Capo: Information Summary Thread

[Seamus Fermanagh]

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

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

Capo de Tutti Capi


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Mithradites stood to leave.

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

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

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

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

Seamus paused.

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

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

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

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


OOC:

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

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

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

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


Sunset – Day One

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

Beirut walked forward, steadily, his features just a hint paler than typical. He kept hearing murmurs from the room….Beirut….swings a mean axe…willing to act in a crisis… thought Beirut as he reached the lectern He reached the lectern. Chief Fermanagh handed him a lapel badge – the rods and axe – and shook his hand.

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

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

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

But would it be?


OOC:

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

Night One begins, please send in your PMs.

Selection Voting:

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

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

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

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

Kommodus = 3 (Doc, Luigi, Phil)

Ichigo = 2 (Ichigo, Guru)

Abstain = 2 (Byz-Knight, Redleg)

AggonyDuck = 1 (Aggony)

Pindar = 1 (Kommodus)

Tribesman = 1 (Banquo)

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

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

Night One Wrap Up


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


OOC:

Murdered:
GeneralHankerchief

Attacked:
Proletariat
Sasaki Kojiro

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

Investigation Results by PM shortly.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

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

-- Ian Anderson, 1977


Sunset, Day Two

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

“Kralizec…”

Kralizec looked up in shock at his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t send those messages!”

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

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

“Then I’ll see you all in Hell.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s all this then?”

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

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

Seamus paused.

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

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

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

A few indistinct murmers answered him.

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

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


OOC:

The Specifics Thus Far:

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1)

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

Lynched: Kralizec (D2)

Suicided: Ichigo (D2), Tribesman (D2)

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way

Voting Specifics – Day Two Session

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

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

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

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

AndrestheCunning = 3 (JimBob, Sir Boo, Warluster)

Proletariat = 2 (ByzantineKinght, Stig)

Beirut = 1 (Tom_Hagen)

Ichigo = 1 (UltraWar)

Kagemusha = 1 (doc_bean)

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

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

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

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

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


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

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

Night Two Summary

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Shortly thereafter, the sous-waiter came with the steaming soup – – setting it on the table as another wait staff member – also a new face – brought over the wine, uncorked it and left it to breathe on the table. Redleg was disappointed, but it wouldn’t matter long. His nostrils drew in the rich scent of the asparagus soup – a scent that completely masked the odor of the poison with which it was laced – while his eyes looked at the bottle across the table, noting its rich color even through the greenish glass of the back of the bottle. Unfortunately for Redleg the rich aroma of the wine would mask the nutty aroma of the cyanide dosing it.

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

“I’m fine, really...”

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Seamus shook his head wearily, clearly disturbed.

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

“Mr. Beirut? Anything to add?”

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



OOC:

The Specifics Thus Far:

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1), Stig (N2)

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

Lynched: Kralizec (D2)

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

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.


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

Remember, there are 2 votes:

Select a director for days 4 & 5, and

Vote for who you want to be lynched day 3.


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

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

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

Sunset, Day Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


OOC

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

AndrestheCunning is added to the game.


Butcher’s Bill, to Date:

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

Lynched: Kralizec (D2), Beirut (D3)

Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1), Stig (N2)

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

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.


Vote Tallys:

Lynch Votes:

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

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

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

Pevergreen = 1 (Destroyer of Hope)

No Lynch = 1 (Tom_Hagen,)

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

Director Selections:

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

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

Banquo's Ghost = 2 (OmanesAlexandrapolites, Orb)

Destroyer of Hope = 1 (Destroyer of Hope)

Sasaki Kojiro = 1 (Caius Flaminius)

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

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

Night Three Summary

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


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

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

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

“I said your money or…”

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

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

MRD’s assailant complied.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

“Good morning, Moros,” a voice said.

“Who is this?” asked Moros.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stunned and worried, Moros glanced at the phone – only a dial tone now – left his room….

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

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

Eat hearty, oatmeal is good for your health.

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


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

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

A short pause.

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

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

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

OOC

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


Butcher’s Bill, to Date:

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

Lynched: Kralizec (D2), Beirut (D3)

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

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

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

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


Sunset, Day Four:

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

Redleg addressed the assembled committee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But one still remains.

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

pevergreen’s voice grew harsher, more ominous.

“But One still remains.”

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


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

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

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

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

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

WoGged: Nobody, and please keep it that way.


Lynching Vote Tally:

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

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

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

ByzantineKnight - 1 (doc_bean)

Pannonian = 1 (pevergreen)

Reenk Roink = 1 (Reenk Roink)

Sasaki Kojiro = 1 (Pannonian)

The Stranger = 1 (ByzantineKnight)

No Lynch = 1 (Caius Flaminius)

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

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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

Night Four Summary


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

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

“Goooodbyyyye…Cruuuuuel …Wor…!”

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

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

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

Cauis began to edge backwards.

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

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


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

“But…you…”

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

<> thought Seamus.

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

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

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

Seamus smiled – a small grim smile.

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


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

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

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

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

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

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


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