Capo: Information Summary Thread

[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.

[Sasaki Kojiro]

He's the lonely fear of dying
And for some of living too.
He's your private nightmare breaking
He just loves to turn the screws.
So stand as one defiant,
And let your voices swell.
Stare that Beastie in the face,
ANd really give him Hell.
-- Ian Anderson


Sunset Day Nine


Redleg sat at the front of the room, his mien grim. The final committee meeting of each day was no longer an exercise in tension – instead there was a palpable anger and mistrust.

“Final balloting.”

They all trooped up and turned in their votes. The counting scene was eerily familiar now – and carried out with a certain dreadful efficiency. Redleg stood.

“We have selected JimBob as our next director. JimBob, I offer you my thanks for your work and my thanks to all of you for allowing me to serve.”

He paused, then shifted to the next tally sheet.

“Tom_Hagen, you are found guilty by this committee and sentenced to death. You will be accorded the classic traitor’s death. You will be racked to encourage you to talk with us. Following this, you will be drawn and quartered and the refuse tossed into the sea. May God have mercy on your black soul – for in my heart I find none. Guards!”

Hagen stood and waited patiently, never moving his gaze from Redleg’s face, as the guards bound him and took him to the waiting rack. Only as he was leaving did he glance at Luigi and shake his head sadly. He said nothing.

On the rack he did confess, of course, but Fermanagh’s guards were far more enthusiastic than they were skilled. All four limbs were pulled from their sockets and his ligaments torn. The pain was excruciating and without pause. Under such conditions a man might say anything. Many present felt his confession was mostly true, though all present doubted that his mother had been a mafia Don as Hagen claimed, or that his grandfather was Gavrilo Princep and responsible for the First World War. Eventually, this horror stopped – only to be replaced by more.

Vivisected and then torn limb from limb, what was left of Tom_Hagen was taken to the end of the pier and dumped into the sea.

“Sic Semper Proditor,” muttered Redleg. Then, more loudly, “These proceedings are concluded.”


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), Tom_Hagen (D9)

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: 40, Living: 17