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

[GeneralHankerchief]

Okay, due to the large amounts of difficulties we've had with the previous night's feedback PMs, I'm forced to extend the round until we get these in order. The new timer is as follows:



If you are waiting on a PM, please tell me exactly what you are expecting and anything else that may be of help to us.

We apologize for the delays and thank you for your continued patience. The game should progress a lot smoother after this night phase is ended.

[GeneralHankerchief]

Post #3062 of main thread.

"And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood."

...I'm Explaining A Few Things
...Pablo Neruda


Eighth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

fubbleskag never saw the end coming. He was walking down a side street, paranoid enough - you never survived long in Fatlington if you weren't, that was a rule - but he never expected the attack to come from THIS angle. Mafiosi, scum of the earth that they were, were at least supposed to have standards. That's what set them apart from the small-time gangsters, as it were. They had a code, things they would never stoop to do. Apparently ruining one's suit in the name of a kill was not one of these things.

As fubbleskag walked down the side street, a man watching from a nearby window signaled his partner by dropping a small rock onto the lid of a trashcan located directly below him. The can's lid lifted by a few inches, held in place by a head. The figure inside the trashcan paused, sighted his target, and then silently drew his silenced gun, firing it thrice. fubbleskag never saw it coming.

Upon examining his target, the attacker placed two Franklin silver half-dollars over fubbleskag's eyes, muttering that he would rather have saved the coins and taken his ruined suit to the cleaners. He then tipped his hat - the "all clear" signal to his partner at the window - and vacated the scene.


sturmhauke's attackers exhibited no such subtlety. They found their target drinking from one of the town's seedier bars - sturmhauke decided to stop frequenting the Hotel Abbatoir and Club 30 after so many incidents had happened there - and immediately zoned in, drawing their guns and preparing to open fire.

sturmhauke was taken by surprise, as were many patrons of the bar, but one such person was not. Seeing the entire thing as it was happening, he quickly stood up, splashed his drink in one of the attacker's faces, and threw his now-empty glass as hard as he could at the other. It was a hit, and Attacker Number Two went down, howling in pain. He was bleeding in a couple of different parts of his face.

Upon recovering, Attacker Number One saw his partner's predicament, and had a choice to make: finish the assignment, or tend to his partner. Another moan from Attacker Number Two made the decision for him. Cursing, Attacker Number One picked his partner up and left the bar, leaving a very befuddled sturmhauke to buy his savior a drink. Nobody noticed the picture of Alaska with the words "Seward's Folly" scrawled inside the outline the attackers had left behind in their hasty retreat.


Scienter was at her favorite wine bar, sipping on her usual vintage, trying to get to that preferred, happy place where she was liquored up enough to forget the fact that she was very likely to die soon, but still sober enough to be observant of her surroundings and enjoy the taste of her wine. The patrons seemed like regulars, she had recognized all of them there before - save by one shadowy figure lurking in the corner. Smoking a cigarette, tossing a 1951 half-dollar in the air, and not even pretending to drink his wine. Scienter knew a Philistine when she saw one. It was time to hightail it out of there.

She made her way to the bar's exit, walking very quickly, when soon she realized the trap. Somebody was of course waiting for her out front, ready to gun her down. It was a textbook trap play, but Scienter had no other choice but to go out. The man in the corner was now pursuing her, his "disguise" no longer needed.

Sighing, Scienter opened the door, fully ready to face death... and saw nothing. Shrieking with more shock than joy, she ran as fast as she could, out of sight. She found herself very much more sober now than she had been one minute ago.


Riedquat found himself in a similar circumstance. He had stumbled upon Fatlington's only all-night fashion boutique, as he was shopping for new stylish winter clothes to make an impression at the Committee meetings. The selections there were quite good if not a bit light - not much you could do with black and grey trenchcoats and hats. Nevertheless, Riedquat found a few items he liked, and went to the fitting rooms to try them on.

Upon entering, he noticed that the fitting rooms, which had several separate changing areas, had three of them occupied. Immediately suspicious, he braced himself against the wall next to one of the occupied the doors and pushed it open, immediately scurrying for cover into one of the empty rooms. Sure enough, a burst of machine-gun fire erupted from the door he had opened, followed by some movement and murmured conversation.

"You get him?" came a voice.

"Nah," said a closer one, "might just have been a breeze. Guess I've got an itchy trigger finger today."

"Well, don't let the whole store know," came a third. "Come on, let's set back up and wait for him to come in."

Petrified, Riedquat spent the rest of the night in his changing area, not making a sound until he heard the other three leave.


Scienter had finally stopped running, pausing to catch her breath. Blind adrenaline had overtaken her until now, and in truth she had no idea where she was right now. It looked like an alley, but Fatlington had too many of those anyway and this one was completely unmarked. Prime killing grounds, in other words.

Already having survived one brush with death this night, Scienter decided to take no chances and hightailed it out of the alley, doubling over so as not to further aggravate the stitch in her sides. A hail of gunfire met her as soon as she emerged from the alley, but it missed high - the stitch had saved her life. Cursing, her attacker reloaded and prepared to fire again - where was his partner?! - but Scienter had decided it was time to improvise, diving into a nearby parked car and hotwiring it to get engine access.

As her attacker heard the engine roar and watched the car drive out of sight, he swore softly to himself. There was supposed to be a follow-up. Would he ever be able to use his King of Hearts?


Khazaar was also the beneficiary of a lack of coordination this night - a common theme, it seemed.

He decided to spend his evening on the boardwalk, an activity that a diminishing few Fatlings took part in these days thanks to the change in the weather. However, there was one other person besides him that still was out, defying the elements and enjoying arguably the best part about living on the Jersey Shore.

Luckily for Khazaar, it was a clear night out, and the moonlight reflected off of two things on the other guy's person. One looked like a coin, right about the size of a new half-dollar. The other was unmistakably a gun. Glancing around, Khazaar looked behind him and saw no one. The other person was two far away. He ran off, the would-be attacker not even bothering to give chase, instead softly cursing.


Even when there seemed to be a large group of people in on the attack, it was still not enough, as robbiecon was to thankfully learn.

He was walking down from the street when gunfire seemed to erupt from every quadrant: above him, directly in front of him, and to both sides. Robbie was sure he was a dead man. All possible lines of escape seemed to be cut off, and there were four people closing in on him. But then survival instincts took over, and he saw something that might provide salvation: a manhole cover.

Rushing forward, ignoring the fresh outburst of gunfire, he threw the cover off and dove down into the hole, leaving the attacker who had been directly in front of him to swear and throw his gun down in fury. "Who was supposed to get him from below??!?!"

Nobody quite had an answer to that.


Monk had decided to take a very long and very gas-wasting drive around Fatlington. Figuring that it was more difficult to be killed while moving, Monk had trusted in the safety of his car. Big mistake.

It was dark out, and this one section of road was not very-well lit. Monk, as driving, did not see the row of spikes laid out on the road specifically for him and his car - and, of course, the 1951 Franklin silver half-dollar that accompanied the spikes, but this would not do any damage - until both sets of tires had rolled over them, completely blowing them out. Monk's first thought was something along the lines of "of all the rotten luck" - then he saw a car speeding towards him in the opposite direction, and his thinking changed. He was a sitting duck.

Thinking quickly, probably before his stupid brain took over and told him how ridiculous of an idea this way, Monk got out of his car and stood right in the other car's path. The driver of the car was not able to resist this and revved up the speed, telling his partner not to fire, that it was more fun this way. Monk leaped, but still took a direct hit and his body tumbled over the other car's hood, broken in more than a few places. The other car, meanwhile, hit the spikes and started swerving into a building.

Monk, unable to move in pain, noted with a pleasure that the ambulance sirens were coming from the direction nearest him. He would get to Mercy first.


In a nearby alley, Camikaze had just entered, coming from another bar. He found facing him a man dressed in a trenchcoat, smoking. His face was shrouded in darkness. Camikaze didn't like this. Immediately trying to get back into the bar, he found the door was one-way only. Uh-oh.

"Hello, Camikaze. It's been quite a while, hasn't it? Since that time in Baltimore, actually."

He turned around and saw that a second figure had joined the first, speaking one. Although not wearing a trenchcoat, this one was taller and more well-built. His face was also shrouded in darkness. This was looking worse and worse. The first one saw the expression on Camikaze's face and smirked.

"Ah, you remember my old friend, don't you? I know he remembers you. You know why we're here, right?" Camikaze, unsure of how to answer, at first played dumb, but then decided that wasn't the best idea. Overall his impression conveyed intense anxiety, but not much else. The first one laughed. "Good, because you now we couldn't forget."

He whipped out a gun and fired several shots at Camikaze, but they had all hit armor. This was Fatlington, after all. Camikaze, losing wind, staggered a few steps back, but he was otherwise unhurt. Meanwhile the alley door had opened again, a man poking his head out and looked ready for trouble. "Everything all right?" he said in a threatening voice, but then he noticed both attackers, one of them with guns drawn, the other one taking large strides to set up behind Camikaze Without a word he stuck his head back into the bar, slamming the alley door. Camikaze was too stunned to try to follow.

Meanwhile, the first one held his gun steady, aiming for Camikaze's head. Just as he was about to fire, though, a sharp blade appeared through Camikaze's neck - Camikaze had been stabbed clean through from the back by the second one.

"Ah, good timing as ever, my friend." The second one looked at Camikaze's corpse questioningly. "No, just leave it, though that's better than he deserved. Now, let me see..." At this, the first one took out a list and crossed out the first of a long group of names. They walked off, this time both of them silent, their faces eternally hidden in darkness even as they passed in and out of shadow.


guiri noticed the chill in the air with disdain. Say what you want about Fatlington in the summer, but these November nighttime winds made for a whole different breed of town right now.

"It could be a lot worse," one figure said suddenly, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere next to guiri. "You could be in Alaska."

"Yeah," said another one, "Seward's Folly ain't no picnic in November, that's for sure. 'Specially up north, 'round Barrow - that's where Will Rogers died, you know."

"Poor man," the first one said, and without further ado they opened fire on guiri a few times before leaving the scene. guiri, however, was not quite dead, lying on the ground and watching the blood slowly spill out from his wounds. None of his major organs had been hit, and had it been warmer out - say, Fatlington in the summertime - he probably would have died from blood loss. However, the cooler temperatures of a windy November night managed to slow down his bloodflow long enough for the ambulance to take him to Mercy and give him an emergency transfer. He would be spending some time there.


Sometime later, a third figure met up with guiri's attackers. "Did you kill him?" he asked.

"Yeah, we got him. Gave him the whole 'Seward's Folly' routine, even managed to throw in a reference to Will Rogers and Barrow. He's a dead duck."

"Works for me," the lone man said. "Partner never showed up. Guess I've got the night off." All three parted ways amicably.


Memnon was in big trouble. Unlike a good amount of his Committee peers, he was the victim of a coordinated attack and experiencing its power firsthand. He had been ambushed just as he was about to open his house's front door, the gunfire coming from the rhododendrons he meticulously kept, and now found himself fleeing for his life.

Looking for cover, Memnon found nothing, and cursed. Why oh why had he kept such a wonderfully-manicured lawn, insisting that no trees grow to spoil the symmetry of things? It turned out that, after all of this, gardening would be a fatal hobby after all. And his wife had discouraged him from rock climbing, too. Oh, the irony of it all.

His thoughts meandering, Memnon spent his last moments like this until a bullet tore through his brain. Afterwards, two figures walked up to him, obliged with the customary 1951 half-dollars over his eyes, and then one of them made the comment.

"Well, at least he'll make for good fertilizer."


robbiecon thought he was safe in Fatlington's sewers. Dirty, perhaps, smelly, oh God yes, but safe too, and that's what mattered. He thought wrong.

He continued inching along, trying not to go too far into the muck, when he heard the voice. "Hi."

"You have GOT to be kidding m-" robbie tried to say, but then was cut off by a hail of gunfire. This time there would be no escaping. He dropped to the ground, his blood slowly adding to the refuse.

Another figure stepped out of the shadows, regarding his partner oddly. "And I thought you were going to start monologuing, too."

"Nah," said the first, "thought better of it when I realized how bad it smelled down here. C'mon, let's take his toe and get out of there." And they did.


Though robbiecon was in a very bad situation by the end of his night, Frozen in Ice's predicament was even worse. Yes, the smell was better, but not by much, and he was tied up in a chair with no clue as to the purpose. And then he saw his tormentor, and his weapon, and screamed.

"Oh hush," said the man, "I haven't even started yet. You know, when this knife" - he produced a blade that was oddly colored red, and this was BEFORE the blood - "starts entering you bit by bit, you'll probably feel ashamed of yourself for having reacted so spectacularly to the preliminaries. Save some for the actual performance!" This piece of advice went unheeded as Frozen merely continued screaming.

"Wow, way to spoil the act," the knife-wielder went on, regarding Frozen with something that resembled disappointment. "It's not even 'Death by a Thousand Cuts', you know, that bit is mostly apocryphal. They usually died after about 12 or 13 cuts." Frozen continued screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Oh for heaven's sake," the attacker went, fed up with the noise, "Fine. I'll get it over with." And he did, plunging his red blade into Frozen's neck.


Andres was a classy guy. He enjoyed the classy life, and this included classy drinks at Fatlington's classiest establishment: The Hotel Abbatoir. Frequented by Committee members for over a decade now, this town landmark still managed to wrangle free of a "cursed" reputation despite the number of murders that had occurred here during the mafia incursions. In comparison, Club 30 was far more warily looked-upon despite coming onto the scene much later and having far fewer deaths take place there.

The Abbatoir probably survived because of its classy reputation, and because most of its clientele were people like Andres: men of good taste who could easily identify interlopers. And right now he was seeing two of them at a table nearby. Andres took another sip of his drink. It was probable that he was their target. He needed to think this through. He would have to escape while still maintaining an air of dignity, after all, it's what set him apart f-

*BANG!*

What Andres failed to take into account was the fact that, his attackers *not* being classy, they had no such reservations about causing a scene. Andres slumped onto the floor, dead before he could pass judgment about the calling card his killers left at the scene: a King of Hearts.


Askthepizzaguy was walking down one of Fatlington's main thoroughfares, supremely confident. He had shed his pizza delivery vehicle, he had twice defied the will of the Committee of Vigilance and lived to tell the tale thanks to some timely legal protection, and he was preparing to move into the Director's office the next day after he inevitably won his election. Life was looking good for him.

He heard a noise behind him, nothing unusual, but there was something different about this one. Instead of the roar of an engine, it sounded more like... *clop clop clop*? Puzzled, before he could goggle at the scene, some instinct took over and he ducked, causing his attacker wielding whatever melee weapon he had used to miss.

Pizza looked back up, and saw a very odd sight: it was a mounted figure, riding away, not even bothering to turn around for another shot, wielding what looked like a pair of bolas.

>>>He used something designed to capture animals by the legs to try to kill me? Okay then...<<<

Completely puzzled, ATPG decided to take this as a good omen and kept walking.


Ibn-Khaldun really wanted to see a show. He was tired of drinking, and needed something to take his minds off the town's predicament. But alas, it was Fatlington in November. No show was going to play in a seasonal town that was out-of-season... and any that did were not worth seeing. So he was back at the bar, slowly drinking his night and life away.

But finally, some drama! The establishment's main window shattered as a man came crashing through it - swinging, oddly enough, on a rope! - and this was immediately followed by the man's screaming in pain. He got up to dust the numerous shards of glass off his already-rumpled suit, and then regard Ibn-Khaldun for a moment.

"Christ! So swinging through a window hurts! Who knew?"

Whether this line was an attempt to completely distract Ibn-Khaldun from everything else going on or was just honest conversation (it was a 50/50 proposition with a man who had just swung through a glass window), it served its purpose, as Ibn-Khaldun was summarily gunned down from two other barroom patrons who had been there the entire time.

The man who had swung in tipped his slightly-bloodstained cap in a gesture of appreciation, and together the three of them removed Ibn-Khaldun's toe and walked out, this time through the front door.


09:02AM, Friday, 6 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

Despite the numerous failed murrder attempts that went on, Commissioner Fermanagh still looked grim - and a little tipsy - as he finished up the day's report to the Committee. "And now, the post-mortem results," he said. Everyone leaned in a little closer.

"As for your lynch, it was a middling choice. Montmorency had done some minor criminal wetwork and was almost certainly not an upstanding figure, but he was not reported to have done any work with the families before his death. At the very least this deprives them of another potential recruit." He eyed several members of the Committee with suspicion.

"As for the kills, it seems as if Montmorency had some company. J.D., Nictel, and Raskolnikov were all of similar ilk, and ByzantineKnight seemed to be nothing more than an innocent townie who was caught up in all of this. It's almost as if the families were unifying first." Fermanagh pondered glowering, then decided it was best if he just took another drink.

Captain Blackadder then took the podium and began the day's voting, reminding everybody that another Director selection was on the agenda as well.


OOC:

Day Nine begins. You are voting and selecting a Director.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out soon. I am taking a break first, I will get them done before I go to sleep tonight. If you are expecting a promotion PLEASE PM me after your feedback PM has been sent.

Attacked = 47: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), guiri (n8), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), johnhughthom (n4), Khazaar (n8), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), Scienter (n8 x2), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), sturmhauke (n8), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 12: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), guiri (n8), Lord Brennus (n3), Monk (n8), Psychonaut (n6), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 33: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Andres (n8), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Camikaze (n8), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Frozen in Ice (n8), fubbleskag (n8), Ibn-Khaldun (n8), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Memnon (n8), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), robbiecon (n8), Romanic (n7) slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7)Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched = 7: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6), landlubber (d8)

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

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

[GeneralHankerchief]

Post #3275 of main thread.

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

"Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine."
...The Waste Land
...T.S. Eliot

8:42PM Sunday 6 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

It was clear from the outset of the day's voting that the facade of control Director Captain Blackadder had over the Committee was just that: a facade. Very early on, the Director realized just how dangerous insulation was. Moves were being made all around him, moves that he was not privy to, and quite soon he found himself not only in the position of losing his Directorship but he was also in danger of being lynched.

He was completely ignored as the battle lines on the Committee started to become apparent. Askthepizzaguy, who had made his scumminess apparent over the past few days, was making a play for the Directorship, almost as if it was his birthright. Immediately he attracted a huge amount of votes, many of his voters additionally saying that Blackadder should be lynched for good measure. Blackadder gulped. This was looking worse and worse.

Eventually enough of the other Committee members were worried and agitated enough, remembering how Pizzaguy was the town's lynch choice for the past two days and how he was saved only by a clearly very shady lawyer. Their efforts finally produced a consensus candidate: sturmhauke, who some days earlier had expressed his agitation over both Pizza *and* the current Director. Over the course of the day, this counter-movement steadily gained ground, but never seemed to have enough juice to unseat Pizza as the lead candidate.

This was, of course, until the end of the day when Pizzaguy, taking the podium and sporting an overly-toothy smile, announced that the charade was over for now and that his supporters were free to vote for sturmhauke. sturmhauke looked completely baffled as the votes started to cascade his way, and what was once a close contest had turned into a landslide. All in all sturmhauke was not quite sure how to feel about this, and by the end of the day his Directorship was a foregone conclusion.

So where was the current Director in all of this? As Blackadder's lack of control became more and more evident as the day progressed on, he hid in a remote corner of the ballroom, trying to look more and more invisible. This worked for the most part as he was completely forgotten. However, at the end of the day, when Commissioner Fermanagh called on the Director to perform his final duties, all eyes in the room quickly found him. Blackadder's time was up.

His suit was a mess. Blackadder had sweated all through his undershirt, leaving his shirt and especially its collar quite dark and perspired. The fact that he had taken off his jacket and put it back on and taken it off multiple times only added to this visibility. His tie was loose and off-center. His pants were wrinkled, his shoes dirty. At this point in the day, he looked worse for the wear than Fermanagh, which was saying something.
His eyes darted around the room, searching for an exit. Searching for anything friendly. He found nothing. The sweat started pouring down his face. Commissioner Fermanagh started advancing on his position. His white-clad assistants, inherited from Hankerchief, were nowhere to be seen. He was truly alone.

"I didn't deserve this," he muttered, so that only a few could hear him. Finally, he acted, scrambling, struggling to run and get on his feet at the same time. He got a few steps, tripped, fell, got up again, and sprinted for the exit, intending to leave the Executive Meeting Room and the entire Convention Center (and probably all of Fatlington) behind forever.

"Stop him!" Fermanagh yelled, and the Committee sprung into action, but Blackadder was running on pure adrenaline and had too much of a lead. The swiftest Committee members could only keep up and continue to mark Blackadder's position as he continued to outgain them. They followed Blackadder out of the room, into the Convention Center, to the front doors, they saw him open the front doors, sprinting for freedom...

*sproing* "WAAAAAAGHHH-"

He launched out of sight. Puzzled, the Committee members followed Blackadder out of the door, being very careful about where they stepped. He seemed to have entirely disappeared until everybody heard his screaming, and then they saw it. It came from above.

Everybody looked up. The now-former Director was suspended halfway up the Convention Center building, held in place and immobile by an elaborate rigging system no doubt set up by Hankerchief's former assistants. Struggling accomplished nothing, indeed, it only seemed to make the ropes tighter on him. Blackadder's hands had no give at all, and his legs could do little aside from dangle. He was completely incapacitated.

Seeing this, he started pleading with the Committee members to let him down, but they were deaf to his cries for help. This was the Director's fate, then, to hang there until starvation and/or the elements finished him off. Painted on the outside of the Convention Center, right next to where Blackadder was suspended and with an arrow pointing to him so there was to be no doubt as to what this signified, was the word "PAWN" in blood-red letters.

Fermanagh looked at Blackadder, crying for mercy, and shook his head sadly. He had a very disturbing feeling that the next stage of the mafia's infiltration into Fatlington was about to begin.


OOC

Orders for Night 9 are due no later than:

This is subject to change at khaan's discretion.

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


Lynch vote tally:

Captain Blackadder: 16 (ATPG, TLD, Cahoma, Krill, auto, Jarema, GamezRule, Diamondeye, gibson, Nightbringer, Neri, hero, DaveShack, Beskar, fyremarble, Beefy)

Askthepizzaguy: 10 (DiY, edse, Populus, God Emperor, Diana, CR, Lewwyn, Erebus, TS, sturmhauke)

Cahoma: 5 (Riedquat, Choxorn, Craterus, B_Ray, Skotsko)

Peasant Phill: 1 (fluffy)

fluffy: (sasaki)*

Abstained: 7 (SisterCoyote, Chaotix, Clitsome, AggonyKing, Zim, Ironside, Believer)
Present: 1 (Winston Hughes)

*Sasaki I believe changed his vote at some point but forgot to unvote.
** guiri lodged a vote but it was not counted as he is in Mercy Hospital.


Director vote tally:

sturmhauke: 22 (DiY, Populus, SisterC, Diana, Riedquat, Sasaki, Choxorn, edse, sturmhauke, Scienter, Zim, fluffy, CR, Lewwyn, Erebus, ATPG, Cahoma, hero, GamezRule, Believer, TLD, Skotsko)

ATPG: 14 (Diamondeye, God Emperor, Krill, auto, Jarema, gibson, Clitsome, Neri, AggonyKing, DaveShack, Beskar, Ironside, fyremarble, Beefy)

Craterus: 2 (Craterus, The Stranger)

[seireikhaan]

Post # 3338 of main thread.

"There's blood in the streets it's up to my ankles,
Blood in the streets it's up to my knee;
Blood in the streets, the town of Chicago.
Blood on the rise, it's following me.
Just about the break of day.
She came, then she drove away,
Sunlight in her hair.
Blood on the streets runs a river of sadness.
Blood in the streets, it's up to my thigh.
The river runs down the legs of the city;
The women are crying red rivers of weeping."
...Peace Frog
...The Doors


Ninth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

Zim left the council in haste, not wanting to linger in the streets. After a short distance, he pulled up to a small apartment complex, and gazed in relief at the sturdy exterior. But, his ears informed him he wasn’t alone. He could hear steps behind him. He turned his head, and saw a man in an overcoat giving pursuit. He ducked to the side, sprinting to the door. He only heard a missed gun-shot ring past him as he practically vaulted through the door.

He started to pick himself up, catching his breath. He turned back away from the door and found himself just a few feet away from three new folks, standing matter of factly in the hallway. One of them was leaning against a closed umbrella, as though it were a cane. He grinned slightly, before pulling a shotgun from his coat, and unleashing a shot straight into Zim’s chest. Zim was blasted into the door, giving it a short rattle, before slumping downwards. The grinning umbrella man jaunted forward, and pulled a knife from his coat, setting the shotgun aside. And so he began the merry work of carving off a single toe from the fallen victim.


Dcmort knew he’d had a bad feeling about this night. Just knew it. “I must be psychic or something,” he was thinking to himself as he sprinted down a dark alley, chased by a pair of madmen. “Should’ve made money off this. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, I guess….” Unfortunately, he didn’t receive the premonition of where the alley led to. He found himself sprinting out of it, and onto one of Fatlington’s less well cared for roads. He stumbled over a large crack in the pavement, and couldn’t quite catch his balance.

He tumbled to the pavement, and started to scramble when he felt cold metal pressed to the back of his head. “But how’d they catch up to me?” he wondered to himself. It was then he heard the two madmen’s footsteps behind him. “Wait… more of them?” He was too busy running thoughts through his brain to comprehend a short discussion between the four folks who’d pinned him down on this street. A loud bang ended such distractions.

The new attackers, who’d taken the death blow, flipped the body over, and left a silver fifty cent piece over the right eye, before taking a cautious bow to the original pursuers. The original pursuers left a picturesque shot of an Alaskan mountain range in Dcmort’s front pocket, with “Seward’s Folly” scrawled on the back.


“I’m telling ya, we still aint never gonna be gettin' nothin' outta that wasteland!” Sasaki’s new “drinking partner” yelled back. “Aint nothing but rock and snow and trees. And we paid the commies for it?!"

“Look,” Sasaki responded with a terse tone. “I don’t give a damn. It’s none of my business, and it hasn't and won't affect me ever. So… kindly find someone else to rant at.” The man’s expression suddenly became darker.

“Don’t care, do you? That’s… quite a mistake.” At that moment, a second man came up from behind Sasaki, wielding a metal bar stool. Sasaki glimpsed at the last moment his shadow on the bar, and turned just in time to get his hands in defense. He caught it with his hands, stopping the momentum in its tracks. At that moment, the drinking partner pulled a knife, and plunged it into Sasaki’s back. Sasaki keeled backwards, his head slamming into the wooden bar, struggling against the sitting device pressed to his face.

However, the duo had attracted the attention of a now very irate barkeep, who yelled to a pair of very large men in suits at the door to remove the troublemakers. The two immediately scrambled as the men in suits grabbed ash baseball bats and proceeded to the bar. Sasaki groaned as he lay against the bar, bleeding out the wound in his back. The barkeep immediately dialed up for Mercy hospital. Despite the trauma, it seemed Sasaki would narrowly escape with his life.


Woad&fangs was due for some luck, he was sure of it. All the tales of miraculous escapes and strange blunders. Surely some of that divine favor was reserved for him. Or, at least, that’s what he was hoping for as he drove down a lonely, dark street, trying to speed away from a pursuing vehicle. Sadly, for woad, this was not to be the case. He felt his car jostle violently as his right tire hit a large pothole, as he made a sharp turn, causing him to lose control of the vehicle. It tipped slightly, and in his effort to correct for it, he accidentally slammed the vehicle into the wall of an abandoned warehouse.

The pursuing vehicle slowed to a stop behind woad’s car, seeing no sign of escape. Two people in trench coats emerged, cautiously approaching. One finally got up to the driver’s side window, and peeked in, seeing a motionless woad inside. They gave a shrug at the other, who walked around to other side. They pulled out a picture of a snow-peaked mountain, with the words “Seward’s Folly” written around the edge, and slotted it under the right windshield wiper.


Choxorn stumbled out of Mercy, fully healed but still a little "off" after the past several hours. It was nothing against the hospital staff, they were excellent, but Choxorn had a very different treatment plan in mind.

Fatlington didn't have a red-light district, but if you knew where to go, chances were decent that you could find that particular type of companionship you were looking for. Choxorn knew where to go and walked down the usual avenues. However, this time, the streets were mostly bare. "Should have known," Choxorn said to himself, "off-season."

However, at that very instant he did find someone - or some*thing*. It was positively the ugliest nightwalker Choxorn had ever seen. Tall, wide, far too underdressed, and... hairy. Upon further examination Choxorn saw that without a doubt this was a man. He simply stared at "her" in openmouthed shock and disbelief. This... this was... this was just so...

*SCREECH - BANG!* As Choxorn was fixed in place by the distraction, a car drove right by him, its driver leaning out the window and gunning him down. It put on the brakes a second later and the "lady" got in the passenger's seat, not smiling.

"So, 'Bertha'," the driver said, trying to keep his voice steady. "How'd it go with your client?"

"That's not funny," "Bertha" replied, and "she" rolled down the window, flipped two 1951 Franklin silver half-dollars out, and motioned for the driver to gas it. The coins landed perfectly in place over Choxorn's eyes.


Zack stumped out from the hospital, still thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t bit the dust earlier. It was clearly a sign that he was a favored one, a chosen soul. So, despite the darkness present around Fatlington at the moment, he stumped onwards, a shining aura surround him. When turned a corner, he saw a pair sitting on the sidewalk, with three coconut halves left sitting down on the ground in a line.

“Ah, look at this lucky gentleman!” One cheered. “Good sir, we’re running free entertainment on this street corner, for this night only! See these coconuts?” Zack gave a short, slightly confused nod. “Well, see, under one of these, we’ll leave a silver half dollar. Then, we’ll see how good your focus is. We’ll scramble them ‘round and ‘round, and if you can pick the right one, you get it! So, how about it, lucky sir, up for it? I see good fortune in your future!” With a grin, Zack nodded.

And so, one of the two picked up the middle half-shell, placed the coin in its spot, and set the shell down over it. “Now, ‘round and ‘round they go!” the showmen cheered in the back, as the partner shuffled the shells around, showing finely honed reflexes as the shells whirled around. Zack focuses intently on the chosen coconut, watching it skip to the left, the right, center, left, right, left. The entertainer shuffling the coconuts finally came to a screeching halt.

“Okay….” Zack explained slowly. “I want… that one!” he proclaimed, pointing to the coconut on his left. The shuffler slowly lifted the shell up. Zack leaned in a bit more. BLAM! Zack’s focus on his coin left him sadly unaware of the showmen hefting a shotgun from his coat. The shell shuffler smirked as they lifted up an empty shell. Sadly, for Zack, fortune could not stop a well-crafted scam. The shuffler picked up the three coconuts, all equally empty, and handed them to the showmen. The shuffler then pulled the original coin from their left pocket, as well as a second, and placed them on Zack’s eyes before departing down the alley after the showmen.


Khazaar wasn’t really sure how he’d ended up at this seedy looking apartment complex. He’d remembered leaving the Center, and then, his brain apparently lapsed out until this moment. Nevertheless, Khazaar wasn’t too concerned. He merely started down the path home. A car drove down the street, directly in Khazaar’s direction. His paranoia senses triggering, Khazaar immediately bolted back for the seedy complex. The car screeched to a halt, and four well-dressed folks stepped out, tommy guns in hand. They let loose a barrage of fire, but it was too late, as Khazaar had already ducked inside. The man who’d stepped out of the driver’s seat gave a growl, before motioning for the rest to get back into the car, not wanting to pursue into the maze .


Diamondeye was holed up in his house, watching quite the spectacle outside. A group of four individuals has pulled up in a vehicle, and were now accosting a lone man who stood before the door, proclaiming his immovability. Finally, it seemed one of the group had had it with the man, and gave him an almighty swat to the side of the head that sent him flying across the lawn and scurrying away. With that irritation gone, he took another step forward.

Diamondeye’s terror soon turned to glee as he saw a grenade explode to the side of the lead intruder, who immediately turned tail, screaming at his partners that the place was trapped. But as the car sped off, a second one pulled up. Two individuals came out, and cautiously stepped onto the pavement. But two more grenades exploded onto the lawn, and the two immediately leaped back. They looked at each other and shook their heads, stepping back into the car, deciding it may be best to wait for another day. As the vehicle sped off, Diamondeye could have sworn he heard a gleeful cackle from somewhere on his roof….


Jarema was again making his way down one of Fatlington's main boulevards, his trenchcoat billowing softly in the wind. The weather, as per usual now, was gusty again. He sank into his thoughts, wondering what was to happen in the grand scheme of things.

While departing Fatlington for the inner dimension of his thoughts, his senses happened to heighten. He caught a different sound, carried on by the wind.

*clop clop clop clop*

Confused, he stood there for a second before realizing, and then took out his pocketwatch. Ah yes, it was that time of night, wasn't it. Expressionless, he put his pocketwatch away and maintained stride, not really focusing on at anything anymore. Instead, he was waiting. Three, two, one, duck. Whoosh. There it was, the bolas wielded by the mysterious rider missing high again. As usual, there was no attempt to follow up the attack with another pass. Thus, Jarema continued walking as per normal and thinking.


Erebus was being as cautious as could be on his way back from the center. He took time to peek around every corner, and looked twice both ways before crossing every street. It was such wariness that let him spot the man coming from down a narrow alley, brandishing a tommy gun. Erebus took off in the other direction, as fast as his legs would take him. The man with the tommy gun immediately picked up his pace, but when he got out of the alley, someone besides Erebus greeted him. Someone with their own small arsenal in hand. The man with the tommy gun quickly abandoned pursuit, and fled back down the alley, grateful to avoid the small hail of bullets that chased him away.

In a poorly lit basement, two individuals met. An offer that couldn’t be refused. A cause worth following. Something to strive for, something to believe in. Conviction and strength in unity. With grand plans laid out before them, what wasn’t to like?


09:04AM, Saturday, 7 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


"So that's pretty much it," Fermanagh finished. "We had a bit of luck here and there, but overall, the situation doesn't seem to be improved much, I'm afraid."

With a sigh, the commisioner sorted the remains of his notes.

"We'll start with the positives. We discovered that Visorslash was the leader of a small group of communists trying to overthrow Fatlington! We can't tell for sure that his death destroyed them for good, but it was a great step forward nonetheless! From there, Jolt was discovered to be a made man of a Tataglian mafia faction. Similarly, Drunk Clown was found to be the Tataglian Luca. While their deaths likely signify the end of that faction, I'm sure it was the other mafia making sure they didn't get picked up by their rivals."

The commissioner sighed for a moment to catch his breath and keep his composure.

"Moving on, we discovered an assortment of strange materials while investigating Kagemusha. It seems he had some kind of fixation on trying to kill people he'd thought owed him favors. We're not really sure what sort of psyche led to that bizarre behavior, but his being gone is probably for the best of everyone. Continuing on, we found that Johnhughthom and Romanic were both street wiseguys. We aren't sure if they had been doing work for the mafia families at the moment, but it's still quite likely the could have been drawn by the nectar of crime. And then, there was Cecil XIX, just a poor, ordinary man caught in things too big for him."

The commissioner gave a final cough before wrapping up.

"Lastly, we discovered that Tratorix was an FBI agent on some kind of counter-intelligence mission. We believe he was hunting for a specific person, but we haven't ascertained just who. Still, we're certain he was on the hunt for the communists that are lurking within us, so his loss is a blow."

With a small twitch, the commissioner handed over the day's events to the new director, Sturmhauke.

OOC:

Day Ten begins. You are voting for lynch only.

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out soon. I'm going to try and get investigation results and possible promotions back before bed. Those waiting for kill/protection failures may have to wait until I get some sleep. As always, if there's questions, feel free to ask. If you are expecting a promotion PLEASE PM me after your feedback PM has been sent.



Attacked = 50: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7, n9), Diana Abnoba (n6), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), guiri (n8), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), Jarema (n9), johnhughthom (n4), Khazaar (n8, n9), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Psychonaut (n5), Raskolnikov (n1), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), Scienter (n8 x2), scottishranger (n4), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), sturmhauke (n8), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 14: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), guiri (n8), Lord Brennus (n3), Monk (n8), Psychonaut (n6), Sasaki (n9), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 38: Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Andres (n8), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Camikaze (n8), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Choxorn (n9), dcmort93 (n9), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Frozen in Ice (n8), fubbleskag (n8), Ibn-Khaldun (n8), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Memnon (n8), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), robbiecon (n8), Romanic (n7) slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7), woad&fangs (n9), Xenoneb (n3), Zack (n9), Zim (n9)

Lynched = 8: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6), landlubber (d8), Captain Blackadder (d9)

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

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

[GeneralHankerchief]

Post #3493 of main thread.

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

Now with the wisdom of years
I try to reason things out
And the only people I fear
are those who never have doubts
Save us all from arrogant men,
and all the causes they're for
I won't be righteous again
I'm not that sure anymore
Shades of grey are all that I find
when I look to the enemy line
There ain't no rainbows shining on me
Shades of grey are the colors I see
...Shades of Grey
...Billy Joel

10:12PM Monday 7 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

The newly appointed Director sturmhauke entered the Convention Center with a group of Fatlington police officers carrying rifles. Murmurs rose from the gathered Committee at the sight, but sturmhauke paid them no mind. He stopped to receive a bundle of papers from one of the members, then addressed the group.

“Thank you all for electing me as your Director. Let’s get right to business, shall we?” Sturmhauke paused to look over the papers. “I see you have made your decision. Riedquat, please rise.” Riedquat stood up slowly, eyes darting around the room. “You are accused of manipulating the legal system to prevent the lawful execution of Askthepizzaguy, twice. This Committee hereby sentences you to death. Do you have any last words?”

Riedquat’s eyes widened. “What? No, I had nothing to do with that! I mean, yes, I worked with some gangsters in the past, but…”

“Enough.” Sturmhauke cut him short. “Take this man to the front of the building.” The policemen grabbed Riedquat as he tried to bolt out the door. They cuffed him and hauled him out, Riedquat protesting the entire way. Sturmhauke and the rest of the Committee followed behind.

One of the officers shoved Riedquat’s back against the wall, just outside the front doors. By now, Riedquat seemed glumly resigned to his fate, slumping a bit. The officer joined the others, who had formed a line and were checking their weapons. Sturmhauke called out the orders.

“Ready!” There was a series of clicks as the safeties were disengaged.

“Aim!” The rifles rose up, all pointed at Riedquat. He trembled. “Wait! I…”

“Fire!” The night erupted in thunder and lightning. Riedquat’s final words rattled and faded from his lips. He fell over sideways, leaving a trail of blood and chipped stone on the wall behind him.

“Somebody take him to the morgue and contact his next of kin. This session is adjourned.”


OOC

Orders for Night 10 are due no later than:


Due to a difficult weekend work-wise, I cannot promise that orders will be resolved speedily after this date. However, this is the cutoff nonetheless.

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

Lynch vote tally:

Riedquat: 18 (ATPG, Cahoma, hero, shlin, Neri, gibson, Chaotix, Krill, Xehh, DaveShack, Nightbringer, GamezRule, fyremarble, Sprig, Diamondeye, Winston Hughes, Kennigit, Beskar)

fyremarble: 6 (DiY, Riedquat, edse, Populus, TS, Erebus)

ATPG: 3 (Jarema, Lazy, Believer)

sturmhauke: 2 (sigurd, double a)

Peasant Phill: 2 (auto, robbie)

Jarema: 1 (TLD)

Erebus: 1 (SisterC)

God Emperor: 1 (fluffy)

Abstained: 3 (Ironside, scott, Craterus), several abstentions after the deadline.

[GeneralHankerchief]

Post #3515 of main thread.

"I was born
Six-gun in my hand
Behind a gun
I'll make my final stand"
...Bad Company


Tenth Night -- The Streets of Fatlington

scottishranger had departed the Committee for the night, ruminating about the rather mundane execution and what was in store for him in the future. Things weren't looking good, he knew that much, but scott had been through worse. He was a grizzled old survivor after all. This was nothing new to him.

He checked his surroundings, more out of habit than anything, and froze. He saw the setup. There was a silhouetted figure nearby with what looked like a syringe gun, ready to flush him out and get him moving somewhere else. Tracing the line of escape, he found two more people up high, carrying what looked to be a flowerpot (with geraniums) and another with some type of falcon. Obviously they were going to drop that on him. There were two other routes of escape. One was being manned by a suspicious-looking person with an umbrella. The other had a guy who was fingering what was quite obviously a grenade. This wasn't good.

All of this ran through scott's head in less than a second. The syringe man would flush him out any second now, and he would be a dead duck. But then something happened.

The syringe man flushed him out, but soon stopped - because he himself was under fire from a different, unknown source. Scott still ran though in direction #1 (flowerpot and falcon) - but nothing was dropped on his head. While fleeing to safety he took a moment to glance and saw both of his would-be attackers wrestling with his saviors. scottishranger would live to see at least one more day.


thefluffyone93 was jauntily strolling down one of Fatlington's lanes, without a care in the world. Well, this wasn't quite true, as there was always the threat of death, but fluffy was in a better place than most. He had made it known that he would make a run for Director the next day, and there seemed to be a pretty strong dark horse movement brewing around him. Yes, fluffy had it going pretty good.

Which is why it was such a shock when the attacks came. fluffy was hit from three directions at once, with no chance to sprint for cover or even fight back. As he lay on the ground, bleeding out, he remained conscious long enough to hear his attackers closing in on him and catch glimpses of their conversation.

"You brought the knife?" said Voice Number One.

"Yes," said a second. "Remember, this is in addition to the coins. Otherwise the Donna won't be happy."

fluffy moaned. All three heard this and chuckled. "Still with us, eh fluffy?" came Voice Number One. "I'm impressed. You've got a lot of starch in you. Or a lot of... fluff... if you prefer. No matter, we'll be taking it out of you soon enough."

fluffy remained conscious just long enough to scream.


Slash and Earn sat morosely on the curb of a poorly lit street. The dim lighting corresponded well to his mood. Why did this have to go on for so long? Why couldn’t everything have just solved itself by now? It wasn’t fair! This had officially been the worst birthday ever. No gifts. Not even a single acknowledgment from the commissioner or anyone. And so he sat there, head buried in his knees, taking a peek back to his watch every few minutes to keep track of how long he had left.

11:57 P.M.

Slash gave a sigh. But then, his ears perked when he heard two pairs of footsteps approaching. His head turned on a swivel, and he spotted two folks in trench coats, almost completely cloaked by the night. He sat, frozen. The two pulled to a halt next to him. “You know,” the one on the right said. “Not everyone forgot.” Slash’s eyes lit up. The one on the right pulled out a photo from a pocket and handed it to Slash. It was a beautiful, scenic mountain, dotted by pine trees. At the bottom, in neat cursive, was written, “Seward’s Folly”.

“A trip to Alaska?!” Slash questioned excitedly. “Is this my gift?”

“No,” the one on the left answered. He pulled a hand gun from inside his coat with lightning speed, and held it to Slash’s forehead. “This is.” His partner looked at his watch. “11:59. Looks like we were just in time.” Just seconds before the stroke of midnight, the man on the left squeezed the trigger. They left Slash and Earn on the pavement, still clutching the photo in his right hand.

The two figures walked off, nodding to the other two figures nearby who were ready in case the first pair failed.


qlyphz would be spending his night in the penthouse suite at the Hotel Abbatoir. He had made these arrangements sometime prior, reasoning that, if this was to be the end for him, he may as well spend his remaining days in luxury. And so he enjoyed the finest of comforts that Fatlington had to offer, drinking fine liquors and lounging in comfort.

A loud, sharp knock on the door brought qlyphz back to reality. Clearly, some people were trying to break in.

One of the other things qlyphz liked about the penthouse suite at the Hotel Abbatoir was the relative solitude, in which a person had a lot of time to construct an elaborate means of escape if they were so inclined. qlyphz was so inclined, and his quickly made his way to the window where a crude zip line had been set up with the building across the street.

Just as the door burst open and three figures came in, machine guns raised, qlyphz smiled, waved, and zipped along to safety. The best part was, his reservations at the Hotel were still good for another day.


Skotsko had met his end much more comfortably. Like qlyphz, he was enjoying his moments drinking a bottle of a particularly fine whisky - Chivas Regal, 25 year - that he had saved for a particularly special occasion. He figured that his impending death would qualify.

The burst through the door came, and Skotsko found himself face-to-face with two attackers brandishing machine guns. Thankfully, they did not fire immediately.

"Two of you, eh?" Skotsko asked them politely. "Mafia hit, then, I presume. Tell me, which calling card might you be?"

The two mafiosi looked at each other in confusion. "King of hearts," one of them said, finally, breaking the awkward silence.

"Ah, yes. I'm glad it's you," Skotsko said, taking another sip. "Classy. Elegant. Not vulgar like the coins or 'Seward's Folly' or God forbid the amputated toes. I'm glad it wasn't them at least. Come, take a drink with me. Oh don't worry, it's not poisoned or anything," he noticed them still looking at him oddly, "I just want all of us to talk like gentlemen, to prove that they still exist even in situations like these."

After some conferring, the two mafiosi agreed, and after they finished their whisky they put Skotsko away professionally, leaving the King of Hearts behind as promised.


In contrast to the other two, AggonyKing was spending his night in squalor. More concerned with survival than anything else, he had decided to spend the night huddled in a dumpster. Not the best decision as his suit was ruined and the smell was already starting to get to him after thirty minutes, but King kept his eyes on the prize: life. Life was surely worth this.

The dumpster muffled a lot of the outside sounds, and as a result King did not hear the car slowly pulling up alongside his hideout. He did not detect that anything was wrong until the lid opened up and somebody stuffed a fistful of grenades in. The grenadier hightailed it back to the car which was probably a good move as the force of the explosion blew the entire dumpster apart.

"What about the coins?" the driver asked.

"Shotgun can get 'em," the "grenadier" replied, as he was sitting in the backseat. "I've done enough."

"Oh, fine," the person riding shotgun said, and flipped two 1951 half-dollars out his window in the general vicinity of the former dumpster.


It was a relatively quiet night at the tavern, but Diana Abnoba had at least found someone to play cards with. She was pondering a hand when a pair of strangers came up behind and started observing. She was holding a two, four, and five of spades, a jack of diamonds, and a king of hearts. She went to discard the king and jack, but a harsh tsk from behind her made her pause. She looked back at them and gave them a curious look.

“Never get rid of the king of hearts,” he whispered. “Go with it until the end.” Diana just shook her head and deposited it in the discard pile anyways. At that moment, she saw her opponent finally break his poker face. She turned around, just in time to see the advice giver swinging a bat down at her. She ducked just out of the way, and the bat came on the table with a vicious thump. Diana scrambled for the door. The batmen lunged at her with a mighty swing, but in the chaos created by the assault, a small gaggle of people had flooded towards the door, and the bat made contact with the back of a bystander, who fell in pain, but otherwise was fine. But in the flood, the two had lost sight of Diana, and when the room had cleared, she was nowhere to be found.


The end was extremely violent for Diamondeye. He had been running for a while, first being chased by one, then three, then four, then finally five armed attackers before he was cornered in an alley. The attackers seemed hesitant, as if looking for one or two more, but the leader of them signaled to go anyway.

"WAIT!" Diamondeye panted. "...why?"

"Time's up, scum," the leader said. "Time to die." And they emptied no less than 154 shells in Diamondeye's body, evidently making absolutely sure before finally heading off into the night.


The two attackers expecting a similar result on Oh! The Last Days! found their expectations quickly crushed. Not only did they not quite have their full contingent of numbers but when they cornered TLD they found three armed figures waiting for them.

The attackers debated opening up anyway, trying to kill the entire lot, when another figure swooped in from the side and aimed his gun at the two attackers. "Ready!" he shouted and clicked his gun, and this was the two attackers' cue to hightail it back to their cars, dropping two 1951 half-dollars in their midst behind them.


God Emperor was spending his evening in a different penthouse, sipping on a drink of his own and catching the daily news off his wireless. All of it was bad, McCarthy was working his further magic, the Soviets were being the Soviets, general racial unrest. Korea. The economy may have been booming, but Truman was fast wearing out his welcome and there was so much danger ahead, O Discordia.

He turned it off in a rut. None of this was good. Music, music was the remedy. He decided to put on Nat King Cole's hit new single, "Unforgettable". This record was going places, God Emperor could tell. Nice, easygoing tune, it made him reminisce about the times before everything went straight to hell. He put it on and relaxed in his chair.



A banging on his chair. God Emperor sighed. Really? Now? He got up, prepared to fight. Another bang. And then, the door burst open and a silhouetted figure moved in, heading straight for God Emperor. He was fast. The two started punching each other, and the punching soon gave way to shoving and getting whatever hits in they could. People and things were getting thrown around. The penthouse was getting trashed, all set to the tune of Nat King Cole.

After an intense and brutal five minutes, the attacker gained the upper hand, holding God Emperor in a choke grip and hanging him out the broken window. "At least let me know who it is," God Emperor said, and the attacker, after pausing a moment, complied, showing his face. God Emperor gasped. "You? Why?"

"You know why." And then the attacker, instead of just simply dropping God Emperor off, drew a Mauser C96 and pulled the trigger once. God Emperor was blasted out of the penthouse, falling. "Unforgettable" ended. Life went on.


09:12AM, Tuesday, 8 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey

"And that concludes today's report," Commissioner Fermanagh said, coughing. "And now, the postmortem results."

"It looks like, despite some of the Committee's best efforts, we had a good lynching, as landlubber was an out-and-out scoundrel, being a confirmed gangster. We believe he was originally a Made with with one of the families, unlike many of you who were at one time good people." He took another stiff drink and continued.

"The good news continues... for the good people, at any rate. Camikaze was another Made gangster, another starter as well. Frozen In Ice was a minor criminal who may have done some wetwork for the families, but was not too far established when he died. fubbleskag is a great loss, as he was a town doctor who was actually working to protect people, though he may have had some mafia affiliations. Ibn-Khaldun was a straight townie who was doing his best in a difficult time. Memnon was the same, as was robbiecon, although he had some shady associates." He let this all out, pausing to reflect on the sheer amount of carnage.

"Lastly, this is terrible news for all American patriots, as Andres turned out to be a special operative hunting down a certain target. Obviously his mark is far beyond my pay-grade, but the importance of Andres's mission was stressed to me several times. We can only imagine his loss and the possible failure of the mission could be a very grave blow for the country."

Director sturmhauke now took the podium. "Thank you very much, Seamus," he said. "We will now commence with the voting and the Director selection."


OOC

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

Phase ends:


Feedback PMs will be out in the next couple of hours. I have a lot of RL work to do this weekend so excuse the possible delay. As always, if you are expecting a promotion, please PM me after feedback has been sent. Thank you.

Attacked = 51: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2, n4, n5, n8), Cahoma (n2), Camikaze (n7)Cecil XIX (n3, n6), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Diamondeye (n7, n9), Diana Abnoba (n6, n10), Drunk Clown (n4, n5), Earthling (n1), edse (n5), El Barto (n2), Erebus (n5, n6), guiri (n8), Hero di Classico (n7), Ishmael (n4), J.D. (n6), Jarema (n9), johnhughthom (n4), Khazaar (n8, n9), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2, n4), Oh! TheLastDays! (n10), Psychonaut (n5), qlyphz (n10), Raskolnikov (n1), Riedquat (n8), robbiecon (n8), Sasaki Kojiro (n4), Scienter (n8 x2), scottishranger (n4, n10), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1, n6), slysnake (n1, n3), sturmhauke (n8), Suburban Plankton (n4), taillesskangaru (n3), Zack (n6)

Wounded = 14: Choxorn (n7), dcmort93 (n7), edse (n5), Erebus (n6), guiri (n8), Lord Brennus (n3), Monk (n8), Psychonaut (n6), Sasaki (n9), Slysnake (n1, n3), Tratorix (n4), Zack (n7)

Killed = 44: AggonyKing (n10), Ameranth [wiseguy] (n4), Andres (n8), Arjos (n3), Bow-wow-wow (n5), ByzantineKnight (n6), Camikaze (n8), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), Cecil XIX (n7), Choxorn (n9), dcmort93 (n9), Diamondeye (n10), Drunk Clown (n7), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK [townie] (n2), Frozen in Ice (n8), fubbleskag (n8), God Emperor (n10) Ibn-Khaldun (n8), J.D. (n6), Johnhughthom (n7), Jolt (n7), Kagemusha (n6), Lord Brennus (n5), Lord Winter [wiseguy] (n4), Memnon (n8), Moros [luca] (n2), Nictel (n6), Pharoah [townie] (n2), Raskolnikov (n6), robbiecon (n8), Romanic (n7), Skotsko (n10), slash and earn (n10), slysnake (n5), Suburban Plankton (n5), thefluffyone93 (n10), TinCow (n3), Tratorix (n6), Visorslash (n7), woad&fangs (n9), Xenoneb (n3), Zack (n9), Zim (n9)

Lynched = 8: Earthling (d2) [townie], a completely inoffensive name [townie](d3), Subotan [wiseguy] (d3), Major Robert Dump (d4), Ishmael (d5), Montmorency (d6), landlubber (d8), Captain Blackadder (d9)

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

Added: Autolycus (d4)

Active:

AggonyKing, Askthepizzaguy, Autolycus, B Ray, Backwards Logic, Beefy187, Believer, Beskar, BillMc, BSmith, ByzantineKnight, Cahoma, Chaotix, Choxorn, Clitsome, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, DaveShack, Death is yonder, Diana Abnoba, Double A, edse, Erebus, fyremarble, GamezRule, gibsonsg91921, gnarleycharlie, Guiri, hero di classic, Ironside, Jarema, J.D., Johhog, kennigit, Khazaar, Krill, LazyMcCrow, Lewwyn, Monk, Neri, Nightbringer, Niklas, O!TheLastDays!, Peasant Phill, Populous Romanus, Psychonaut, qlyphz, Renata, Sasaki Kojiro, Scienter, scottishranger, Secura, Seon, shlin28, Sigurd, Silver Jan, SisterCoyote, Sprig, sturmhauke, The Stranger, ULC, White_eyes:D, Winston Hughes, Xehh II, Yaropolk

[seireikhaan]

Post #3599 of main thread.

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


"Instantly you struck me as
Quite a catch
Luckly I left you with-
Out a scratch
You seem capable of mind control
And you've disabled my very soul
I'll take what's mine before I regret it
And mute this feelling not to often get"
...Take What's Mine
...Baumer


09:03PM, Tuesday, 8 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


An air of menace hung over the Committee. It seemed to Director sturmhauke that the majority of them were now either actual mafia members or people in their pocket. The votes were tallied; edse was sentenced to death. Sturmhauke read the official decision out loud through clenched teeth. Most of the faces in the room wore a look of smug satisfaction; some were carefully neutral and a few eyes glanced around nervously. Edse himself only sat there in stony silence.

“Bring in the last meal,” said sturmhauke. Someone left the room to deliver the message, and sturmhauke turned to edse. “I’m sorry, friend. You were one of the last good citizens of this rotting town. I hope you like the food. It’s simple fare, but well made I think.” At that, a man entered the conference room pushing a cart. He stopped next to edse and placed the food on the table – a large T-bone steak with mushrooms and onions on top, a baked potato, steamed peas and carrots, and a basket with assorted condiments. The man then poured a glass of dark red wine and stepped back.

Edse ate a few bites out of politeness, but then set down his knife and fork. “Thank you, this is delicious but I’m afraid I’m not very hungry.” He glared at some of the other Committee members. “At least have some of the wine, edse. It will go easier for you if you do,” said sturmhauke, nodding slightly. Edse stared back for a moment, then nodded back and raised the glass to his lips. “Hmm, this is not bad. It’s quite good actually…” He quickly downed the rest. “Please… clean up this town… after I’m… after I’m…” Edse collapsed onto the table, dead. The wine glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.

Sturmhauke rose and addressed the Committee. “I see here you’ve also seen fit to choose another Director. He’s welcome to the post, I’ve had enough of this charade. Some of you are still good people, you know what to do. May the rest of you rot in Hell.” He turned and strode out of the room.

Fermanagh gave a grim gaze at Sturmhauke as he departed. Nevertheless, he turned to the newly elected Director, Askthepizzaguy, who . "Good luck, sir. I pray we do not need it." With that, he handed over the gavel, which Askthepizzaguy gave a quick "thump" to signify that the day's events were wrapped up.


OOC:
Orders for Night 9 are due no later than:

Sorry for the slightly short night phase, but the alternative is waiting an extra day, because my Tuesdays don't exist.

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


Lynch Vote Tally:


Edse: 16 (Lewwyn, Kennigit, Double A, Krill, Xehh II, Neri, Daveshack, Tiaexz, GamezruleSprig, Jarema, autolycus, Gibsonsg, ATPG, CR, Cahoma)

Fyremarble: 7(Beefy, quiri, Sturmhauke, DiY, Sasaki, Populus Romanus)

Askthepizzaguy: 2(TLD, Believer)

Sasaki: 1(Diana)