlin28 was forced to stop at a railroad crossing to allow a long train to pass by, several beggars approached the vehicle and tried to get spare change. When he refused, they produced baseball bats, lead pipes, crowbars, and began swinging them at shlin28. He hit the gas and escaped just in the nick of time.

When he arrived at the Mizza Mut and entered the store, he just barely avoided a long, spinning metal blade that was aimed for his head. He ducked and rolled, getting up just in time to see that the man behind the counter cutting the pizzas was wearing a trench coat and fedora. Shlin28 grabbed the boxed pizza and carefully placed it in the bag, narrowly avoiding getting his wrist chopped in half by the mad gangster. He nimbly avoided further blades, grabbed several items from behind the counter and stuffed them in his pockets, and escaped out the side door- getting back in the Jaguar and heading back across town to the radio city building. He tried to look at his watch to see how much time he had left, but the rain made it impossible to read it. This time, he took the highway, trying to save time by avoiding local traffic. This only made matters worse as several speeding tractor trailers crowded the highway, blocking the path forward, and trapping shlin28's Jaguar between them. These truck drivers weren't just a nuisance, as shlin28 looked and saw that they too were wearing trench coats and fedoras, and began trying to crush the Jaguar between their massive, speeding vehicles.

Shlin28 hit the brakes just in time to watch two massive trailers slam together in front of him, inches from the hood of his Jaguar. Behind him, he noticed two more truck drivers coming up fast, attempting to pin the Jaguar from the front and the back. Shlin28 swerved to the far left lane, allowing the trucks to collide with the tractor trailers in front of them. He then hit the gas pedal and slipped by the colliding trucks, only to see two swerving tankers up ahead, one of them actually jackknifing in an attempt to plow into the Jaguar. The gasoline tanker shuddered and tipped over, forming an impassable barrier across 5 lanes of traffic, and spilling thousands of gallons of fuel all over the rain-soaked highway. The other tanker truck plowed directly into the side of the first one, causing a massive explosion. Shlin28 swerved his vehicle all the way to the far right lane of traffic, gunning the engine once more to pass the obstruction. He heard the sound of several large vehicles colliding behind him, and swerved to catch the exit ramp at nearly 90 miles per hour.

Within a few more minutes, shlin28 was back at the Plaza del Universo, and he grabbed the box of pizza and covered it with his body as he rushed inside the building. He saw the elevators open and several more gangsters step out, holding automatic weapons. Shlin28 saw the door to the stairwell and ducked inside, and ran up the stairs faster than he ever had in his life, dodging bullets while trying to keep the pizza level so as not to slide the cheese all around. When he made it to the top floor, he was nearly decapitated by a thin, razor-sharp wire that had been hung at neck level across the hallway near the staircase, but he was able to spot and avoid it just in the nick of time. He burst into the studio, panting, and set the pizza carefully on the desk next to the DJ. He looked up at the clock, and saw that he had actually arrived 10 minutes early.

"Did you remember to bring plates, napkins, cheese, and peppers?" asked the radio DJ. Shlin28 pulled the various items out of his pockets, and placed them carefully on the counter. "How come there's no extra cheese on this pizza?" demanded the Director. Shlin28 looked at the ticket, and handed it to Santino. "You didn't order it with extra cheese, sir." "Hmmm.... he's right. That's what the ticket says. Guess we don't get it for free this time." They handed the delivery driver a twenty dollar bill, and received their change back. "You're free to go" said DJ Saucy Slice. Shlin28 breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and walked away the studio. "Hey pal...." shouted Santino. Shlin28 turned and looked back. "Keep the change, my friend." The Director pulled out an entire stack of silver half-dollars, and lobbed them in shlin28's direction. The coins scattered as they hit the ground next to the delivery driver, the sound of coin change reverberating throughout the studio, broadcasted live on the air to every corner of Fatlington. The floor began to shake as shlin28 bent down to pick up the coins, and half a minute later, shlin28 looked up and saw that the elevator doors were opening. What he saw terrified him.

Hoboes.

Hoboes everywhere. Pushing shopping carts. Wearing 12 different jackets at once. Holding out their palms, holding out their upturned hats, holding bindle sticks, chanting their lifeless, inhuman chant: "change..... change.... change...." They saw the shiny coins in shlin28's hand, and their beady little eyes lit up. They bared their fangs and began scampering toward the beleaguered delivery driver, some of them holding knives or guns, others attempting to look pitiful and sympathetic. There was only one way out... the roof access door. Shlin28 scrambled up the stairs, reaching the roof, and burst out into the pouring rain. There was nowhere to go, as there was no fire escape this far up. The hoboes were hot on shlin28's heels, and soon they flooded the roof, looking for a handout. Shlin was way ahead of them though, and he began climbing up the radio tower itself, 500 feet in the air above the ground floor. The wind and the rain was particularly dangerous up this high, as it made the metal frame of the radio transmitter slick, and the gusty wind threatened to blow shlin28 off of the roof entirely. Higher and higher he climbed, trying desperately to avoid the violent mob of hoboes, panhandlers, vagrants, beggars, tramps, and thieves. But the mob surrounded the radio tower and also began to climb... there was no turning back.

"Back! Back you savages! Can't a man earn an honest wage?" shouted shlin through the thunder, wind, and rain.

It was then that lightning struck the radio tower, sending a massive electric shock through shlin28, blowing him off of the radio transmitter and sending him plummeting 40 stories through the air. About halfway to the ground, the timer on the bomb still strapped to his chest reached thirty minutes exactly, and the device detonated, triggering a massive explosion of brilliantly colored fireworks, lighting up the Fatlington sky. The bright flash and glorious kaboom was seen and heard for miles, and tiny little bits of shlin28 rained from the heavens in still-glowing embers, only to be slowly extinguished as they reached the ground. The rainwater washed away what little remained.

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DJ Saucy Slice: "And that concludes our broadcast day. I leave you with this song to remember our fallen friends by. Just remember Fatlington, it's nothing personal, it's just business as usual.... in a city that sold its soul to the devil so very long ago. Good night."


OOC

Night Eighteen orders are due:


Insert other important administrative information here, blah blah blah blah blah. GeneralHankerchief is your God, pay tribute unto him.

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


Lynch vote tally:

shlin28: 14 (hero, chaotix, xehh, ironside, believer, jarema, neri, renata, daveshack, bsmith, sisterc, secura, niklas, gamezrule) :skull:

scottishranger: 6 (seon, auto, krill, backwards, beskar, diana)

Secura: 1 (TLD)

Abstained:1 (lazy)

Post #4359 of main thread.

"O, Death. O, Death.
Won't you spare me over 'til another year?
Well, what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin' hold of me
Well I am death, none can excel
I'll open the door to heaven or hell
'O, death' someone would pray
'Could you wait to call me another day?'
The children prayed, the preacher preached
Time and mercy is out of your reach
I'll fix your feet 'til you can't walk
I'll lock your jaw 'til you can't talk
I'll close your eyes so you can't see
This very hour, come and go with me
I'm death I come to take the soul
Leave the body and leave it cold
To draw the flesh off of the frame
Dirt and worm both have a claim
O, Death. O, Death.
Won't you spare me over til another year?"
...O Death
...Traditional


Night Eighteen -- The Streets of Fatlington


The end had come for Believer. He supposed he was lucky. Two and a half weeks he had survived as both the death toll and Fatlington's chances to top the annual list of "America's Most Dangerous Cities" increased. The Committee was decimated, and yet he was still one of the thirty-plus people alive. He had done better than most.

But in the end, of course, death came for everyone. And tonight, it came for Believer. Realizing his inevitable fate, he simply lied down to rest in his own bed, not making his way through Fatlington's murderous streets as per everybody else. This made it easier on everyone, really. Easier for Believer to come to his fate and easy for his deliverers to give it to him.

As for the two deliverers, they simply slipped into his house late at night, made their way into his room, and shot him once, point-blank in the head, before dropping their "Seward's Folly" calling card and departing into the night.


Secura listened to the raindrops as she sat at her table on the rooftop cafe of the Hotel Abbatoir. Most of the rest of the tables had been long deserted, and the cafe workers had all gone home for the evening. The view was incredible up here, especially at night. The lights of the city shimmered as far as the eye could see. However, lately there had been far fewer lights. Many businesses were closed, and many people had left town altogether. But still there were lights, each representing the few brave souls that remained.

She couldn't leave, not yet. There was still... unfinished business. She had hoped to meet up with someone here at the cafe, but they never came. After most of the other patrons had left, she noticed that there was one other person sitting on the far side of the cafe who also seemed reluctant to leave. After a while, the person got up and began walking toward Secura. "It's closing time, miss. You'd better clear out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere" said Secura. She didn't even look up at the stranger, she just kept staring off into the distance, lost in thought. "No please, we insist" said the stranger. Secura suddenly became aware of a second figure standing behind her, weapon drawn. She finished the last drop of her coffee, and then made her move. She ducked under the table and rolled to the next one, weapon drawn. A hail of bullets narrowly missed her head, as she returned fire. The first gunman dove out of the way, while the second one began circling in the other direction, unloading his Tommy gun at Secura. She ducked under another table, shooting at the second gunman. The first gunman dropped to the ground and began firing at Secura from a lower angle. Secura felt searing pain as several bullets hit their mark. She got up, and began running as fast as she could toward the exit. Unfortunately for her, another volley of Tommy gun fire struck her in the back, and she stumbled and fell, bleeding from her countless bullet wounds. She rolled over in pain, and tried to lift her weapon one more time, but could not. The first gunman walked up to her and planted a bullet right between her eyes. The second gunman reached inside his coat and unfurled an Italian flag, and draped it over her lifeless body. After this deed was done, the two gunmen headed back inside the hotel for a well-deserved rest.


Two men descended upon GamezRule, who fled for his life. Unlike Believer, he was not yet ready to meet his fate. Luckily, GamezRule had adjusted quite well to the life of a Committee member in Fatlington, sprinting out of the bar and heading for the exit, where his car was illegally parked right at the establishment's entrance.

"Hah, suckers." Gamez muttered, revving his engine to life and driving off, leaving the two fedora'd figures chasing after him in the distance. "You guys are getting too predictable. How many bar attacks have there been since this all started? People adjust, you know."

At that moment a menacing voice cut through his engine's whir. "You guys are getting too predictable. How many escapes into cars have there been since this all started? People adjust, you know." Shocked, Gamez whirled around in his seat to find a man dressed in a crimson suit calmly sitting in the backseat.

The backseat. He had forgotten to check the backseat.

"Let's just end this now," the man said, unsheathing a saber and slitting Gamez's throat. Investigators would later find the entire car draped in a giant Italian flag with no trace of the attacker.


scottishranger was camped out on a remote building's fire escape. He had been thinking of this ingenious plan for some nights now and decided to put it into action. This was sure to work. He would sacrifice comfort for safety, surely plenty of people had done that before, and he would live. Nobody would think of looking for him here.

There was only one drawback: It was cold. So cold. Several stories up, in a Northeastern town in the middle of November, on the side of the building that was not protected from winds. Who knew? Luckily scottish was prepared for this eventuality, having culled together some kindling and matches. He quickly got a fire going, getting warm and preparing to catch some rest for the night.

The fire, of course, alerted the mafia sniper team to scottish's presence, and soon they had set up for their own shot. They heard a yelp and a "thudding" noise as evidently scottish's body hit the ground. "C'mon," the man who took the shot said to his partner, "let's check to see if he's dead and drape the flag over him."

Some minutes later, they had arrived at scottish's location, but saw no fire... and no scottish, for that matter. Instead, they followed a trail of blood which led away from the fire escape, back into the building, down the stairs, out to the road, following the road... leading directly to Mercy Hospital. scottishranger had survived another attack.


Backwards Logic stood on the boardwalk, looking out into the ocean. The storm clouds made the ocean particularly dark tonight; he couldn't tell where ocean ended and sky began. The only indication there was even an ocean nearby was the sound of the waves roaring over the rain. He was not too preoccupied to notice that a pair of strangers were approaching from opposite sides of the boardwalk, still quite a distance away. Not expecting company, he immediately reached for a pair of automatic machine pistols in his trenchcoat, and leveled them at the approaching figures, one in each direction. Not caring who they were, he shot first, making one of the figures duck behind a nearby souvenir shop and the other take cover behind a waste canister. Within seconds, they returned fire from their Tommy guns, spraying bullets over Backwards Logic's head. He dropped down onto the boardwalk, flat on his back, and continued firing on both directions, while plotting his escape route.

A third figure appeared from below the boardwalk, and snapped a thin, sturdy wire across Backwards Logic's exposed neck, using it as a garotte. The sudden pain and strangulation caused Backwards Logic to drop his guns and reach for his neck instinctively, trying to stop the wire from further cutting into his throat. The assailant only pulled the wire viciously, digging into his flesh and dragging him under the boardwalk, and down by the sea. Backwards Logic and his attacker ended up on the beach, soon to be joined by the other two. A pair of gunshots to the head later, and Backwards Logic was swept into eternal darkness. He was buried up to the neck in wet sand, and an Italian flag was placed over his head like a burial shroud. The three assailants then walked back to their car, and drove off into the night.


Renata had packed up and moved out of her house weeks ago, as soon as she realized she would have most likely died there. She hadn't been back there to check on it ever since, figuring all-too-well that there would most likely be someone waiting there to kill her. However, time had passed. This was over two weeks ago, plenty of time for all the requisite undesirables of the Fatling community to stake her place out and realize that she had jumped ship to an undisclosed location.

Perfect timing, in other words, to check back up on her house.

She entered the building without much caution; the place looked deserted. A thin layer of dust coated mostly everything. Good, good. Nobody was lying in wait to kill her, then. She relaxed there for a couple of hours before deciding it was time to get back to her safehouse for the night, which was far-better protected. On her way out though, she saw it. An unfamiliar car, parked right next to hers. So they were still staking the place out, after all, just refusing to go inside to alert her. Smart.

A hail of machine-gun fire hit the house. Renata thought she heard only two distinct guns. She dropped quickly enough, but it was right by the window and there was still a lot of machine-gun fire. She ended up getting lacerated by the glass and clipped by a couple of bullets, but all in all she would live, assuming they didn't enter for a follow-up. After five interminable minutes of silence, she heard the car driving away, one of its occupants muttering something about "forgetting the flag." Ignoring her pain, Renata quickly used this time to get herself to Mercy Hospital.


Kennigit was feeling very hungry, so he stopped at a corner pizzeria to get a late night snack. Twenty minutes later, he walked away carrying a plate and a couple steaming slices of New Jersey's finest, heading toward his vehicle to take refuge from the rain.

"Nice car" said someone standing next to his vehicle. "Mind if I take it for a spin?"

Kennigit drew his gun and told the lunatic to step away from his vehicle or end up in a body bag. The stranger quickly retreated into the night. Kennigit stepped inside his car, shut the door, and began devouring his meal. He noticed someone else standing on the opposite side of the street, in the rain, and decided that now would be a good time to leave. He set the pizza down and put his key into the ignition, and gave it a turn.

The explosion rocked the vehicle, but somehow Kennigit survived the blast with severe wounds. He fumbled for the door handle, and fell out of the vehicle and onto the rain-soaked street. Someone ran up to Kennigit and pulled him from the burning vehicle to safety. The good Samaritan asked him if he was all right. Kennigit was still in shock, and was only slightly aware that someone was even speaking to him. He couldn't reply, but he became aware of another person approaching, offering to take him to Mercy Hospital. The good Samaritan then pointed at Kennigit's severe wounds, and said it was probably too late already. The other one nodded and left for a few moments, returning with a crowbar and a lead pipe, handing the latter to the first one.

Kennigit could only weakly protest that he was going to be okay, but the two bystanders insisted on the mercy killing. They both began beating Kennigit to death with their instruments of destruction, starting with the legs, then the arms, then the torso, before finally putting Kennigit out of his misery with a thunderous blow to the temple, splattering his brains all over the wet pavement. An Italian flag was then draped over the head wound, shielding whoever found the body from a truly gruesome sight. The two helpful passers-by then left together, blood dripping from their savage weapons.


When Oh! TheLastDays! saw the giant drawing of the state of Alaska on the wall of his living room, he knew he was in trouble. "I was going to spell out 'Seward's Folly' in fire too, but that would have burned the house down before you got back. Not the best way to do things, I think." The voice came from behind him, TLD gathered. He most likely had a gun trained right on him.

Not even bothering to engage his attacker in repartee, TLD instantly dropped to the floor and crawled backwards. Before his attacker could react, TLD punched straight up, hitting the attacker directly in his sensitive area. He moaned and went down to the floor, whimpering, into the fetal position. He had completely forgotten about his gun.

TLD used this time to see that the attacker did not have any backup, and sprinted away.


hero di classico found himself face-to-face with a very odd sight on one of Fatlington's city streets: A man, alone, dressed in a very white suit, fedora included.

"Don't you know you're not supposed to wear white after Labor Day?" hero said. It was the only thing he could think of, really.

"It's all part of the act," the man responded. "And with it... the King of Hearts." He reached inside his suit pocket to draw out the requisite playing card and threw it in hero's direction. Its edges had been incredibly sharpened and hero had no doubt he would have been decapitated, but his attacker failed to take the wind into account and the card sailed wide right.

"A bit of advice," hero said, "Use guns. Less issue with wind and you get more than one shot." He left his dumbfounded attacker alone in the street and simply walked off.


8:59PM, Tuesday, 14 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"Okay everyone," Commissioner Fermanagh said, "It's now time to review the postmortem reports." He took a stiff drink. "Your lynch choice, BillMC, was one of the best Detectives of the FPD. As for the deaths, B_Ray was a good townie who was doing his best to protect people... I'm actually shocked both of them made it that far. Sprig was a Made gangster, and in even better news (for me anyway), gnarlycharlie was a Don of one of the families! Looks like you guys are finally starting to turn on each other. And in news that I think makes all of us happy, it appears that Sigurd had some very shady ties to the Communist party. Sigurd looked to be a recruit, but this is still promising news. Director, the floor is yours."

The Commissioner gave Director Askthepizzaguy a very disgusted look as he began proceedings.


OOC

Very sorry about the delay.

Day Nineteen begins. You are voting to lynch and to select a Director.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out in a few hours. As per usual, let me know if there are any administrative issues.


Attacked = 63: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10, n17, n18), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16), shlin28 (n16), Seon (n17), hero di classico (n18)

Wounded = 22: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13, n18), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14), Renata (n18)

Killed = 69: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray [townie] (n16), gnarlycharlie [Don] (n16), Sigurd [communist recruit] (n16), Sprig [Made] (n16), Clitsome (n17), fyremarble (n17), gibsonsg91921 (n17), Winston Hughes (n17), Backwards Logic (n18), Believer (n18), GamezRule (n18), kennigit (n18), Secura (n18)


Lynched = 18: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15) [townie], The Stranger (d15) [rogue], BillMC [detective] (d16), Erebus (d17), shlin28 (d18)

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active (25):

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, Beefy187, Beskar, BSmith, Chaotix, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, hero di classico, Ironside, Jarema, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, scottishranger, Seon, SisterCoyote, White_eyes:D, Xehh II

Post #4470 of main thread.

Please send your orders to Issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.

"The line, it is drawn, the curse, it is cast
The slow one now, will later be fast
As the present now, will later be past
The order is rapidly fadin'
And the first one now, will later be last
For the times, they are a-changin'."
...Bob Dylan


8:57PM, Wednesday, 14 November 1951
Mercy Hospital
Fatlington, New Jersey



Scottishranger lay in his bed in Mercy hospital recuperating. Being shot is not very fun at all. Sometimes the reality of something is far less romantic than it would appear to be in fiction. The constant, aching pain, the blood loss leading to feeling tired all the time. All Scottishranger wanted to do was rest, and given the state he was in, that's all he could do. And so he dreamed.....

He saw....

He felt...

The pain and suffering were gone. The dark cloud over Fatlington had gone away, and with it, the war between the Families. Somehow, he had endured it all and lived to see that glorious day. Although it would still be some time before law and order were re-established, the bloodshed between gangsters had ceased, and the remaining law-abiding citizens had accepted one Family's control over the city. As such, the survivors were one happy community. Murders dropped to their lowest rate in decades. All the low-life bums that would have committed petty crimes were either dead or no longer dared to show their faces. The cops weren't harassing anyone, they had all retired or died. The government was ruled by the Family, and business was good.

And Scottishranger was at the center of it all. Yes.... he had power. Wealth. Women. He never needed to carry a gun, because he always had men watching his back.

This was the life. And it seemed so real.... it felt as though he had been here before. It was so familiar.

As he sat in his favorite restaurant, eating a dish of authentic Italian pasta primaverra, sipping the finest wine they had. He was flanked by two beautiful girls, one on each arm, as they fed him his pasta one forkful at a time. They admired a man of his stature.... they craved a man with power. And power is what he had in spades. He was the king who had stolen their hearts. Rather fitting, then, that he still carried with him his signature card. It always brought him good fortune. The waiter walking by their table looked familiar. He was pushing a cart with dishes and cutlery on it, heading back to the kitchen, when he started taking away some of Scottishranger's used dishes. He reached for the plate of pasta, but Scottishranger said he wasn't quite done with it. "You're not done with it? It looks like you are, to me...." said the waiter, coldly. He went back to pushing his cart. Scottishranger went back to enjoying his lovely companions.

Only minutes later did the waiter return, this time wielding a single piece of cutlery. A red knife, taken from its silver case. The killer wasted no time, stabbing the knife deep into Scottishranger's neck, and dragging it clear to the other side, giving the most powerful gangster in all of Fatlington a second smile. The pain was unbearable, and the wound caused Scottishranger to choke on his own blood, which he coughed up all over the table. The ladies fled the scene in horror, screaming bloody murder.

"I see you're finished. I think I'll take that plate now...."


Scottishranger woke up.

"Oh good, you're awake. Let me just take your plate, Mister Scottishranger. You ate all your steamed broccoli, good job!" said the nurse. Scottishranger was still feeling quite unsettled by the dream. But it was all just a dream. "You have a visitor. He's been waiting for you to wake up for the past several hours." Who could be visiting Scotty at this time of night? Weren't visiting hours over? It didn't matter, Scottishranger wasn't in the mood for company. Especially when he saw who it was... a man in a white suit, red tie, and white fedora, holding a long box with wrapping paper and a bow.

"Good evening, my friend. Word travels fast in this town. I understand you got shot up pretty badly. I wanted to see how you were recuperating." said Askthepizzaguy.

Scottishranger immediately tried to get out of bed, but he was held in place by some kind of restraints, obviously meant to keep him from re-opening his rather severe wounds. "Woah, woah, woah, easy.... just relax. I want to have a talk with you, Mister Ranger." said Pizza. "I never got a chance to sit down with you, man-to-man, and talk business. As you know, business in this town is very good. And men like you are a large part of the reason why that is so. I admire you, Scottishranger. I've seen what you're capable of, and I've heard tales about you. Tales I didn't believe at first but they are all true. I understand you, my friend. I understand your reasoning, I respect your skill, and I admire your ambition. Is it true that you once held this entire city in your iron grip? Isn't it true that you were close to having both the Corleone and Pentangeli families answering to you? Or are these merely rumors?"

Scottishranger looked around for the button to call the nurse, but it was not forthcoming. "I can tell you with all sincerity, I am impressed by you. It is a shame we did not have a chance to collaborate on some new and risky enterprise. I had my thing, you had yours. But if it means anything to you, you're just as capable of running this town as anyone. And nobody should question that now, or ever."

Askthepizzaguy took a deep breath.

"If I had my way, I'd ask you to come work for me. And I have before, you know this. But things didn't turn out that way, which is a real shame. But there are no hard feelings. It's all just part of the business. Some guys don't want to work for anyone but themselves. And I understand and respect that sentiment."

Scottishranger began to relax.

"Ordinarily, I'd wish you a speedy recovery and be on my way, but I brought you something, that I really want you to have. A gift, to make amends for the blood that has been spilled. And a very sincere message of respect." Askthepizzaguy stood up, and opened up the gift box. Inside was a very sleek, very handsome looking white umbrella. Askthepizzaguy lifted the umbrella out of the box so Scottishranger could get a good look at it. When he saw what it was, his eyes widened in horror.

"Clemenza sends his kind regards" said Askthepizzaguy, as he impaled Scottishranger completely through the neck.

The amount of blood was extraordinary. The once-white umbrella, the suit, and most of the fedora, were stained a very deep shade of blood red. The pulsing of Scottishranger's still-beating heart made his neck spray like a lawn sprinkler. Askthepizzaguy didn't even bother wiping the blood from his face, as he watched Scottishranger violently convulse. He just kept pushing the umbrella deeper and deeper, with a blank expression on his face. The darkness came quickly, and was much welcomed. Askthepizzaguy left the umbrella where it was, and reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a large Italian flag, and cleaned himself off with it. Then, he draped it with care over the deceased, and picked up a King of Hearts playing card from the nearby table. He placed the card in his pocket as a souvenir, and walked out of Mercy Hospital in silence.


OOC

Night nineteen orders are due:



Please send your orders to Issaikhaan ONLY. Do not send them to GH.

ScottishRanger (10): DoubleA, SisterCoyote, Jarema, HeroDiClassico, DianaAbnoba, Tiaexz, XehhII, Krill, Chaotix, Daveshack

Tiaexz (2): DeathIsYonder, Ironside

Post #4515 of main thread.

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. "
...The Second Coming
...William Butler Yeats


Night nineteen -- The Streets of Fatlington


For White eyes, the night went south pretty fast. The two folks standing before him had the gall to attack him literally on the same street corner that Mercy sat on. He shouted for help from someone, anyone. From the hospital? Random good Samaritan? Please? The two grinned as one readied a crossbow at chest level. White eyes tried to roll to his right, but the shot came too fast, and struck him in the chest. White eyes collapsed to the curb, gasping. One of the smirking killers pulled a green, white, and red fabric from inside their trench coat. They handed one end to the other, and laid the flag over him. Noticing their target was still clutching about a bit, the one with the crossbow stepped a boot down on his chest, and fired another bolt straight into his chest.


Bsmith enjoyed a beautiful view. Heights weren’t really a problem. And so it was that he found himself on the tallest building in Fatlington, a stately ten story office building for a number of financial services firms. He sat on the roof, enjoying a view of the stars on this cloudless night. He startled from his dreamlike state when the door to the roof opened up behind him, and two folks in tuxedoes stepped out. One was armed with a long, metal pole. The other had a conventional Baretta handgun. Bsmith panicked, reaching for his gun…

Until he realized he’d forgotten it. He held his hands up, in a sign of surrender. The person armed with the pole just grinned, and whacked Bsmith upside the head with the end of it. The second person fired off a single round into Bsmith’s head when he collapsed to the roof. They grinned to each other again, and began the arduous work of impaling Bsmith upont he metal pole. Finally finished, they propped the body up a bit higher, near the top. The gangster which had originally wielded it pulled out a wide rubber platform, and dropped it middle of the roof. The two attached a large Italian flag to the very top of the pole, just over Bsmith’s head, and then embedded the pole into the base. It was a good thing Bsmith enjoyed the view. He’d be watching it for a bit longer than he’d originally planned.


Autolycus finally came to a halt at the corner of an old factory. He’d been chased all over town for seemingly the whole night, but he was finally ready to collapse, out of breath. He put his hands on his knees. He could just hear the sound of the pursuing footsteps over his own breath. He finally turned around, hand held up just a bit, indicating he was done. The two raised their tommy guns, themselves out of breath as well. They gave themselves just a moment to catch it. "You're about as infuriating as that damnable purchase we made with the soviets, you know that?!" One vented. Autolycus just closed his eyes, and waited for the end. He waited. And waited. But all he kept hearing was a clicking sound. He opened his eyes, and saw the two confused soldiers trying to figure out the cause of their gun malfunction. It was at that exact moment that Fatlington’s bus stopped by on its route. Not questioning his incredible luck, Auto jumped aboard and the driver paced away, leaving the two baffled gunmen behind.


Tiaexz’ trip home never took long. He lived just a few corners away from the center. But the trip from Mercy was a bit longer. Still, it was short enough for a walk. He stopped at a small bistro on his way back, hungry for a sandwich. He sat on the outdoor patio, sipping on an iced tea, calmly waiting for his BLT. Something was a bit off with the tea tonight, though. Seemed to be a bit drier than normal. He motioned over for the waiter. “Could I have a new tea , please? It’s not tasting normal tonight.” The waiter raised an eyebrow, as though the suggestion was impertinent.

“Of course, sir. Just a moment." The waiter returned just a moment later with a new drink. He set it down, and stood behind Tiaexz for a second or two. “Now, you ordered the BLT, right?” he asked. Tiaexs just nodded, rolling his eyes out of view. “Well, I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit late tonight. There’s been a small issue.” Tiaexs started to turn around when he felt a knife embed itself into his upper back. The waiter pulled the red knife out, and brought it down in an overhand swing, straight into the top of Tieaxz head. The few people at the bistro screamed, but the waiter had already hopped over the small iron fence separating the patio, and was off at a sprint, leaving behind a sight that would ruin the rest of the patron’s appetites for the night.


Chaotix was lurking outside the Hotel Abattoir. He was figuring it might be time to start knocking tgs off his bucket list. Still, just in the event that he survived…. Money was tight, what with not having had a job for a few weeks now. While he sat on the bench, mulling it over, a gentlemen in a trench coat sat down next to him. Chaotix gave him no thought. The man simply sat there, staring at the street in front, occasionally giving another glance back at Chaotix or checking his watch. Another gentlemen sat down on Chaotix’ other side. Now he a bit concerned. He looked to his right, then his left. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I must leave.”

As he got up, the one on his left jumped up, pistol withdrawn from the coat. Chaotix jumped back in alarm, straight into the other’s clutches. He immediately tumbled to his right, trying to scramble his way out. The man with the pistol fired a shot, but missed to the left. The other man yelled at him over missing from four feet away. “You blind?! How’d you miss?! He was right there!”
“Whadda you yelling at me for?!” The other responded. “He’s getting away!” he screamed, pointing at the fleeing Chaotix. “Because I need to get him! I dunno who you’re supposed to be, bud, but that’s my kill!” The two stood in the street yelling at each other for a good ten minutes until they both finally noticed that Chaotix was, in fact, completely gone. The two merely stowed their weapons away, grumbling as they walked away.


Meanwhile, deep within the now vast Fatlington Cemetery, Neri knelt before a couple of graves. The number lost in their current struggles were truly staggering. Everyone’s innocence was shattered at this point, but it only meant that the deceased needed their prayers all the more. Despite her concentration, she could hear the soft steps of people behind her. She opened her eyes, stood up, and turned around. Two men in formal suits were standing about twenty feet away, one in crimson, the other black. “Praying for someone you might’ve killed?” A man asked her. “Or praying for your own forgiveness and redemption?”

Neri just shook her head. “I owe you no answers. You’re the one come here with foul intentions, if that automatic weapon you’re poorly concealing is any indication.” The man scowled.

“We’re the ones who’re going to save everyone from people like you! You can’t lecture us on morals!” the man in the crimson suit yelled back. With that, the two withdrew their tommy guns from their suits. The man in the crimson suit fired off a single burst, catching Neri in the left knee. She fell back down on the knee, bracing herself with her arm. He walked up closer. She started to try and get up again, but the man kicked the wounded knee and she fell back down again. He readied the weapon , aiming it at the back of her head. “KNEEL BEFORE THE KING OF HEARTS!” With that, he fired off a single burst, leaving one more body for the graveyard to hold.


Ironside’s home sat on the corner of a small residential district on the west side of Fatlington. It was a pristine monument to the new, modern era. A freshly painted white picket fence surrounded the neatly cut lawn. The building itself was also painted in a shining coat of white. Ironside always smiled to himself when he came home after each day at the convention center, when he could admire his accomplishment of providing such a foundation to his life. Tonight, he swung open the gate with a swing to his step. He had a good feeling about the night. When he turned around to lock the gate, he saw a pair of figures on the opposite street corner, rapidly approaching. Meanwhile, another person was approaching from his left, on the sidewalk. Raising an eyebrow, he turned back and stepped quickly back to his door. He swung it open and slammed it shut behind him. Without hesitation, he bolted down the lock. He stepped to the side slightly, and peered through the window.

The two men were standing at the sidewalk in front of his house, giving an odd stare at the third. Ironside assumed they weren’t allies. Hopefully they might turn on each other. The three stood for a moment, apparently arguing over something. But none were drawing weapons. Finally, the three seemed to settle the discussion, and the one solo man from down the street began to approach the door. He drew a pistol, and creeped cautiously.

BANG!

The man in front of the door immediately leapt to the right, following a loud gunshot from across the street. Someone was laying atop the house across the street, with a sniper rifle scoped in on the gentlemen in front of the house. Another gunshot rang out, targeting the lone man scampering across the lawns of the street. Ironside could have sworn it sounded like it was right on top of him… But Ironside could see the man successfully scampering down the street at a breakneck pace, screaming for his life. He whipped his head back to the other two. They were already breaking down the street in the other direction.

BANG!

Another shot rang out from seemingly on top of Ironside. The closest man to the house collapsed in a heap as his right knee was blown apart into a bloody mess. He moaned in agony as blood poured from the gaping wound in his right leg. Another shot rang out from above, but the other man weaved across the street, and it grazed above his head. But the sniper across the street wasn’t finished- he fired a shot, true and lethal, straight to the man’s chest, straight through the heart. The man flew across the street, momentum taking the flailing body headfirst into the curb. Ironside waited for what seemed like ages. Finally, one last shot was heard, and the man bemoaning his loss of leg became very quiet. Ironside waited just a bit longer, before venturing out. He crept slowly, carefully, before he could be for certain he was not next on the sniper menu. But once he made it to the gate, he relaxed. He jaunted over to the corpses in the street. About ten feet from each other lay the bodies of Jarema and Xehh II. Ironside smirked. “Insolence. That’s what you get, foul creatures. Goodbye. We won’t miss you.” With that, he strolled back to his house, an unnatural glee welling within him at their failure.


Xehh II startled awake. The pain was horrifying. His leg…. grar. He couldn’t see, but he felt down, and could touch the stub where his knee was supposed to be. His leg… it was gone. He started to panic. He began to feel around, and all he could touch was wood encased around him. Then it hit him. They’d declared him dead. The idiots! How?! Claustrophobia was starting to set in, when Xehh II finally just closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. That’s when he noticed he could hear, faintly, the sound of a violin playing. Up? Above him? He had to be close!

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He could get out. He had to get out. This wasn’t the end. He was a survivor. That’s what his martial arts instructor had finally, begrudgingly, admitted when he’d finished his training in the Orient. He wasn’t going to let this coffin keep him. He began to feel around, touching the wood atop him. He began to knock around softly, feeling for a structural weakness. Finally, he found something. The knock rang just a bit differently, a bit more hollow than it should have. Just atop his right hand.

Xehh breathed deeply once again. He readied his right hand into a fist. He punched as hard as he could, given the three inches of space he had available. His hand exploded in pain, but he could hear the faintest crack in the wood. Yes! Shrugging the pain off, he pulled back again, and punched again. And again. And again. And again. He lay there, determinedly punching the coffin’s roof, for nearly ten minutes when the pressure of the earth above finally bowed the coffin inwards. The dirt plowed down, and Xehh managed to scramble himself into an upwards position. He clawed upwards, scrambling for precious fresh air. He climbed, trying to haul his hear useless lower body up. Suddenly, his right hand could feel cool air, exploding up past the resistance the dirt provided. With a last, great effort, he hauled himself up, his head powering up over the dirt with a gasp. He hauled himself completely up, gasping, laying on the bare dirt in the graveyard. The music could be heard plain as day now. He flopped over on his back, and could see a man in a sharp suit, with a white shirt and black tie, standing just a few feet away, violin in hand. The man looked surprisingly calm for someone who just witness a person climbing out of their own grave.

“So, it seems you’re alive after all,” the man said. “Go home.” He pulled a golden luger from his coat pocket. Xehh II’s eyes widened.

“Wait, no, I can’t di-“ Xehh’s final words were cut off, as a shot rang through the night and struck through Xehh’s forehead. The man with the violin simply chortled to himself. He finished his piece, before leaving the graveyard for the night.


8:56AM, Thursday, 16 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"Okay everyone," Commissioner Fermanagh said, "It's now time to review the postmortem reports." He took a look at his drink, then decided against it for the time being. "Your lynch of Erebus netted us another dead townsperson. As for the night, Clitsome was a communist who was trying to uproot good, moral, capitalist values. It's about time an unsavory person took it instead of a good townsperson. On a related note, Fyremarble was a Mafia Donna, likely caught up as a loser in the gang wars. Similarly, it seems that Gibsons was a mafia luca, and that Winston Hughes was a made man for a family as well. Good work, families! Keep it up and the town may still have a chance!"

Fermanagh looked back to his drink and shrugged. Pausing for a second to take a long drink, he finally looked back to Askthepizzaguy. "Director, the floor is yours. Good luck, everyone. We might just have a chance afterall."

OOC

Apologies for the delay. Day twenty begins now. You are voting for lynch.
Phase ends:

Feedback PMs will be out in an hour or so. As per usual, let me know if there are any administrative issues.


Attacked = 65: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12, n19), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10, n17, n18), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16), shlin28 (n16), Seon (n17), hero di classico (n18), autolycus (n19), Ironside (n19)

Wounded = 22: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13, n18), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14), Renata (n18)

Killed = 75: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray [townie] (n16), gnarlycharlie [Don] (n16), Sigurd [communist recruit] (n16), Sprig [Made] (n16), Clitsome [communist] (n17), fyremarble [don] (n17), gibsonsg91921 [luca] (n17), Winston Hughes [made] (n17), Backwards Logic (n18), Believer (n18), GamezRule (n18), kennigit (n18), Secura (n18), Bsmith (n19), Jarema (n19), Neri (n19), Tiaexz (n19), White eyes (n19), Xehh II (n19)


Lynched = 19: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15) [townie], The Stranger (d15) [rogue], BillMC [detective] (d16), Erebus (d17) [townie], shlin28 (d18), Scottishranger (d19)

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active (18):

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, Beefy187, Chaotix, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, hero di classico, Ironside, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, Seon, SisterCoyote

Post #4625 of main thread.

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

"..."
...4'33"
...John Cage

9:56PM, Thursday, 16 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

The Director Askthepizzaguy had been away for most of the day, attending the funerals of many fallen Fatlings, and making important telephone calls. When he arrived at the Convention Center, he was surprised to see that his goons were locked outside the building, engaged in a shooting match with whoever was still inside.

The Committee was in open rebellion, that much was clear. The stalemate was obvious, the building provided the kind of solid protection required to turn back even machine gun fire, and the Committee was not without heavy weaponry of their own. Weaponry that the Director had allowed to be sold openly on the streets during his time in office. Now it was all backfiring. After everything that had transpired, another war is not what the Director had in mind. "You'll never take us alive, Askthepizzaguy!" shouted Chaotix defiantly from within the Convention Center. "To the last I grapple with Pizza; from hell's heart I stab at Pizza; for hate's sake I spit out my last bite and demand my money back! No tip!"

The Director opened the trunk of his limousine and lifted up a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, aiming it directly at the convention center doors.

"I was wondering if I was ever going to get a chance to use this baby... open sesame." The Director fired the weapon and the aim was true. The very street shook as the powerful explosion rocked the foundation of the building, and annihilated the barrier protecting those within. He then grabbed a few other items from the trunk.

The dust hadn't even settled yet when the gunfire continued. People scattered from the front of the building to avoid the heavy weapons fire, as the mob of gangsters in dark red suits approached. They were able to reach the building safely and hid behind the destroyed outer wall. The people inside retaliated with Molotov cocktails, sniper fire, and hand grenades, as well as handguns and automatic weaponry.

The standoff continued, neither side able to make any progress. Finally, one of the Director's goons shouted out "Nuts to this, I'm out of here!" giving the Committee the advantage. Even as the gangsters boldly advanced, they were shot at and forced to take cover inside the building, where they were singled out one by one and held at gunpoint.

"It's over, Pizza lord! Your reign of terror is at an end. Show yourself, and accept the long-awaited justice you so richly deserve!" roared Chaotix as he held the final goon at gunpoint personally.

The glass ceiling of the Convention Center shattered, and Askthepizzaguy came in through the opening, strapped to a bungee cord, wielding his trademark Thompson, protected by a bulletproof vest. He was firing the weapon as he descended, causing the Committee members to take cover and lose their hostages. Pizza landed on the Convention Center floor right behind Chaotix, where he released the bungee cord and held the deadly weapon against the back of the rebel leader. In the confusion and carnage, some of the gangsters had turned the tables on their captors, and held a few of them at gunpoint, but not all. It was a standoff. "You can't win, Pizza man. The war is over. You're hopelessly outnumbered." said Chaotix cooly. Niklas and Renata, and several others, shouted their agreement.

"I do not understand how you could have made such a basic counting error." the Director replied. In a moment, Nightbringer and Double A switched sides and now aimed at their former allies. The tension in the room was thick. For several long minutes, the Committee and the Goon Squad held their fingers on the triggers. Chaotix was the first to break the silence.

"It's the end, Pizza. We won't surrender and everyone in this room is going to die. You have 30 seconds to tell your men to drop their weapons, or we open fire." Chaotix sounded very confident. He hadn't come this far to surrender now... it was victory or death. The Director cleared his throat, and spoke.

"What are you waiting for? These men have killed for me, bled for me, and are willing to die for me. And I would remind you that these men would do anything to stay out of jail, or be executed. If it is their fate to die with a gun in their hand, that's the life they chose. There is no turning back. Shoot them."

....

Some of the Goons looked a bit uneasy, but they held their ground. What was Pizzaguy up to?


"Why are you stalling, Chaotix? You have them all at the barrel of a gun. Pull the trigger. All of you Committee members. We've been doing this for 20 days now, and I think 20 is a nice round number. All good things must come to an end. Say good-bye to your wives and children. You managed to kill the criminals, congratulations, losing only your lives in the process. Now be cold and ruthless and carry out your threat, like a true Gangster."

Some of the Committee members flinched. A couple of them dropped their guns entirely and surrendered. "We want no part of this. Don't kill us!"

"What? He's going to kill you anyway! You're throwing your lives away, surrendering to the man who will destroy you if you show the slightest weakness. You've doomed yourselves!" pleaded Chaotix.

"I'm afraid not, mister Chaotix. I imagined something like this would happen, and so I've worked very, very hard to make friends in unusual places. Doctors, lawyers, cops, you name it. And I've made sure that they've been paid very handsomely for their services, so they could afford the finer things in life. So they could raise their families in peace. What have you done for them lately?"

"I'm offering them freedom! Freedom from your brutal tyranny! I am the savior of Fatlington!" responded Chaotix.

"No, I am afraid it is you who are mistaken, about a great many things.... Who cares about freedom when you're lying dead in a gutter, or your whole family is starving to death, or threatened by gang violence? These people have already chosen their path, and it's not freedom they want; not the freedom to die in a pointless gun fight. What they want is to walk out of this Convention Center alive, and sit down and have a nice delicious turkey dinner with their families tonight. That's what I'm offering. All you're offering is spite and death." responded Askthepizzaguy. "I'm willing to kill every single one of you right here, right now, because I do not surrender to you, not you law-abiding types, and not you rival gangsters. I'm willing to kill or be killed. Now pull the trigger, or drop your weapons, NOW."


Nobody moved.


Finally, a burst of automatic weapons fire shocked everyone in the Convention Center. Chaotix dropped to his knees, staring in disbelief as his intestines had been scattered across the floor. He curled over and lay face down on the ground, and he did not get up.

The Thompson continued firing, right at chest level, in one clean sweep from one side of the Ballroom to the other. The Committee members dropped to the ground to avoid being shot, as did the Director's goons. But the experienced gangsters knew how to react in these situations, and stayed cool. They held their guns tight and kept aiming at their former captors.


"Now get up." commanded Askthepizzaguy. "Go home. Only those responsible for this little insurrection need pay for it with their lives. But I'm warning you, if you try anything like this again, you will lay down next to them. My patience has limits." The shaken Committee members were confused by the show of mercy, but grateful to still be alive. They were escorted out of the Convention Center, flanked by the Director's men.

Askthepizzaguy kneeled next to Chaotix and turned him over. The man was near death, bleeding out rapidly, unable to breathe properly. "You almost had me. Nobody has ever come so close. I want you to know that I admire your conviction, and your ambition, and your cunning. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Die with dignity, my friend."

With that, Askthepizzaguy pulled a small revolver out of his coat pocket, and left a pair of slugs in the man's head before covering him with the Italian flag, and walking out of the Convention center alive.

OOC

Night Twenty orders are due:


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


Lynch vote tally:

Chaotix: 8 (hero, lazy, krill, auto, dave, nightbringer, diana, double a) :skull:

Askthepizzaguy: 8 (niklas, renata, chaotix, diy, sisterc, seon, ironside, tld)

Post #4696 of main thread.

"And how can we win
When fools can be kings
Don't waste your time
Or time will waste you
No one's gonna take me alive
The time has come to make things right
You and I must fight for our rights
You and I must fight to survive"
...Knights of Cydonia
...Muse


Night Twenty -- The Streets of Fatlington


It was a fairly quiet night in Fatlington. The utter decimation of the Committee of Vigilance would do that to any town. Plus, with nearing three weeks of constant, terrible violence, the rest of the sleepy shore town had taken the hint and either boarded up or hightailed it out of town. Only the hardcores remained.

Niklas knew better than to go out at night. He knew where the line was and where he stood. His best chance of surviving was hunkering down and hoping for the best. But then, something terrible happened when Niklas was in full survival mode.

He had run out of beer.

This was unacceptable. And so, damning the risk, he went out to the nearest 24-hour convenience store to get his beer.

Checking all visual quadrants, he determined the store to be empty save for the cashier before going inside. It was safe to get his beer, after all. Just as he was paying for it, the door to the men's room burst open and two figures machine-gunned him mercilessly, draping an Italian flag over his body and taking the beer for themselves before leaving.

When the cashier determined all was clear (this time for real), he quickly revived Niklas and explained to him that an ambulance was on its way to take him to Mercy Hospital. "They never paid for the beer," he said, gritting his teeth. "They'll get what's coming to them for that." Niklas decided he needed the alcohol now more than ever.

They would have machine-gunned him mercilessly were it not for yet another figure who burst out of the women's room and brandished a large and nasty-looking machine gun of his own. Both attackers made a split-second decision that it wasn't worth it and decided to leave Niklas be, entirely unharmed.


As soon as Death is yonder saw the red knife embedded in the sidewalk ahead of him, he knew he was in trouble. Knowing better, he immediately turned tail and ran, but his lone pursuer was quickly catching up to him, not having missed a stride at all to take his knife out of the ground. This man was simply more athletic than DiY, who said a quick "Hail Mary" as he was running for his life.

The pursuer was gaining ground, but he needed to kill with authority, panache. He figured a thrown knife perfectly embedded in the back of DiY's head would meet this end. And so, he brought his arm back to throw.

"Ow!" A sharp pain immediately entered his entire arm, and he found it nearly immobile. Throwing the knife was now out of the question. He stopped stride entirely to examine the source of this pain and found that somebody had lodged a blow-dart in his throwing arm. He wasn't sure if it had been tipped with poison or not, but he decided it was best to go home and treat the wound just in case.


9:01AM, Friday, 17 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"So yeah, no deaths today after all," Commissioner Fermanagh said, "though one of your number has been wounded. Now, for the usual body report. Backwards Logic and kennigit were Mades, GamezRule was a Don, and Secura was a Rogue Detective. On the sides of good, shlin28 was a loyal townie and was working to take down the Communists from the inside, and Believer was one of Hoover's boys with the FBI. Not much more to say, I guess." He stepped down, going back to his familiar bottle, handing off the gavel to Director Askthepizzaguy.


OOC

Day Twenty-one begins. You are voting to lynch and to select a Director.
Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will go out tomorrow after I get some sleep. As always, PM me with administrative issues.


Attacked = 65: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12, n19), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10, n17, n18), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16, n20), shlin28 (n16), Seon (n17), hero di classico (n18), autolycus (n19), Ironside (n19)

Wounded = 22: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13, n18), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14), Renata (n18)

Killed = 75: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray [townie] (n16), gnarlycharlie [Don] (n16), Sigurd [communist recruit] (n16), Sprig [Made] (n16), Clitsome [communist] (n17), fyremarble [don] (n17), gibsonsg91921 [luca] (n17), Winston Hughes [made] (n17), Backwards Logic [Made] (n18), Believer [FBI] (n18), GamezRule [don] (n18), kennigit [Made] (n18), Secura [rogue] (n18), Bsmith (n19), Jarema (n19), Neri (n19), Tiaexz (n19), White eyes (n19), Xehh II (n19)


Lynched = 19: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15) [townie], The Stranger (d15) [rogue], BillMC [detective] (d16), Erebus (d17) [townie], shlin28 [townie] (d18), Scottishranger (d19)

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active (17):

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, Beefy187, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, hero di classico, Ironside, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, Seon, SisterCoyote

Post #4784 of main thread

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


"You wake up believing this day will end by evening
It's taken for granted that seeds of life are planted
But nothing prepares you for nature's acts of virtue
It's Doomsday, ascending, the world you know is ending

Seas will rise and the mountains will stir
With the power of creation
We will end in a fiery rage"
...Doomsday
...Globus


The Director called the meeting to order. It seemed much quieter today, as if all the fight had gone out of the Committee. The events of the previous day must have shaken them. The votes were tallied and it looked as though Ironside was the chosen one on this particular day.

Ironside stood up, looking a bit disgusted by this turn of events, turned coldly toward the Director. Hardly anyone spoke up in his defense. Resigned to his fate, he was ushered away by the men in red suits, who confiscated his sidearm, and pushed him into a waiting limousine. The Director quickly followed, and the vehicle sped away.

The men sat in the car in silence, as they approached the Hotel Abbatoir. Soon they were riding the elevator to one of the top floors.... to the rooftop cafe. There, sitting at a table, was a man sipping his coffee, facing away from the approaching men.

"Do you know why you're here, Ironside?" began the Director.

Ironside said nothing, and stared off into the distance blankly. "You were part of the Insurrection. If you hadn't joined up, you wouldn't be here now. Things would have been different."

"You tried to kill me for no reason." said Ironside.

"Nothing personal," said Askthepizzaguy. "And besides, you survived, didn't you?" the Director chuckled. Ironside was not laughing.

"Ironside, I want you to sit down and have a drink with me. I have to explain myself, I feel. Let me tell you a story."

The two men sat down with the third mysterious stranger, who was staring into his drink.

"A long time ago, there was a fox living near a vast desert, with a river running through it. The fox crossed the river regularly in its travels in order to find food. Well, along comes the fox's mortal enemy, the scorpion. The scorpion said good day to the fox, and asked if the fox would be so kind as to give the scorpion a ride across the river. 'Why should I help you across? How can I trust you not to sting me, as we are mortal enemies?' asked the fox. 'Why should I sting you? If I do, we will both drown and die.' said the scorpion. So the fox thought about it and he agreed. And the fox allowed the scorpion on his back and began swimming across the river. When they reached the halfway point, the fox felt a sharp stinging sensation down its back, and realized he had been stung by the scorpion. The fox cried out 'how could you sting me? We both will drown now!' The scorpion replied, 'whether you realize it or not, we're mortal enemies. It is in my nature to kill my enemies.' And the fox and the scorpion drowned." said Askthepizzaguy.

Ironside rolled his eyes and replied that he understood the story, but that he was never the Director's mortal enemy.

"This might be true. But I know of someone who is your mortal enemy, and he happens to be a good friend of mine." the Director motioned toward the man stirring his coffee, whose face was obscured by the brim of his fedora.

Ironside peered at the man sitting across the table from him, and noticed that the man was not stirring his coffee with a spoon. When the man looked up, Ironside recoiled. "It's you.... the one I've been looking for all this time!"

The man sitting opposite just smiled as he stood up. The Director aimed a golden Luger at Ironside.

"Hoist by my own petard, Ironside? Indeed, if you had been successful I would have been the victim of my own scheming. But now, you shall become a victim of your own plans to destroy one of my own. Do you wish to do the honors, sir?" Askthepizzaguy held the golden Luger outstretched, allowing the other man to take the weapon, but he just shook his head, and lifted the red knife out of his cup of coffee, and licked the blade clean in a long, slow motion, staring at Ironside the entire time.

"Very well, do what you do best." said the Director, as he stood back to watch the carnage unfold.

The man with the red knife tossed the table out of the way and began advancing on Ironside, who had nowhere to run, with the Director's goons standing all around them. The Director wanted to see a good show, perhaps a struggle for power, one last battle between rivals.

Instead, what the Director saw was gut-wrenching. The assassin moved with such speed that it was hard to follow exactly what was happening. What the Director was certain of was that the man had no regard for human life and was extremely adept at taking it. The quick, vicious, precise cuts were meant to inflict pain, but cause a limited loss of blood. The assassin avoided all the major arteries and focused on nerve endings. Within seconds, Ironside was on the ground being cruelly butchered by the sadistic psychopath, and it wasn't a pleasant sight at all. The screams were horrifying, and the Director couldn't even bear to watch it continue.

It was senseless.... devoid of emotion or reason. The Director pulled out the Italian flag he had been saving for this occasion, and threw it over the railing to be taken away by the strong, cold wind. Taking one look back at the man with the red knife, he motioned for the goon squad to join him.

"That's enough. He's quite dead by now, I'm sure." said Askthepizzaguy.

But the groan which escaped the lips of the disfigured man caused the Director to turn back. He aimed the golden Luger at Ironside's head, and put an end to the torment. "Satisfied?" asked the pizza guy. The stranger with the red knife only nodded, licking the blood from the blade, and disappearing off into the night.

"I wonder what he'll do now..." said the Director. "Keep an eye on him, would you? Something isn't right with that one."

OOC

Night 21 orders due in:


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

Lynch Vote Tally:

Ironside: 9 (autolycus, Krill, Diana, Daveshack, nightbringer, lazy, Hero, Double A, Niklas)
abstain: 2 (beefy, DiY)

Post #4815 of main thread.

"For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel's, the same shall save it.
For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?
Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"
...Mark 8:35-37


Night Twenty One -- The Streets of Fatlington


Askthepizzaguy sat reclined in his comfortable chair, high up on the top floor of the Hotel Abattoir. It had a lovely balcony which held a view of the boardwalk and shops. Tonight, he was feeling like staying inside, however. He held a glass of scotch in his right hand, swirling it just slightly between drinks while flipping through the most recent newspaper. He wasn’t surprised to hear a knock on the door.

“Please, come in!” he commanded . The doorknob swiveled for a second, and a woman opened the door. She gave him a slightly amused look.

“Nice place you got here, Don Clemenza. Pity if something were to happen to it.”

Askthepizzaguy reached for the big red button to call in the goons, before remembering he was no longer in the director’s chair. He glanced at the door.

“Oh, looking for your Mades? Never mind them. They’re with me now. I took your advice, showed ‘em some leg.”

Askthepizzaguy looked pointedly at his visitor, who was wearing a long wool coat, men’s pinstriped trousers and, yes, sensible shoes.

“So to speak. Worried yet?” The visitor pulled out a silver cigarette case and offered one to the former Director.

“No.” He took the proffered cigarette, and accepted a light. “I’m calling your bluff.”

“Well, it is a bluff, of course. You know how these things go.” The visitor smoked for a moment, frowning. “I am de-fanged. Your gangsters knew it.” She sighed heavily. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything.”

"But if you don't like it, you'll lie."

"I am what I am."

"Yes." The visitor leaned in close. "I want a good death, Saucy Slice. An honorable one, as befits a true daughter of Fatlington. Capisce?"

"Yes."

"Very well. My car is waiting, and one more night on the beach. It'll be just me with the MaiTais, this time, but that's as it should be. I should go." She took a last drag of her cigarette.

A twinge of wariness ... "Just you?"

"Just me, Don Clemenza." She dropped the cigarette to the floor and stomped it out. Only when her hands came back up to eye level, did he notice the Derringer -- the old Don's gun, with its "Seward's Folly" engraving and "Corleone" scratched into the grip. She fired.

…

Askthepizzaguy chuckled for a few seconds. “I knew I had a good feeling about tonight. I’m a ladies man, you see? And Lady Luck, she just has a big old crush on me, just knew it. Maybe you should check that old gun into a weapon smith before toting it around, eh?” His visitor breathed a sigh. She’d double checked the damned thing before leaving, and still it found a way to misfire.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Don. Do remember that favor?” Sighing once again, she pulled another cigarette from the case, giving it a light as she departed the door.


Meanwhile, across town, Autolycus was enjoying the relatively calm night out on his own porch. He was sitting on a white rocking chair, eyes closed, enjoying the quiet, occasionally sipping a glass of tea. The only sound was that of the occasional vehicle slowly weaving down the street. After a few moments, the sound of a vehicle failed to halt. Instead, the gentle hum of the motor kept at a constant volume. He peaked his eyes open. Two gentlemen were helping themselves out. Each wore a sharp suit and tie.

Auto simply smiled a bit. He was at peace with the world. If this was his time, perhaps that was just it. He closed his eyes again, enjoying the sway of his chair. He could hear their footsteps slowly approaching. Oddly, it seemed that there were far more footsteps than there should be. He peeked his right eye open, and saw a small entourage of four folks approaching from the other side. Each was armed with a Beretta pistol. The four silently aimed their weapons at the two men standing in front of the car. Autolycus simply shut his eyes again, and continued to rock back and forth. No words were exchanged in front of him. But he could hear footsteps. Slowly, it seemed the larger of the two groups were distancing themselves. He heard two car doors open.

BAM!

In spite of his calm, instinct shot Autolycus’ eyes shot open. The man standing next to the passenger side door collapsed in a heap. A small fountain of blood spewed from his right collarbone, just next to his neck. The larger group panicked, looking at each other confused. They fled immediately on foot. Likewise panicked, the driver hopped back in and gunned the vehicle out, leaving his partner behind. Autolycus numbly walked up to the sidewalk, where the body lay face down in a pool of blood. Gently peeking around, Autolycus couldn’t see where the shot was fired from. Still, he mustered the courage o flip the body over. Hero di Classico stared back with vacant eyes. Shaking his head, Autolycus headed back to give Mercy the news.


9:04AM, Friday, 18 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"That's actually it," the commissioner finished. "We had another strong night- just one death, and one that was asking for it, it would seem. Now, onto the post mortem results, as usual. First off, your lynch choice, Scottishranger, was the Don of one of Fatlington's families. As for the night casualties; they all are can be put into basically two categories. Tiaexz, Jarema, and Neri were all mades in the service of mafia families. Meanwhile, Bsmith, white eyes, and Xehh II were all unaffiliated folks with some shady ties. We're not sure if they were helping the mafia or not, but they seemed to be off on their own direction, if nothing else. Anyways, that about sums it up. It was a solid night for us, but I'm sure there's still a long ways to go. Director?" The commissioner looked to the newly minted Director Seon, offering the gavel. With gusto, Seon officially opened his first day as Director with a bang.


OOC

Day Twenty Two begins. You are voting to lynch. Phase ends:



Attacked = 65: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8, n21), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12, n19), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10, n17, n18), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16, n20), shlin28 (n16), Seon (n17), hero di classico (n18), autolycus (n19, n21), Ironside (n19)

Wounded = 22: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13, n18), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14), Renata (n18)

Killed = 76: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10),
AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray [townie] (n16), gnarlycharlie [Don] (n16), Sigurd [communist recruit] (n16), Sprig [Made] (n16), Clitsome [communist] (n17), fyremarble [don] (n17), gibsonsg91921 [luca] (n17), Winston Hughes [made] (n17), Backwards Logic [Made] (n18), Believer [FBI] (n18), GamezRule [don] (n18), kennigit [Made] (n18), Secura [rogue] (n18), Bsmith [wiseguy] (n19), Jarema [made] (n19), Neri [made] (n19), Tiaexz [made] (n19), White eyes [wiseguy] (n19), Xehh II [wiseguy] (n19), Hero Di Classico (n21)


Lynched = 21: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15) [townie], The Stranger (d15) [rogue], BillMC [detective] (d16), Erebus (d17) [townie], shlin28 [townie] (d18), Scottishranger [don] (d19), Chaotix (d20), Ironside (d21)

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active (15):

Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, Beefy187, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Renata, Seon, SisterCoyote

Post #4837 of main thread.

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

"O' beautiful, for spacious skies
But now those skies are threatening
They're beating plowshares into swords
For this tired old man that we elected king
Armchair warriors often fail
And we've been poisoned by thse fairy tales
The lawyers clean up all the details
Since daddy had to lie

But I know a place where we can go
And wash away this sin
We'll sit and watch the clouds toll by
And the tall grass waze in the wind
Just lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair spill all around me
Offer up your best defense
But this is the end
This is the end of the innocence"
...The End of the Innocence
...Don Henley


Sunset, 6:59PM, Saturday 18 November 1951
Arrivederci Public Beach
Fatlington, New Jersey



Renata didn't bother attending the meeting. There was little point to these meetings anymore... the mafia seemed to own everything in town, and there was nothing further to be said, less still to be voted on. So, she reclined in her folding chair, sipping mai tais. Expecting company, she didn't even look up when a man wearing sandals and a big Hawaiian shirt and dark sunglasses walked up to her, holding a briefcase.

"Where's your goon squad?" asked Renata.

-"I'm retired. There's no need for any of that anymore. I'm thinking of taking some time off, spending a lot of it with the family."

"Where's your gun?"

-"I never really cared for guns. In this business you use what tools you have. Personally, I prefer things with a bit more flair and creativity."

"Let's get on with it." Renata said, as she took another sip.

-"Get on with what? What are you talking about?"

"You're obviously here to kill me. While I find this conversation fascinating, I'd prefer to end it with dignity."

-"I'm not here to kill you. Remember, I'm not the Director anymore. That's someone else's job."

"So what are you here for?"

-"I wanted to discuss family matters. This fighting needs to stop. Enough people have died already."

"You mean, you've killed enough people?"

-"However you want to look at it. The point is, we've done what we needed to. Anything further is bad for business."

Renata finished her mai tai and kept staring off into the sunset. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed my friends."

-"Hey, they were always loyal to you. They never would have come and worked for a guy like me."

"No, of course not. They had integrity and decency."

-"I'm really not such a bad guy, once you get to know me. They would have been just fine, working for me."

"Or dead."

-"So you'd rather die than walk away from them, even now?"

"Absolutely. Friends don't betray friends."

-"Even dead friends?"

"Especially dead friends."

-"In this business you can't really afford to have friends. You gotta do what's necessary. If you're a businessman, you have to make business decisions. You let people get too close, they can manipulate you into losing everything."

"You mean like you did?"

Askthepizzaguy nodded. "It's a tough business. You have to kill to stay alive. Gotta leave people behind the moment they start saying things they shouldn't, or making plans that don't include you. It's a filthy game, a dirty way to make a living. But you know, my son and daughter don't need to know where the money comes from. They just need to have a safe roof over their head. And I make sure that they have everything that they need, and I make sure it is possible that they have anything they could ever want."

Renata smiled faintly. "I understand that sentiment."

-"Do you also understand then, that although a businessman is ruthless, he's ruthless for a purpose? That there's more to life than just the money? That he's got values, and those values are to place the good of the Family above all other concerns?"

"Oh, I understand those values. Look at me, Clemenza. I've risked everything for the good of my family, for all the good it did for them. My last act on this Earth should have been to kill you for what you've done to them."

-"Do you still have that Derringer?"

"Here, take it. Useless anyway."

-"No, you see... the most common problem with the Derringer is its likelihood of a misfire. You have to wait with the gun pointed in a safe direction, then carefully remove the magazine, extract any misfired cartridge, then check to see if there is anything obstructing it. I see here that the firing mechanism is slightly misaligned. You shouldn't throw away a gun like this, its small size makes it perfect for concealing and using unexpectedly."

"Yeah, I got that part. I did try to kill you with it."

-"There we are. Good as new. Should work fine now." said Askthepizzaguy, as he handed her back the Derringer. Renata accepted the weapon cautiously, sitting in disbelief that the former Director was handing her the murder weapon. But not questioning why, she thought about it for two seconds, and then lifted the weapon and fired.


Askthepizzaguy held up his hand, showing Renata. "I of course removed the bullet. I, for one, intend to make it off this beach in one piece. Have a lovely rest of your evening." The man turned and walked back up to the boardwalk, where he stopped to grab a slice of pizza at the corner shop. Renata watched him carefully, as she reached down into her belongings and found another bullet for her gun.

Time to finish the job...

That's when she saw the new Director walking towards her, alone. Whatever he was planning, it could wait. She lifted the Derringer and addressed the newcomers. "Listen up, I'm going to go kill Don Clemenza, since none of you have the courage to do so. If you want to try and stop me, it's your funeral."

“Oh, do try and shoot me,” the Director said. “Try and aim for the head, I’m wearing a flak jacket.”

Renata’s gun wavered, her resolve suddenly weakening. “What?” she asked.

The director shrugged. “Just observed that people tend to drop their guns in confusion when I say that. Then I don’t have to do this,”

Director snapped his fingers. A gunshot, and the gun was blown out of Renata’s hands. “Now that we are all behaving like polite friends, let’s sit down and discuss matters, shall we? I brought tea. And crackers.”

As Renata sat numbly back on the chair, the director pulled another one in front of it. “Here, have a drink,” he said, producing a tea cup seemingly out of nowhere and pouring warm black tea from it. He tossed a packet of crackers next to it.”

“Good, isn’t it?” the Director said as Renata sipped from the cup. “Well, it better be because that’s the last tea that you will ever be having. There is no sense to knocking oneself out with alcohol before the end. If I die, I want to see it coming.”

“So you are still carrying out Clemenza's wishes? You ever try thinking for yourselves? Just give me five minutes. I'll kill the Pizza man or die trying. Won't that fulfill the Committee's wishes beyond their wildest dreams?" Renata spat.

The director shrugged. “Many people’s first impulse when fighting against a mega-entity such as the mafia is to aim for the head. Boom! Headshot!” Director chuckled. “No. Killing the head will not do anything. Just another idiot will come by and take his or her place. May make the place a bit more interesting, though, which is always nice.”

Director sighed as he leaned back on the chair. “Can you believe it?” he said, laughing. “Hundreds of people in this city, dead! And it all happened in a time period of 3 weeks. The rest of the people in this city is fleeing or is going to die pretty soon. It’s much quieter here now. That’s nice too. No, I don't think I'll let you kill the pizza man.”

Renata groaned in frustration. “So what, is this the time you kill me? What are you going to do, dip me in acid? Is the tea I just drank filled with laxatives that will make me fart out my own intestines? Is it going to make my head explode? Or maybe you are going to feed me to your pet octopus?”

“I was thinking…” the director said. “Of just shooting you,” he pulled out a small pistol. A revolver.

Renata tilted her head to the side. Then she burst into laughter.

“What,” the director said, smiling. “What were you expecting from Pizza and me, a dance? Maybe a night out with a flash of the dagger at the end?”

“That’s lame!” she said. “What, are you so lacking in-“

The director threw the gun into her hands. Her eyes widened as she examined it. It was not a trick gun, the weight was just about right. She opened the cartridges to see that it was, indeed, a fully loaded weapon.

Director stood up, picking up the briefcase on the side in the process. “You see,” the director said. “Every lynch so far has gone entirely according to whatever the director was planning on. Introduce a little uncertainty, I say. Whatever you do with that revolver is entirely up to you, but you are not leaving this house. If you do, teams of snipers I set up will kill you. Or would they? Maybe they’ll miss. Maybe I am lying. Of course, they are going to kill you if you kill me. I heard that bleeding out from a sniper’s bullet is a painful way to go.”

“Damn you,” Renata said.

“I get that a lot,” the Director said, nonchalant. He slung the briefcase over his shoulders and walked away from the house towards the docks. As he did so, he heard a single gunshot from a distance, although he was unsure whether or not it was sniper fire or a sound from a muffled revolver. He shrugged and threw the briefcase into the sea and walked away, which quickly turned into a mad dash for safety when the briefcase exploded, sending columns of water and wet sand everywhere and began breaking apart the dock.




"Fare well, Donna Corleone. I hope wherever you are now, it's a far, far better place. Riposa in pace, bellissima."

Don Clemenza took a look at the new Director, watching him trudge toward his car, dripping wet and covered in sand. The Director was holding yet another pistol in his hands.

“I saw you ruin my game,” Don Clemenza said. Director smirked. “It’s as much as mine as it is yours.” The Director leveled the pistol against the Don.

“You can’t be serious,” Don said simply.

“Maybe I just don’t care,” Director said with the smirk turning into an insane grin. He wiped away salty water dripping into his eyes with the left hand. “It’s a game, after all.” He pulled the trigger.

*BANG!* said the flag that emerged out of the gun. Director waved the gun around innocuously. “I was just kidding.”

“Funny,” the Don said.

“More drinks?” the waiter said, coming out of the café. Director pointed the gun at the waiter and pulled the trigger again. The gunpowder hidden behind the flag detonated, launching the flag, and it’s specially sharpened tip, out of the barrel and into the waiter’s heart.

“No, I was not,” the Director continued. “Well, see yah tomorrow, man. Wet clothes are damn heavy. I’ll be back with a tank next time.”

Askthepizzaguy let out a small chuckle as he saw the Director walk away. He threw a wad of money to the body of the waiter.

“Keep the change.”


OOC

Night Twenty Two orders are due:


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


Lynch vote tally:

Renata: enough

Post #4854 of main thread.

"What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt"
...Hurt
...Trent Reznor


Night Twenty Two -- The Streets of Fatlington


It was raining in Fatlington, a hard, cold November downpour that ended all thoughts of nighttime excursions. There may have been something icier mixed in. Sleet, maybe. Nobody knew. Nobody cared.


Death is yonder sat inside his house, pondering. He had his gun nearby but didn't think he'd need it. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not.

Keeping him company were SisterCoyote and Beefy187. They were all that remained of their little clique, the last remaining do-gooders in Fatlington. They would stay together and fight to the end. And yet... what was the point? They had failed. There mission was to keep the Committee of Vigilance strong. They knew they had failed two weeks ago.

"Maybe they'll come," SisterCoyote said. "Maybe we'll be able to take out one more of their guys."

"What's the point?" DiY responded. "They outnumber us. Even with you guys here, if they wanted to overwhelm us, they could easily do so. They leave us be because we're no threat to them. What are we going to do, actually attack them? We're not murderers. They control the numbers on the Committee, we can't touch them there. They leave us alone because we're just not important enough to kill." He sunk deeper into his misery.

"We saved a few people. We tried to make a difference. We're going to be recognized by the AMA for our medical skills." Now Beefy chimed in.

"Medals to put up on our walls. Medals to display to people that never visit. Our friends are dead. Ted Williams is the greatest hitter of all time, playing right now up in Boston. You think he's happy with his statistics? No, and you know why? Because the Red Sox will never win the World Series, and he knows it. When you don't win the ultimate prize, the rest of it is meaningless."

The door knocked twice, breaking the uneasy silence that fell over the group. It was about as friendly and polite as a knock could be. Beefy went to answer the door, DiY and SisterCoyote both reaching for their guns.

It wasn't an attacker. It was Oh! TheLastDays!, dripping wet from the rain. "I'm not armed," he said, opening up all of his pockets. "Can I speak to DiY alone, please?"

DiY nodded. "Guys, go get yourselves something to drink. TLD won't kill me."

Without prompting, TLD sat down and began his pitch. "You're done here in Fatlington," he said. "So am I. No time like the present to move on."

"On? Where?"

"To greener pastures. Russia, eventually."

DiY sat in his chair, shocked. "You're-?"

"A Communist, yes. I'm actually a nuclear scientist who's looking to formally defect to the Soviets. When you've seen as much as I have, you tend to get disenchanted with things here. This mess in Fatlington only confirms it in my mind. I was told there was a communist cell operating in this town who would help extricate my to Russia. I made contact with them... but then they died. So now I need to find some other route. My plan is to hop around, find another cell - possibly in New York - and then go from there. Do you want to come with me? We could work together, and I know you're as eager to put this place behind you as I am. This kind of thing doesn't happen in Russia, you know. There, it's a much more ordered, ideal society. What do you say?"

DiY sighed. It sounded good, it really did. And the man did have some Communist sympathies. But...

"I don't know," he said. The man sounded exhausted. "I feel like a die just rolled in my head and a number came up that wasn't good for you. I'm not really ready to do anything right now. Maybe there's still something I can do here."

"There isn't, and you know it! We failed, all of us. But over in Russia, you can make a difference! Comrade Stalin will reward you for your medical expertise. You'll become a Hero of the Soviet Union, properly recognized for your efforts on a greater scale."

"In another time, I might agree with you," DiY said. "But not now. Now, I'm just... tired. Godspeed, though."

Seeing that his case was pointless, TLD bowed, exited the house, and began driving off to points unknown. His time in Fatlington was done. Hopefully his time in America would soon draw to a close as well.

Meanwhile, Death is yonder, SisterCoyote, and Beefy, spent the remainder of the night in silence, waiting for an attack that would never come.


Killing... killing was fun. Killing was good. Killing was healthy. Killing was a natural part of life. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He was refertilizing the earth. What was a meager human life when all of Mother Nature benefited?

This was one of LazyMcCrow's many justifications for murder. They changed from night to night, week to week. Sometimes he didn't even need one. Rationing really didn't matter. Killing did. Killing was enough. And yet...

Now there was to be no more killing. He had been able to do it easily enough under the watchful eye of the Fatlington Police Department, that was true. But now the FPD was no longer in charge. And the only people left to kill were the ring of doctors, who would all save each other, and the Clemenza faction, who would immediately enact terrible retribution on him. That was no fun.

Surely, there was no work left to be done in Fatlington. It had exhausted its potential. With this in mind, Lazy went back over his body of work during the brief time in the Shore town. A kill here and there. A ton of work done with the various mafia factions, but there was no fun in that. He never got to use his red knife, never really got to savor any of the kills. Those didn't count.

Ignoring the number of mafia-related kills, Lazy went back over the totals. The number was depressingly low. The Committee of Vigilance started out numbering 117. That was a lot of prime targets. It had been active for three full weeks, quite a long time. And yet Lazy had only managed to drop three or four of that 117 during those three weeks. So depressing, really. There was such promise. Fatlington was every serial killer's dream. And he had only managed to take out three or four people. Hell, other serial killers sometimes killed that many people in that period of time under normal conditions.

And now the window of opportunity had closed. Lazy would drive off in the morning, looking for a place to hunt. He still lived, but he knew that he would never get a better chance to practice his craft than the one he had just squandered. He hoped the continued killing would drown out his brain's regrets in the future, but he wasn't so sure.


At the penthouse of the Hotel Abbatoir...

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Don Clemenza, Askthepizzaguy, sat in his thronelike chair, staring out at the gray expanse of the town of Fatlington. He could see nothing. All of it was blocked by the clouds and the rain and the darkness. Still he stared. There was nothing to see, however, no matter how hard he looked. Even the lights on the city streets far below were few and far between.

Why wouldn't they be? The town had been gutted in the past three weeks. Fatlington had the highest murder rate in the country now, mostly thanks to his work. It wasn't even close. Even New York didn't have the raw amount of killings that Fatlington did this year, and The City had millions more people. If you examined the numbers on a murders per capita basis, they were even more skewed in Fatlington's "favor".

Fatlington had now seen four outbreaks of killings since 1947, two in 1951 alone. It had become famous nationwide for the sheer amount of murders and gang activity it had seen. The local politicians had tried to shun the town's reputation of being a gangster's haven. They didn't do well at it. Several savvy entrepreneurs had gone the opposite route of opening up mafia-themed businesses in an effort to capitalize on the town's new reputation. These were far more successful - until the killings started again.

Fatlington's tourism revenue had cratered since 1947, dropping 42% in a mere four years. 1952's numbers were projected to be even worse, and this was before the new outbreak of murders in October and November. The Committee of Vigilance was starting to receive unwanted attention for its entire existence, most notably its rampant corruption, potential extralegal practices, and most notably its draconian justice procedures, with one outside observer calling it "something that has been completely unseen in Western civilization for over a millennium."

The town's population had dropped as well. A big part of it was from the murders, of course, but an even bigger part was due to its effects. Nobody wanted to be next. Sure, the people in the Committee of Vigilance were the primary targets, but there was also the collateral damage from the murders. People were afraid to go outside anymore. They were afraid to patronize the places they had been going to for years in the fear that errant gunfire would claim their lives as well. Many families moved away. Nobody wanted to raise their kids in this environment.

Businesses were particularly feeling the effects. Their clientele was dropping massively. Murders. People afraid to go out. People outright leaving Fatlington. Fewer tourists coming in every summer. Massive repair costs when their establishments were shot up again and again and again. Fewer people to do the work. Even the roads leading to their establishments were a crapshoot now. You never knew when there might be a charred shell of a car blocking traffic in both directions or when the mafia had set up a roadblock to prevent their target from escaping. Many businesses had outright packed up and left Fatlington.

Askthepizzaguy sat in his thronelike chair overlooking the ruin of the town he had just inherited, utterly alone. He had guards, of course; some were outside the Hotel, some were in the lobby, more were in his hallway, still more were at his front door. But these were just underlings, after all. People whose job it was to follow orders. He had given them all choices, he said to himself. He enabled them to choose this route. He had given them their lives and happiness and victory, and they were better off for it.

They were now enjoying the spoils of their victory. Director Seon would see to it that the Committee formally disbanded in the morning. The incessant cycle of vote/do things at night would finally end. And then? Then, the Clemenza family would have full control over the town.

In town, on the beach, the waves lapped up onto the shore, the same as they had always done. There was the incessant patter of the rain on whatever solid object it came into contact with first. All the rest was silent.

The buildings had been boarded up. The people had moved on. The Clemenza family was all that was left. And now they got to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Askthepizzaguy, the Capo di Tutti Capi, sat in his thronelike chair overlooking the town, seeing nothing and hearing nothing. Outside, the rain continued to pour down.


OOC

Capo di Tutti Capi IV ends with a mafia family victory. Don Clemenza is now Capo di Tutti Capi!

If you're wondering about your individual victory condition... you figure it out. :laugh4: khaan and I are done.

It's been a great ride (if a bit long), thanks to everyone for playing. This was not an easy game to host, especially not stepping in midway, but we're honored that the Gameroom Anniversary, which started back in June, ended on such a big note. You may now begin posting your commentaries, of which I'm sure there are many.


List of players by fate:

Attacked = 65: Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8, n21), Raskolnikov (n1), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), Earthling (n1), a completely inoffensive name (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Cahoma (n2), El Barto (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Chaotix (n2, n3, n11, n12, n19), taillesskangaru (n3), Secura (n3), Ameranth (n3), Craterus (n3), Cecil XIX (n3, n6), johnhughthom (n4), Ishmael (n4), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Psychonaut (n5), Suburban Plankton (n4), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), scottishranger (n4, n10), edse (n5), Erebus (n5, n6, n15), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), J.D. (n6), Zack (n6), Camikaze (n7), Hero di Classico (n7), Diamondeye (n7, n9), guiri (n8), Khazaar (n8, n9, n11), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Scienter (n8 x2), sturmhauke (n8), Jarema (n9), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10, n17, n18), qlyphz (n10, n12), Psychonaut (n11), Crazed Rabbit (n12), Erebus (n12), BillMC (n12), Secura (n13), Beefy (n13), white eyes (n13), B_Ray (n14), Renata (n14, n15), Tiaexz (n14), Kennigit (n15), gibsons (n15), Believer (n16), Death is Yonder (n16, n20), shlin28 (n16), Seon (n17), hero di classico (n18), autolycus (n19, n21), Ironside (n19)

Wounded = 22: Slysnake (n1, n3), Lord Brennus (n3), Tratorix (n4), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), Psychonaut (n6), Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), Zack (n7), guiri (n8), Monk (n8), Sasaki (n9), Lewwyn (N11), Neri (N11), Scottishranger (n13, n18), Sturmhauke (n13), BillMC (n14), The Stranger (n14), Winston Hughes (n14), Renata (n18)

Killed = 76: Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Moros [luca] (n2), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), TinCow [detective] (n3), Xenoneb [townie] (n3), El Barto [detective] (n3), Arjos [FBI chief] (n3), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Suburban Plankton [detective] (n5), slysnake [townie] (n5), Lord Brennus [townie] (n5), Bow-wow-wow [townie] (n5), ByzantineKnight [townie] (n6), Kagemusha [serial killer] (n6), Tratorix [FBI] (n6), Raskolnikov [wiseguy] (n6), Nictel [wiseguy] (n6), J.D. [wiseguy] (n6), Visorslash [communist leader] (n7), Cecil XIX [townie] (n7), Drunk Clown [luca] (n7), Johnhughthom [wiseguy] (n7), Jolt [Made] (n7), Romanic [wiseguy] (n7), fubbleskag [doctor] (n8), Ibn-Khaldun [townie] (n8), Memnon [townie] (n8), robbiecon [townie] (n8), Andres [Special Agent] (n8), Camikaze [Made] (n8), Frozen in Ice [wiseguy] (n8), woad&fangs [townie] (n9), Zack [townie] (n9), Zim [Luca] (n9), Choxorn [townie] (n9), dcmort93 [townie] (n9), Diamondeye [wiseguy] (n10), AggonyKing [townie] (n10), God Emperor [made] (n10), Skotsko [made] (n10), slash and earn [townie] (n10), thefluffyone93 [rogue detective] (n10), Craterus [townie] (n11), Peasant Phill [Don] (n11), Sasaki [Don] (n11), ULC [townie] (n11), Khazaar [townie] (n12), Johhog [Wiseguy] (n12), qlyphz [townie] (n12), Lewwyn [made] (n13), Monk [townie] (n13), Yaropolk [townie] (n13), Cahoma [Luca] (n14), guiri [townie] (n14), Psychonaut [detective] (n14), Scienter [Made] (n14), B_Ray [townie] (n16), gnarlycharlie [Don] (n16), Sigurd [communist recruit] (n16), Sprig [Made] (n16), Clitsome [communist] (n17), fyremarble [don] (n17), gibsonsg91921 [luca] (n17), Winston Hughes [made] (n17), Backwards Logic [Made] (n18), Believer [FBI] (n18), GamezRule [don] (n18), kennigit [Made] (n18), Secura [rogue] (n18), Bsmith [wiseguy] (n19), Jarema [made] (n19), Neri [made] (n19), Tiaexz [made] (n19), White eyes [wiseguy] (n19), Xehh II [wiseguy] (n19), Hero Di Classico [Made] (n21)


Lynched = 21: Earthling [townie] (d2), a completely inoffensive name [townie] (d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump [wiseguy] (d4), Ishmael [communist] (d5), Montmorency [wiseguy] (d6), landlubber [Made] (d8), Captain Blackadder [townie] (d9), Riedquat [townie] (d10), Edse [surgeon] (d11), Populus Romanus [surgeon] (d12), Crazed Rabbit [made] (d13), Sturmhauke (d15) [townie], The Stranger (d15) [rogue], BillMC [detective] (d16), Erebus (d17) [townie], shlin28 [townie] (d18), Scottishranger [don] (d19), Chaotix (d20) [Made], Ironside (d21) [rogue], Renata (d22) [Don]

Wogged = 5: bestrfcplayer (n6), cpdwane [townie] (n4), Master Necromanver [Don] (n4), taillesskangaru [townie] (n4), Silver Jan [townie] (d16)

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Survived (14):

Askthepizzaguy [Don], Autolycus [Made], Beefy187 [surgeon], DaveShack [Shyster], Death is yonder [surgeon], Diana Abnoba [Made], Double A [Made], Krill [Made], LazyMcCrow [serial killer], Nightbringer [surgeon], Niklas [Made], O!TheLastDays! [Communist defector], Seon [surgeon], SisterCoyote [surgeon]