Capo: Information Summary Thread

[Sasaki Kojiro]

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.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...65#post1406265

Standing in the pouring rain
All alone in a world that’s changed
Running scared, now forced to hide
In a land where he once stood with pride
But he’ll find his way by the morning light
-- Louis Perez, 1984


Sunset Day Six


Few people sat down in the meeting room with anything approaching enthusiasm. The excitement only days earlier with the effectiveness of the lynching effort had paled. Too many people had died, too many people were still dying each night. Disputes about evaluation methods and evidence had reached a boiling point.

Sasaki Kojiro was very businesslike at this session – not upbeat, just matter-of-fact.

“We will tally the votes, and the person or persons achieving the highest vote totals will be injected with this variable action poison. It has an unusual effect, causing cumulative nerve damage resulting in brain death. However, the onset of death can be substantially delayed by absolute silence since the initial focus of the drug is on what the shrinks tell us is the part of the brain responsible for speech.”

The balloting concluded and the count began. There had been many changed votes, one or two who waited too long, some odd scribbles, even a few of what the future would come to call “hanging chads,” but in the end two names stood at the top of the list in a tie: Director Sasaki Kojiro and The Stranger.

The committee was chanting: Both…Both…Both…but they knew it was not to be so. Kojiro directed the guards toward The Stranger…and toward The Stranger alone.

The Stranger was taken forward by the guards and injected with the poison. He lasted 20 minutes.

The meeting broke up in silence as the members of the committee went home for the night. Sasaki gazed out at his peers but was not encouraged by the looks he received in return. It would be another long night.


OOC

Begin Night Six. PM’s please. PMs must be received no later than 1400 EST 1/29/7.


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), The Stranger (D6)

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)


Tallies:

Lynching Votes:

Sasaki Kojiro = 9 (ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Doc_Bean, Ironside, Kommodus, Omanes Alexandropalites the Idiot, Redleg, The Stranger, Warluster)

The Stranger = 9 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Cowhead 418, Crazed Rabbit, Ituralde, Kagemusha, Orb, Pannonian, Pindar, Proletariat)

Tom_Hagen = 2 (HughTower, Moros)

Abstain = 2 (JimBob, Xiahou)

No Vote = 10 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Destroyer of Hope, Drisos, Luigi Vi di Fatlington, Masy, Papewaio, Reenk Roink, Sasaki Kojiro [director], Tom_Hagen, Xdeathfire)

[Sasaki Kojiro]

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...39#post1407439

Night Six Summary


Kommodus was tired – exhausted even – after today's voting. He stumbled through his front door and went to the kitchen to pour a drink. Tonight would be a stiff glass of the absinthe he had brought back from France. The house was dark and clammy. The wind off the Atlantic was still rattling the shutters and the thick clouds of the fading Nor’easter still hid the moon and stars.

<< I hope this weather breaks,>> thought Kommodus, << the mildew will drive me bats if I can’t air this place out.>>

The howling winds and dim lighting aided those lying in wait for him. They had hidden in the long shadows, and took careful advantage of the noisy winds and Kommodus’ moment of relaxation over his drink. Kommodus was concentrating on relaxing - he put his mind to the soft cushion of his chair, the taste of the drink, the pleasant feeling of his long tensed muscles relaxing. He spilled his drink when he looked up and saw multiple shadows facing him. They did not look of this world. Perhaps it was his weary mind, but Kommodus pictured them as some sort of grim, dark statues come to life. Hats prevented what light there was from reaching their faces. When one spoke, it looked as though some faceless shade was addressing him.

"Your time is up. No longer will your evil harm this town. It is unfortunate you must go like this, but necessary."

Kommodus was not one to give up easily, and jumped to his feet to arm himself and counter-attack, but he was kicked back into his chair before he could get his balance. One of the figures raised a gun.

"So long."

Two quick shots through the center of mass kept Kommodus in his chair – and probably would have killed him in short order. The third and somewhat slower shot of the “Cooper Method” took him between the eyes and sped up the process. Another figure dropped a white glove and then the attackers faded away into the howling dark.


Across town, the howling winds masked the sharp report of the single gunshot Pannonian put through his right temple. His body would be found seated neatly in the shower with all of the resultant mess contained by the tiled walls. A neatly folded suit with all of the usual accessories had been laid on the bed with the typed label “For funeral/viewing.” The remainder of his possessions had been neatly packed in two steamer trunks with a notarized copy of his last will and testament on top. The only thing odd was a simple hand written note: “Honor is foremost and the needs of the community surpass those of the individual.”

Crazed Rabbit was sleeping the sleep of the sated and did not hear the intruders who stole in through the skylight of his tastefully appointed studio apartment. Neither did his companion. With the howling of the winds the soft snap of the first pane of glass as cut circle was removed from it just didn’t carry far enough to be heard.

The intruders stole softly across the oriental rugs Rabbit had laid on the parquet flooring – no nightingale would chirp to warn of their intrusion – and gathered around the bed. The companion – the intruders would comment later that they almost envied Rabbit as she had a pleasing combination of the best features of Rita Hayworth and that Jane Russell doll from Hope’s dentist flick – was quickly put under with chloroform.

The still sleeping Rabbit never woke. Silencers coughed repeatedly and the heavy caliber bullets were more than enough to kill him. The choice to attach the tin Texas Ranger star to his forehead using a staple gun was a little vicious, but Rabbit never felt it. When his companion finally awoke hours later and began the screaming that would shortly thereafter call the police to the scene, the intruders had long since faded into the wind-swept dark and made their own way home.


JimBob too was resting comfortably. He never heard the car pull up across the street from his one-floor bungalow by the beach. He never heard the bolt being pulled back on the Tommy gun. But he heard the shooting.

Before the gunman could even open fire, a hail of gunfire erupted from the bungalows neighboring JimBob’s. Glass shattering, tires bursting, the gunman gave up the attack as a lost cause and coaxed his crippled vehicle away from the scene. It would be found in the morning – serial numbers removed and free of prints – about a mile from JimBob’s home. JimBob still had a little trouble getting back to sleep.


Warluster was used to weird dreams – especially lately. He wasn’t sleeping too soundly either. He was worried about being attacked in his sleep and the noisy winds had startled him awake a half dozen times since he’d dozed off. This time, however, he’d been awakened by the shattering of his window by some form of small spear and a shout from below.

“Awaken Warluster! Face me if you dare!

Warluster looked out the window, carefully not getting too close. Below, in front of the building site for the new apartment across the street, was a figure dressed in a bright red anorak and wielding a long spear and a large round shield, its face concealed by an ancient helmet! <> thought Warluster.

“Your death is demanded,” shouted the figure! “Come forth!”

<> Warluster thought, <> Warluster slipped on his robe and racked a round into the chamber of his Colt. <>

Warluster bounded down the stairs and flung open the door to his row home. He glanced carefully to make sure no one was lying in wait and then strode down his steps to the sidewalk. He held his gun steadily, planning on careful shots to avoid the helmet and shield. The figure spun his spear in an arc and struck the ground with the point – snapping a small string that Warluster never saw. The string was connected to a control lever in the crane on top of the 14-story construction project across the street. The crane, in turn, held a 1.4 ton (or so) weight -- curiously shaped like some kind of flat-sided measurement weight -- suspended roughly 110 feet above Warluster’s head. As Warluster let out half a breath and prepared to squeeze the trigger the weight smashed him to paste, cracking the sidewalk beneath him into the bargain. The scarlet-clad spearmen quickly disappeared.

On each of the wide sides of the weight, message plates had been welded. The first read:

Duty
Moros
Omanes

The opposite side was somewhat more poetic:

Cowardice and feeble dreams, folly makes bold
The Athenians, and all they'd dearly hold
They would have at once to a prophet sold

Your "hero" butchered. Obey me.

Other than noting the names of several prominent citizens, the police officers at the scene could make no sense of it.


It was an hour shy of dawn, not that down seemed likely to be any brighter today than it had for the past week. The library was not officially open yet, but the desk clerk was always early and knew HughTower by sight, so more mornings than not he could be found having a coffee and reading the papers in the deserted reading room. HughTower was enjoying a quiet book in the library when he heard a door slam open and footsteps approach.

"HughTower! I have come for you! This is the end of your criminal career!"

A sudden glance gave him a glimpse of a man dressed for the damp cold walking towards the news lounge he was in - with a gun in his hand. HughTower quickly dropped his paper and slipped quietly into the library stacks. He could see the man continue down the middle aisle toward the lounge area, scanning to each side.

With each step, he came closer, and sweat stood out on HughTower's face. His heart beat so loud he thought he would be discovered by it. The footsteps of the stranger continued, but had slowed – one step on the floor, a soft and then another. The man was still scanning. Just as he passed by the other end of the stack of books that HughTower hid behind, HughTower dashed to the stack closest to the lobby door, which had already been passed by the figure.

HughTower made his way, as silently and quickly as he could, toward the circulation desk and the front door, glancing over his shoulder as he went. He passed the last of the massive lobby pillars and stood in front of the desk. He looked at the clerk and began to urge him to run, but the man standing there – no longer the kind soul who would let him in – spoke too soon.

"If it is your wish, you shall have no part in this."

He had a fierce, steady look in his eyes and stared at HughTower over the barrel of his gun. Hugh tensed to move but the stranger quickly squeezed the trigger. The first hit was not lethal - the gunman had aimed for and hit his kneecap. HughTower collapsed in agony, clutching for his destroyed knee. As he fell, the gunman shot his other kneecap. HughTower screamed in pain. The gunman hopped the desk, using the unconscious body of the desk clerk as a springboard, and walked over to Hugh. The shooter proceeded to kick him until his back was on the floor.

“Shhhhh…keep your voice down,” said the shooter, “This IS a library after all.”

Then the shooter shot him twice in the gut. The gunman looked down at the writhing, now-moaning figure.

Despite his pain, HughTower crawled, or rather tried to crawl, to the doors, but merely succeeded in flipping over. Groaning and cursing he began to drag himself slowly toward the door, leaving a swath of red on the gray marble of the lobby floor.

The second gunman, who had flushed HughTower out of the stacks, walked up to the feebly crawling HughTower, then pinned him in place with his foot.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said to HughTower. He then methodically shot HughTower in both shoulders and both elbows. Hugh screamed with each shot, and then lay there, barely breathing. “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.” He stripped off a white glove and dropped it on HughTower’s back.

Both watched as the blood flowed out of HughTower’s body; they watched as his feeble twitchings slowed, as his cries subsided, until finally he was still. The gunman began to walk quietly out.

“Bit of a mess on the lobby floor there,” said the ersatz desk clerk.

“True, but they shouldn’t have any trouble convincing the rest of the patrons to pay off their library fines,” said his partner.

They left quietly to head for the committee meeting.


Seamus Fermanagh faced the dwindling committee, his face as white as a sheet.

“Ahem…well now…it would appear that we didn’t do all that well lynching Lord Motep of Kendermore. Despite rumors to the contrary, we’ve been able to determine that he was no more than he claimed – an innocent townie.”

Seamus paused, his expression grim.

“This 5th day following TosaInu’s committee of vigilance was our most deadly yet. All told, 11 died that day: Banquo’s Ghost, Dutch_Guy, Hepcat, Ignoramus, MarcusBrutus, Lord Motep, Peasant Phill, Sigurd Fafnesbane, theRTWGuru, Ultrawar, and Zalmoxis. Our sources have been working overtime, and I regret to inform you that each and everyone of them was a Townie and not part of an mafia. There were rumors about a few of them – only a few – trying to be anything else, but even those we can’t confirm. One thing I can confirm is that Guru was one of my secret detectives. I think he passed on his information to a successor, but I can’t even confirm that.”

Seamus stared a bit before continuing.

“Between this night and the last, I am beginning to fear for the worst. You’ve got to lynch the bad guys today…you just have to!”

He left quickly, with the committee quickly breaking up. They would return that evening for the lynch decision.

OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6)

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) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6), HughTower (N6), Kommodus (N6) Warluster (N6)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Banquo's Ghost (N5) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie]


Day 7 Voting Commences – Lynch Vote and Selection of Director for Days 8 & 9. Deadline: 1400 EST 1/30/7.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showt...25#post1409125

We, father and son, have chosen
To live in the world of blood shedding.

We’re not afraid to face any danger,
Known or unknown.

We live at the crossroads of Hell.

Kozure Okami (scored by Hideakura Sakurai)


Sunset, Day Seven

Sasaki Kojiro seemed just a bit distracted as he began the meeting for that evening. This would be their 6th lynching and the results of the 5th effort had left him upset.

The tallies for director were counted and double-checked. Though several candidates had secured votes, in the end Redleg was chosen as director for days 8 and 9 of this controlled exercise in self destruction. However reluctantly accepted, the lynching process had garnered few fans – rarely had more than half of the committee voted and only Chief Fermanagh seemed pleased with the results.

As he tallied the votes for the night’s lynchee, Kojiro could see that the grim resolve of many from the night before had not changed. His initial blaze of anger faded to a tone of defiance – he had had time to consider this possible fate – when he spoke.

“Despite all logic, despite all sense of self preservation, you have chosen to remove me from your ranks. Most of you will regret this, I swear.”

He paused, swallowed, and then resumed.

“Let’s do this with style shall we? I want a Brass Band playing at full volume! So let’s do it up appropriately. I will be crushed to death on the boulevard outside with the band on a flatbed wagon to do the deed. And the rest of you can join your dead mafia pals in Hell when it’s your turn.”

And so it was that about 45 minutes later Sasaki Kojiro was crushed under the huge wheels of an old-style beer wagon pushed by a diesel truck – driven by Redleg. A largish brass band had been hired, “Aristotle’s Rejects,” to play upbeat music for the occasion, with Luigi VI sitting in on tuba. Perched atop the heavy wagon the band played a couple of Glenn Miller covers – “Adios” and “Farewell Blues” chosen by Sasaki. For no apparent reason, all three French Horn players stood and blew a passage from a recent piece by Prokofiev at the moment of Kojiro’s decapitation – he wasn’t dumb enough to let the wheels crush him anywhere else – though that was quickly replaced by a quick segue into “The Saints…” to close things with a bang, just as Sasaki had requested.

The committee returned briefly to the meeting room where Seamus informed them of the suicides of Xdeathfire and Masy that afternoon. From Xdeathfire there had been a brief note: “Can’t take this anymore,” and a plunge from the top of the Abbatoir Hotel. By an odd stroke of luck, Xdeathfire had plunged directly on top of the flagstaff of the Hotel’s own corporate flag, sliding all the way to the bottom. The Police were still debating whether his corpse should be lifted the 35 feet to the top of the pole or simply sawn free. It was clear that no other person had been involved.

Masy had locked himself in his own tightly closed garage, cranked up the radio, turned on the motor, and quaffed the lion’s share of a bottle of Glen Morangie 30. The coroner, who confiscated the remaining liquor for testing, informed the Chief that Masy would have felt no pain.

Seamus wished them luck, confirming the time for the next morning’s briefing.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6), Sasaki Kojiro (D7)

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) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5), Crazed Rabbit (N6), HughTower (N6), Kommodus (N6) Warluster (N6)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6), Masy, (D7), Xdeathfire (D7)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie]


Vote Tallies:

Selection of Day 8/9 Director:

Redleg = 8 (ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Ituralde, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Papewaio, Pindar, Redleg, Tom_Hagen)

Reenk Roink = 4 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Orb, Reenk Roink, Xiahou)

Moros = 2 (Moros, Omanes Alexandrapoites the Idiot)

Doc_bean = 1 (doc_bean)

Not Selecting = 12 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Cowhead418, Destroyer of Hope, Drisos, Ironside, JimBob, Kagemusha, Masy, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, Tom_Hagen, Xdeathfire)

Day Seven Lynchee:

Sasaki = 9 (ByzantineKnight, Cowhead418, Doc_bean, Moros, Papewaio, Pindar, Redleg, Tom_Hagen, Xiahou)

Alexander the Pretty Good = 2 (Omanes Alexandrapolites the Idiot, Orb)

Reenk Roink = 1 (Reenk Roink)

Not Voting = 10 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Destroyer of Hope, Drisos, Ironside, JimBob, Kagemusha, Masy, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro [director], Xdeathfire)

Edit, FYI:

23 Players are still alive: AtPG, BKS, ByzK, CtArach, Cowhead, Destro, Doc, Drisos, Iron, Ituralde, JimBob, Kage, Luigi, Moros, Omanes, Orb, Pappy, Pindar, Prole, Red, Reenk, Tom_H, X.

Night Seven PM’s commence; Deadline: 1400 EST 1/31/7.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

Night Seven Summary

CountArach was lost in thought about his French estates destroyed during the war and the circumstances that brought him to Fatlington -- vineyards torn and burned, the chateau a shell housing pigeons.

“Comte de Rien” he muttered to himself with a hint of bitterness.

The taxi came to an unexpected halt, interrupting his reverie.

“Sorry Mac, there's a crowd jammin’ things up,” said the hack. “Some group of Christer’s I think. I could try Baltic through Chinatown, but I don’t trust them Japs much, not after Pearl.”

Arach began to reply, but thought better of it. He suspected that an explanation of the difference between China and Japan would be wasted on the driver. He also knew Chinatown would take him out of his way. Arach threw enough to cover the fare in the front seat and stepped out of the cab. They were only 6 or 7 blocks from the Library, he’d just walk over, pay his fines and head home.

The reason was clear. There was a small but loud man preaching from the back of a truck. Arach couldn't help but listen as he worked his way through the crowd.

”Do not think the Lord will simply let filth into His House,” shouted the holy roller! “'The Lord is just and His vengeance is terrible! Repent or face His wrath!”

<> Arach thought. <>

“Those with dirty hands, who will not have them cleaned, are worthy of death!”

Arach’s thoughts were interrupted when a man crashed into him knocking him back several steps. He fell, along with a couple of other men in a tangle of arms and legs. As the men stood the man who’d started the tumble spoke.

“You! You’re bleeding!”

“Huh?” He looked down. The man who’d informed him he was bleeding made the statement correct with a quick thrust from a long knife. Before the shock of the stomach wound had really registered, a second knife – wielded from behind – had ripped across his throat from left to right creating a bright fountain of blood under the glare of the streetlights above. Then the first killer got a good look at their target.

“Oh, Crap…”

He was looking into the shocked and uncomprehending eyes of Drisos. In seconds the light in those eyes faded and went dark. The two killers quickly bundled the body into an alley as the crowd dispersed screaming; dropping a white glove on Drisos as they went. Their stained coats would end up in a basement incinerator.

Somehow, in that small tangle of men falling on the sidewalk, Drisos had been outfitted with Arach’s distinctive hat and shoved forward to meet the fate of another. Arach would not sleep well, but he would live to muse again of France and better times.


Destroyer of Hope had kept very quiet throughout this horrible process. Rather than skulking around, however, he’d tried to hide in plain sight. Tonight, he was at a coffeeshop having a late supper. It was one of those pay-as-you-go places, so when it was time to leave he could just leave. Besides, there was a new coffee-slinger behind the counter every time; with that kind of turnover, he could save himself the cost of a tip. He was seated in the last booth, his back to a brick wall, and nobody at all was sitting at the counter. Safe enough.

Without warning, two men burst through the front door with pistols drawn. They fired shots into the roof and shouted for the other patrons to hit the floor. Destro just quietly drew his gun under the table while miming shock and horror on his face. As the other patrons and the counterman dropped out of sight, the two gunmen turned toward Destro – who was now facing them with his own pistol out and leveled.

“We’re two to your one,” said the younger of the two gunmen – being very careful not to move.

“Yeah, but your guns are pointed the wrong way,” said Destroyer. “You might get me, but not before I drop at least one of you. Any volunteers?”

“Besides, you’re outgunned,” said the counterman standing up, a leveled double-barreled 8-gauge shotgun in his hands. “Everybody always overlooks the coffee-slinger. Drop ‘em.”

Both gunmen dropped their weapons.

"Well, now," said Destro, placing his gun in easy reach and grabbing a note pad and pencil. "How about we start with your names and the names of your family members? Unless you want John Q. Public here to wax your asses – this witness will swear you were going for your guns..."

“Don’t worry about it.” Said the older gunman.

The other added, “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.”

The counterman adjusted his aim and blew Destro's hid – quite literall – off.

"Did you have to use both barrels? I mean that was a LITTLE excessive, you know," said the younger gunman?

"Cheap jerk didn't even leave me a tip," replied the faux counterman.

"Let that be a lesson to you folks," the older gunmen said to the hiding patrons. "Always take care of your servers."

The gunmen looked at the counterman expectantly.

"What's up," the counterman asked?

"The Glove" they said in unison. The older one continued, "you do have it?"

The counter jockey looked sheepish.

"Fortunately," said the older gunman, "I was a boyscout."

He removed a white glove from his pocket, dropped it, and they all made their way out into the night.


“Well,” said Seamus the next morning to the few who remained, “the results of our posthumous investigations have given us a ray of hope.”

“It would appear that both Crazed Rabbit and HughTower were Made Gangsters, so we can all hope that this mafia scum will continue to weed out one another. Both had criminal pasts, both were deserving of the chair by all accounts. Good riddance!”

“Another criminal who met his end is Warluster. I should note however, that though he was one of these “Wise Guys” we hear tell about, we don’t have any solid leads on his involvement in a crime land gang, though some accuse him of participating as a vigilante. We’re not even certain about what some of the witnesses were saying about his death – some of the things eye witnesses come up with are a little far-fetched to say the least.”

“I can also, sadly, confirm some of losses we suffered to be good honest town-folk. Pannonian was a townie of solid repute as was Kommodus. In fact, we have some indications that Kommodus was what we have nicknamed a “doctor” and had been actively involved in saving the lives of some of those who have been targeted for assassination. They will be missed.”

“Lastly, while we were able to confirm The Stranger’s status.”

The committee paused, while Fermanagh’s officers whispered among themselves. There had been some contention over this. Some people claimed he was one of the Dons’ protectors, acting weird to create a diversion. If that was so, he had done a splendid job. Others, however, said that he was nothing more than an obsessed townie who had a score to settle with the Mafia who he believed had killed his wife.

“Apparently, The Stranger had gone a bit round the bend after the death of his wife last year. He blamed the gangs for her death, so when this all blew up, he turned vigilante. We know he was guilty in connection with at least one murder – AndrestheCunning – but it would appear that he was, after all, just another townie.”

Seamus put away his notes.

“Gentlemen, and Lady, I wish you continued success.”


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7)

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) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5), Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7), Xdeathfire (D7)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7)


Day 8 Voting begins, lynch only, Redleg directing. Deadline: 1400 HRS EST
2/1/7

I have a 3:30 apt. I'll pM investigation results and night action responses as soon as possible hereafter. Thanks.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

Everyone gets there anyway...
In this place there is no shelter,
Blood and flesh upon the altar,
Blames of fire getting high
Oh, my dear its time to die...
This will come to everyone
Cruel justice must be done
-- Via Dolorosa


Sunset, Day Eight


Redleg sat at the front of the chamber, framed by the large picture windows to either side of the small dais. On a table behind him were 3-4 ornate wooden boxes (chests?) – the same boxes that had been present at his last director’s meeting. Through the windows could be seen a pair of field guns, set up in battery on the boardwalk, and a row of what appeared to be a half-dozen long thin stakes bolted to the boardwalk itself. Redleg was a fan of preparation.

“We have met and deliberated,” said Redleg. “We will now cast our final votes for this day.”

One by one the committee filed to the box to drop in their written ballot. If the voting followed the pattern of previous days, many of these signed ballots would bear no name at all – no vote. Others, of course, would name the person whom that voter deemed to be guilty – or at least name the person they thought should die.

Redleg solemnly counted the votes. He recounted them and then asked for confirmation from his attendant guards. Receiving it, he stood to declare the vote.

“It is the will of this committee that Moros be put to death. Guardsmen, take charge.”

Moros bolted upright, a stunned expression on his face. Redleg paused a moment before decreeing Moros’ fate, his expression grim.

“You will be taken to the stakes below. Your hands roped behind your back, five pound weights attached to each ankle, and you will be impaled. I’m sorry, but it’s not a quick way to go – we’re trying to send a message here.”

Moros went for his gun. The cops went for theirs. The committee went for the floor. Redleg stepped back, surprised, then went to one of his boxes. Moros fired at the cops.

“You maniacs are not gonna kill me,” Moros screamed! Two of the cops went down under the impact of slugs from his .45 – dear, trustworthy ‘Betsy.’

But the cops were firing back. Moros was wearing armor, but the impact of the .38 specials staggered him. Moros continued shooting, emptying the clip into the remaining officers. Moros was wounded in both arms and one leg, and both officers went down.

Bleeding and staggering, Moros threw down on Pindar, only to be rewarded with a sharp He’d emptied all nine shots into the police.

“Moros,” called Redleg, poised in a perfect duelist’s pose and staring along the barrel of an ornate 18th century dueling pistol, “you life is forfeit!”

Redleg squeezed the trigger smoothly, generating a sharp barking and a small cloud of sulfurous smoke. The .65 caliber lead ball was spun well by the rifled barrel and stayed true to Redleg’s aim. The ball punched through Moros’ right eye, blowing out the entire back half of his head as though smashing an over-ripe melon. Most of the contents of Moros’ skull were sprayed over the committee. Moros’s body collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“I do not believe justice has been served here,” said Redleg to the stunned room, “but the will of the committee has been served as our mayor declares necessary.”

Two of the police were dead, the others wounded badly. Chief Fermanagh, arriving shortly thereafter, quickly assigned replacements and saw to the body’s removal. The committee milled about, sickened by what they’d been through, yet reluctant to face the dark night that was descending on Fatlington. A cleaning team came in and began work. In time, however, the committee began to make their exits. Redleg caught Proletariat’s attention as she turned to depart.

“Cigarette?”

Prole shook her head no.

“I’ve been trying to cut back lately.”

“Pity.”

Redleg left before Prole could respond.


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so Far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7), Moros (D8)

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) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7), Xdeathfire (D7)

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7)


Day 8 Lynch Vote Tally

Moros = 7 (Alexander the Pretty Good, JimBob, Kagemusha, Pindar, Proletariat, Tom_Hagen, Xiahou)

Pindar = 4 (Ituralde, Luigi VI di Fatlington, Moros, Omanes Alexandrapolites the Idiot)

Proletariat = 3 ( ByzantineKnight, CountArach, Orb)

Reenk Roink = 3 (Cowhead418, Doc_bean, Reenk Roink)

Not Voting = 4 (Big King Sanctaphrax, Ironside, Papewaio, Redleg [director])


Dead: 37, Living: 20


Night Eight begins: PMs due no later than 1400 EST 2/2/7. Happy Groundhog Day.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

Night Eight Summary


Xiahou hadn’t walked 4 blocks from the convention center when he decided to hail a cab for the rest of the trip. As he opened the door to get in, he heard a pair of strange metallic from the shadows of the recessed entryway of the building to his right. Arcing into the light were two hand grenades!

Xiahou ducked just a little, and both grenades landed in the back of the cab. On reflex, Xiahou slammed the door and dove behind the cab into the wet gutter. A half second later, both grenades went off, perforating the startled drivers face and head and adding another innocent bystander to the casualty rolls.

Xiahou leapt up, gun in hand– it seemed everybody went armed in Fatlington anymore – to face his attackers, but whoever had thrown the weapons had scampered off into the building. Catching them would be impossible. Xiahou did not wait for the police, but quickly ran to a different avenue. He felt the need for a stiff drink.


Tom_Hagen was a little further on his trip home. He too was walking, having decided against a car as too much of a target. Instead, he had taken the boardwalk, choosing open terrain and visibility over stealth or speed. It wouldn’t help.

As he reached one of the stairwells leading to the beach, a dark figure detached itself from the dim shadows near the boardwoalk side of the Abbatoir Hotel and walked towards Hagen. Hagen stood stock still – unsure which way to break. Just as suddenly, figures carrying riot shields leapt up onto the boardwalk in front of Hagen. The move to interpose themselves between Hagen and the dark figure just as the dark figure withdrew a long-barreled pistol from his coat…

A sudden gust of wind off the Atlantic grabbed the shield bearers and kited them off the boardwalk to land on the street next to the hotel – they were out of it.

Atop a balcony several floors up, gunfire slashed out aimed at the shadowy figure with the long pistol. Others were opening fire to defend Hagen! The Shadowy pistoleer ducked and weaved. Suddenly the firing stopped.

Slowly the crouched figure of the pistoleer stood erect. He held the long barreled antique dueling pistol in one hand, drawing a bead on Hagen’s head. Hagen gulped. There was nowhere to run, no way to hide, and in the confusion he hadn’t gone for his own weapon. The gunman gently squeezed the trigger; a misfire! Hagen went for his gun as the shadowy figure broke back towards the building. Hagen got off a few shots, but was too jangled to take proper aim. His target slipped away into the dark streets. Hagen stood shocked for a moment or two, but then quickly went for the lobby – to call a cab.


Ituralde always tried to keep an eye out for trouble, so when he spied two men harassing a young woman outside the drugstore across the street from the restaurant he’d just exited, he had to do something to help her.

As he reached the struggling trio and began shouting for the men to leave her alone, the woman suddenly grew quiet, calmly adjusting her skirt back into place. Ituralde paused, confused.

The younger man spoke. “That’s your exit cue sweet-cheeks.”

The girl departed quickly as Ituralde started to speak.

“But I thought…”

““Don’t worry about it,” said the older man pulling a heavy caliber pistol from his coat.

“Don’t trouble yourself about anything,” said his companion, gun already in hand.

Ituralde was backing up and going for his weapon as well, but he knew he would be too slow…

When suddenly a hail of gunfire – A Tommy gun on what would later be nicknamed “full rock and roll” – erupted from a parked car in front of the restaurant and repeatedly hammered the two gloved gunmen smashing them back through the window of the drugstore as Ituralde dropped to the ground and rolled between two parked cars. When he got warily back to his feet, the two gunmen were gone, having beaten a retreat through the back of the drugstore – they must have come armored – and the car with his savior (saviors?) was only a pair of tail-lights rounding the corner of the next block. Ituralde exhaled in relief. <> he thought, echoing Field’s tag-line <>


A while later, Xiahou, thoroughly upset and just returning home from a bracer at the corner “tappy,” spun quickly at the strange metallic scrape, already leveling his pistol at the shadow breaking away from the alley to his right. He felt his neck being cut even as he completed his spin and jumped back a step. He was ready to fire, but paused ever so briefly in surprise.

Before him stood some kind of ancient Greek warrior, dressed in what someone who was just a bit better versed in history than Xiahou would have recognized as the bright red anorak and full panapoly of a Spartan Hoplite. It also answered how he had managed to cut Xiahou from a distance of nearly 10 feet away, since the spear this hoplite had used had a reach of more than 8 feet. Xiahou blinked and took aim at the still-standing Lacadaemonian, but found he couldn’t make his fingers work…or his legs….blackness.

When the soporific wore off, Xiahou awoke to find himself immovably tied to a post at the far end of what must be a warehouse. He was swaddled head to toe in painted burlap in a fashion that made him appear to be exactly the same as the other two staked-out target dummies — only his eyes were uncovered. He tried to shout, but quickly realized his throat was painfully dry and he could make hardly any sound – his throat was so dry and constricted he had to work to breathe. When he looked the 40 or so yards away to the other end of the large room, he was perplexed by what he saw – unfortunately for Xiahou, his confusion quickly resolved itself into fear.

Standing at the far end of the practice range was the “hoplite” and with him were another dozen folks dressed in ancient Greek tunics – all of them holding javelins! Xiahou was, unwittingly, the guest of honor at the Fatlington Greek Historical Society’s monthly re-enactment meeting. They were talking and laughing – the turnout was better than usual since all of the fishing boats were in port because of the storm. They had been doing their monthly drill practice with spears and swords, proud of their heritage, and had begun to look forward to a little well-earned lamb and retzina, the smell of which was already permeating from the other half of the warehouse sized venue.

The Hoplite shouted something in Greek and the talking died down and everyone took position. Xiahou’s heart began to pound like an anvil in his chest. He struggled, but didn’t even manage to wiggle enough to be noticed.

The Hoplite issued the commands – in Greek of course – for “Two Rapid Throws” and “Let fly!” He and his peltasts complied, rapidly throwing down range, stepping back while switching hands on the second javelin each held and loosing the second shot almost as soon as the first round began to reach the targets.

Xiahou was struck four times on the first volley – the re-enactors were all pretty fresh having not been working the boats for a week now – and twice on the second. They were stunned and horrified to see blood pouring out of one of their straw dummies of course and raced down the range to help. The hoplite quietly exited. It was of no avail. Xiahou had taken 3 major wounds to the chest and a 4th that had gone completely through his neck. He would die within seconds from shock and blood loss.

Afterwards, as the stunned fishermen discussed the horrific events with the police, no one could remember what the hoplite looked like – he’d stayed helmeted throughout – and everybody else had assumed that one of their companions had invited him. Two of the javelins had been both heavier than the others and adorned with writing. The first read:

Duty
Kagemusha
Proletariat

The second, the one transfixing Xiahou’s neck to the post, was more poetic:

Wings of iron, piercer of the sky/From the Cretan's bold hand fly/Betray us not, nor disappoint/And being cast at Xiahou, disjoint.

The cops finished up their interviews, leaving the scene to the coroner, and made their way – after a stop at Flanagan’s which featured no jokes or ribaldry whatsoever – to turn in their reports.


CountArach was cold. The weather was almost clear after a week of rain and clouds, but it had turned even chillier. He had been waiting in the little park for some time and the sense of “dark” was growing, even though there had been no change in the lighting. The dark was dangerous.

He decided his contact could speak with him in the morning, the better course would be to return home. Home was familiar territory, his territory. Arach worked his way through the streets always aware of his surroundings. He didn't relax until he stood at his door – one close call was enough. He turned the key, the door opened and within a step he felt...the warm body of Francoise his cat moving against his legs in welcome. Soon enough, Fifi was curled in a ball at the hearth and there was a warm mug of chocolat – not very sweet – on the small table next to his favorite chair. Arach sat and picked up his 1st edition of “The White Company” in his hand. He had always thought this book outranked any of Arthur Conan Doyle's Holmes' stories. <> he mused. Reading of Hawkwood in Medieval Italy took him away from the worries of the here and now.

“Reading about mercenaries I see?”

Arach was jolted back to reality. He saw two figures standing in his room. The man continued.

“I supposed those who sell themselves are attracted to the same. In the end they’ve all been reduced to playing the whore.”

The figure behind the speaker pulled the trigger of his silencer. Arach slumped back in his chair, a bullet hole through his forehead. The speaker walked to the corpse. He picked up the book, wiped off the blood that had splattered on the cover and tucked it up it under his arm. He then laid a white glove in the lap of the corpse. As the man walk out the room he spoke over his shoulder:

“Kill the cat as well.”

Au revoir, Fifi. Nous vous avons à peine connu.


Pindar made a rendezvous with destiny at a little after Midnight. He was driving home through the still-wet streets when, coming to an intersection, he started taking aimed fire from three directions.

Both tires were gone along with the windshield and the bullets were tracking with him into the foot well of the front seat. Pindar slid quickly and opened the passenger door – for some reason it was quiet there – and quickly rolled out of the car. With his broken vehicle serving as cover from the slow heavy caliber shots from the other directions, Pindar found himself facing a storefront – a storefront of a completely darkened store.

Pindar was terrified, scanning for a threat from this darkened building, but not seeing any hint of movement. He used his pistol to lob shots at the gun flashes from the other buildings, but only to keep his attackers behind cover – it would take a miracle to stop even one of them.

Finally, low on ammunition, Pindar rapid fired the last of his shots and ran at the darkened building.

<> he thought.

He crashed through the store’s door is a spray of glass and rolled into the shop. Empty. No lurking gunman waiting with a final shot, despite the sense that he’d been herded in this direction. Without any further hesitating, he made it out the back, up a fire ladder and away over the rooftops. There was no pursuit. Tonight’s destiny was not final.


Redleg nodded his assent for Fermanagh to begin the morning briefing. A short recitation of the night’s events brought them up to date on the latest carnage. Then Seamus paused before beginning his “post-mortem” updates.
“Well now, we’ve put in the legwork needed to acquire the information requested by the committee. With the subjects dead, there has been far less protest about rights violations and the like, so…

He paused, a little hesitant.

“Anyway, we’ve determined that two of our suicides were criminals. Both Masy and Xdeathfire were players – wise guys – with criminal pasts. They do not seem to have been active at all in this recent crisis however, though we have an unconfirmed rumor that Masy wanted to go straight.”

He shuffled through his papers.

“I don’t know what to make of the information we’re getting on former director Kojiro. Sasaki was, apparently, affiliated with the Mafia gangs – in fact he came over from Palermo following the war and was reputed to have powerful connections with Charlie Lucky and the rest of the crowd at Murder, Inc. It seems his skill was as some kind of fixer or trouble-shooter. It was claimed by one caller from New York that he could make an axe-murderer come off looking like a dime-store shoplifter if he had a little time to “fix” things. He certainly was glib, but he was an enemy of our town.”

“Sadly, I do have to report we lost a few good guys. Drisos was just a quiet member of the committee – didn’t even participate much – who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His family is taking it pretty hard. Destroyer of Hope was an even worse loss. I can now confirm that he was one of my hidden Detectives. Indications are that he’d been inactive for a while, and we have reason to believe that any information he did have died with him – he wasn’t able to pass the information as Guru was.”

“I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mixed bag here. Good luck in your deliberations.”

Redleg sat straight.

“Thank you chief. We’ll take a 10-minute break and then get started with the morning n discussion session."


OOC

The Butcher’s Bill so Far:

Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3), JimBob (N6), CountArach (N7), Ituralde (N8), Pindar (N8), Tom_Hagen (N8), Xiahou (N8)

Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5) [townie], The Stranger (D6) [townie], Sasaki Kojiro (D7) [The Wolf], Moros (D8)

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) [townie], Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5) [townie], Ultrawar (N5) [townie], Crazed Rabbit (N6) [mafia made], HughTower (N6) [mafia made], Kommodus (N6) [doctor], Warluster (N6) [wise guy], Destroyer of Hope (N7) [Detective], CountArach (N8), Xiahou (N8)

Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4) [townie], Peasant Phill (N5) [townie], theRTWGuru (N5) [townie], Pannonian (N6) [townie], Masy, (D7) [wise guy], Xdeathfire (D7) [wise guy]

WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5) [townie], Hepcat (N5) [townie], Ignoramus (N5) [townie], Zalmoxis (N5) [townie], Drisos (N7) [townie]

Dead: 39, Living: 18


Day Nine begins: Selection Votes for Director (10 & 11) and Lynch Votes are due no later than 1500 EST 2/3/7 ( I will count nothing posted later than 1504 -- a small allowance for simul-posting). Warning: I will be as prompt as possible, but the weekend is more in flux at my house. Please be patient.