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

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Post #2315 in main thread.

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


Sixth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What money?" asked Zack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

“I hope you’ll call me.”

The masked man nodded politely and walked away.


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

And then it stayed dark.

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

“Good throw.”

“Yes, rather.”


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Fermanagh took a moment to review his notes.

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

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

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

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

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



OOC

Day Seven, lynch votes and selections, begins:

Phase ends:

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

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