Capo: Information Summary Thread

**Sasaki Kojiro** · 01-21-2007, 04:46

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** · 01-23-2007, 22:57

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** · 01-24-2007, 20:16

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** · 01-26-2007, 01:44

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.

**Sasaki Kojiro** · 01-26-2007, 22:34

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

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

Sunset Day Five

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

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

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

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

“You’re not serious?”

Motep looked more stunned then scared.

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

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

Fermanagh stood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<> thought Redleg, puzzled.

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

It was a poor omen for the night to come.

OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

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

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

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

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

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5)

Tallies:

Director (Day 6 & 7) Selection:

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

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

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

Omanes Alexandropalites the Idiot = 2 (HughTower, Kagemusha)

ByzantineKnight = 1 (ByzantineKinght)

Kommodus = 1 (Kommodus)

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

Lynching Votes:

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

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

Abstain = 2 (Cowhead418, Ironside)

Moros = 1 (JimBob)

Pannonian = 1 (Kommodus)

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

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

**Sasaki Kojiro** · 01-27-2007, 20:43

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

Summary Night Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But…you…”

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

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

“Pity about the meter guy.”

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

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

“We should help him a bit then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

<> And that’s when the tingle of fear began.

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

<> The words floated over him.

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

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

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

<> he thought. <>

Whiteout.

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

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

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

Seamus turned and walked from the room.

OOC

The Butcher’s Bill to Date:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOTE:

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

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

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