Capo di Tutti Capi II - Story thread

[Seamus Fermanagh]

Prologue (post 1)

The man sat quietly on a chair on the suite’s balcony, looking out at the last rays of sun casting orange shadings on the Florida Straights, a glass cradled in his right hand. There was a warm beauty to the onset of a tropical evening in Havana, coupled with an almost palpable energy, a sense of the city coming awake after the relentless heat of the long day. Tomorrow would mark the longest day of this year – 1949. For the man on the balcony, this evening was a moment for remembrance.

He sipped from his drink, the harsh bite of Sapphire gin only somewhat attenuated by the tonic and lime – he was not much of a drinker. Ironic, actually, he thought, considering how he’d made his fortune. But the brief flash of humor evaporated in the face of his quiet grief. He let his mind drift with the gentle waves of the Straights.

A time later – Short? Long? – the opening and closing of a door and a single set of footsteps announced that he was not alone. He didn’t bother to turn – only one man would have been allowed unannounced.

The second man walked to the balcony and straight to the railing, grasping it gently with both hands and leaning into the growing evening breeze. He inhaled the air, exhaled slowly, turned his head slightly toward the first man and spoke in a quiet, conversational voice.

“Paisan; not used to seeing you sitting alone with a drink. It’s not your style.”

“It’s been two years to the day.”

The second man stiffened briefly at the railing, then nodded slowly. He turned to face his seated friend.

“I’m sorry. I miss him too.”

The second man leaned against the railing. There was a measurable silence. He spoke.

“It was just business. I always liked him.”

“Business?” asked the first, sardonically.

“You voted with the rest of the Commission on this. You persuaded us to delay the hit twice. You gave him every opportunity…”

“I know!…” the other said, almost shouting. He paused. It had been, after all, the correct business decision. In a softer voice he continued “…I know.”

The second man nodded, he too was bothered by the memory. He went to the side table and poured himself a glass of the gin and then sat down in the next chair.

“Ben was a brother to me, he saved my life more than once. I didn't even sit shiva for him.”

“You were visiting here when it happened.” added the second man with an uncharacteristic note of sincere concern. A pause. “It hurt when it came down to finishing it. He was a brother to me too.”

Both men sat silently for a time, letting their minds wander. Such men as they had little use for the past, but all men muse, at times, on what was and from where they came. After a little while, the second man spoke.

“There’s one thing…”

“Yeah.”

“One item of business I need you to deal with when you head back to the States.”

“Which is?”

“Fatlington. The commission has decided to renew our bid for control there.”

“It’s a dung-heap with a beach. I don’t think it’s worth the effort – or the notoriety – like we got from our last effort.

“But we came close, very close – and you know that total control of one ‘burg on the North Jersey shore will give us amazing leverage with our ‘imports.’ You said yourself that it would be a quiet coup that could insulate us from those pezzonvante in Washington like nothing else…”

“It was a blood-bath last time! Do we really want to go through all that again.”

The first man shook his head slowly. The second nodded a slow and then spoke.

“The rest of the commission has decided it’s worth the cost. Even the notoriety is good for business – to a point.”

The first man nodded his head resignedly. “Okay. I think the commission’s a bit meshuggah on this, but I’ll set it in motion.”

“Thanks.”

The second man stood, holding his drink. The first followed suit. Both men looked out over the water, where the last glow of orange was fading – to be replaced by the festive lights of Havana herself. By unspoken agreement, both men held their glasses up as a toast.

“To Benjamin Seigel,” said Meyer Lansky.

“To Ben,” responded Sal Lucana, known popularly as Charles “Lucky” Luciano.

They drained the last of their drinks and then flung the glasses from the high balcony. Each glass glinted in the bright lights emanating from the streets of Havana below. They never heard them break on the promenade below.

For Fatlington, it was the start of a long, hot Summer.

[Andres]

(Post 1)

Late one night
When we were all in bed
Old Mother Leary
Left a lantern in the shed

And when the cow kicked it over,
She winked her eye and said,
"There’ll be a hot time
In the old town, tonight."
-- Anonymous



Fatlington – Day One – Mid-Afternoon


Fatlington lay in the sun like a huge checkerboard of flat black-tar roofs and light grey streets. The air shimmered in waves off the black roofs, heated by the blazing August sun, tar sticky from the heat and speckled with broken clamshells deposited by Seagulls as they used gravity to open dinner for them. The hottest part of the year and, for Fatlington, the biggest part of the year for the merchants and businesses who catered to the tourists visiting the Jersey Shore.

Six decades past the white beaches lining the boardwalk would have been crowded with “the quality” taking in the breeze and swimming in the cool Atlantic. Six decades had not been kind to Fatlington. Like a courtesan well past her prime, Fatlington still painted on a gay face for the tourists, but these days “the quality” were in Palm Beach or Havana and Fatlington was left to cater to the factory workers of Allentown and every other urban armpit in North Jersey or Eastern Pennsylvania. Like calls to like.

It had been a normal summer until July neared August. Then the outbreaks had begun. Very few died, but dozens were struck with cholera and several others seemed to be showing signs of the Spanish flu. That flu had visited Fatlington just after the War to End All Wars had wrapped up and put 15% of the population into the ground. Now, only a few years after the latest War to End All Wars, New Jersey authorities were quick to respond with a 30-day quarantine. Nobody would be leaving Fatlington before Labor Day.

Tourists screamed about their jobs and needing to get home, the locals screamed about the tourists, and the Fates promptly added a heat wave of epic proportions to turn up the pressure. Atropos, apparently, had always taken an interest in Fatlington.

Mayor TosaInu, away at Trenton for a conference when the quarantine began, moved Heaven and earth to get something done for his beleaguered town, but to no avail. In the corridors of power in Trenton, his most persuasive arguments could not counter one basic truth – it was only Fatlington after all, not somewhere that mattered.

But to some, especially a small group of “entrepreneurs” who met infrequently in Havana, Fatlington had value…once a few changes had been made.

“We’ll have to make a few changes folks!” said Fatlington’s Police Commissioner Seamus Fermanagh. “Hizzoner sent me the instructions just before the phone system crapped out.”

The best and brightest of Fatlington were gathered in the convention center ballroom. The scene reminded a few of them of the meetings from ‘the last time.’ Then, some of these best and brightest had been meeting to decide the fate of others as a Committee of Vigilance. Dozens had died before the mafia had been brought to heel. It had all started with a meeting just like this one. A collective shiver ran through the room despite the sweltering heat.

Fermanagh wiped his face with a handkerchief. He’d begun his morning with doughnuts and coffee for nearly 3 decades, but it was a long while since he’d followed breakfast with 10 hours of walking a beat. The sweat was already through his shirts and working its way through the waistband of his trousers.

“We’re in for it again, and that’s no lie.”

Silence filled the room.

“Tosa and I, well, we’ve been hearing rumors that the epidemics are a put-up job to set the stage for another takeover effort by those eye-talyun scum. Nothing we can act on or convince the governor to stop the quarantine, but the story is too consistent from too many snitches. The loss of the phone lines pretty well confirms it.”

Fermanagh paused, looking over the figures in the room. A wealth of expressions – and non-expressions – played across the faces before him.

“We know their methods now – they infiltrate our best and brightest and then try to eliminate anyone that they can’t convince to join them in their scheme. Which means, of course, that the criminal scum who’ve started all this – who’ve killed dozens of people, many of them paying tourists for God’s sake – are right here in this room.”

Fermanagh paused a moment to let that sink in.

"Hizzoner has informed me that he’s re-instituting the Committee of Vigilance that saved us the last time. Some of you know how this works, but let me remind you all. Today, you’ll discuss and then select a Director of the Committee. Each day thereafter, you will vote to lynch the one among you who has proven themselves to be part of the mafia scum seeking to destroy us and we’ll keep lynching until we’ve ended the problem.”

Cries of “that’s insane” and “Fermanagh, stop the bull___” and one quiet “rats, not again” bounced around the room.

“Pipe DOWN!”

Fermanagh didn’t shout much, so when he did it worked – if only from the surprise value.

“Of course its hideous people, but experience has taught us that it – and pretty much nothing else – works. The director will get a squad of police to protect her or him during their duties – we will select a new director every other day – and of course the Director can’t vote except for their tie-breaking powers. My officers will pass around a sheet with the particulars on voting and the like.”

“Now, this burg is about ready to explode, so my officers and I are going to be hard pressed to keep order. I’ve a few secret detectives I’ve put in place to help you, and I hope they’ll get the information to you about who deserves the chop. But it’s going to be up to you to save us all. Get your heads together and then select someone.”

Only a few heard the muttered, “…pray for us sinners, now and at the hour…” that Fermanagh actually ended his speech with.

It would be a long, hot summer.





OOC:

All PMs have been sent. If you're missing one, PM me.

Apologies for the delay. Lots of PMs…..79 to be exact….


Vote to Select a Director for Days 2 & 3. Selections must be recorded in the thread no later than 0900 EST (1400 GMT) 5 February 2008.


So let it be said, so let it be written, so let it be done.

[Andres]

(Post 181)


"...And when Darkness
finally surrounds me now
All what remains is Silence
Into the Abyss you see"
-- Impending Doom


Sunset, Day One

The huge windows overlooking the boardwalk were uncovered, but no light streamed through. The sky was dark – no stars would shine tonight. Distant lightning lit the clouds, the cloud-to-cloud spikes of heat lightning – nothing that spoke of rain, of relief from the relentless heat.

The murmers died down as Fermanagh looked up from the pile of vote slips he’d been tallying.

“Well, that settles it,” said Chief Fermanagh, “with 13 votes out of 79, you’ve selected Andres AND Kommodus to stand as director for the Committee of Vigilance for the next two days.”

The meeting was hushed, but expectant. Everyone was breathing with that slow, conscious quality you get as the roller coaster heads up and over the top of that first long hill. Most were expressionless, a few openly worried. All wondered what this night would bring.

“Saints preserve us,” said Fermanagh, “this hasn’t happened before…”

He paused, considering, then flipped a coin…

“We’ll split the difference. Sergeant Muldoon! You and your 6 lads are to guard Kommodus tonight and to help him execute the sentence of the committee as he directs tomorrow sunset. You’ll then do the same for Andres on the following night. None of us are going to like this, but it must be done.”

The committee members filed slowly to the exits, only a few murmured conversations marring the silence, and walked out into the sweltering dark.

Night had come to Fatlington.



OOC:

Voting was a tie at 13, so each of the two will receive one night/day as director. Order determined at random.

All Night phase #1 (N1) PMs are due to me no later than 1300 EST 6 Feb 08 (1800 GMT). Night results posted as quickly thereafter as possible, so early PMs appreciated.

Selection Tally: (Edited, first formatting effort failed)

Andres = 13 (ajax, andres, beefy, craterus, crazed, hannibal, ichigo, jht, kami, sarathos, shlin, tran, zorg)

Kommodus = 13 (bsr, charge, ca, drisos, emm, hiji, ltp, moros, omanes, rythmic, taka, 'luster, xehh)

GeneralHankerchief = 6 (gh, joe, myrd, tiberius, tinc, 'blade)

Saskai Kojiro = 3 (sk, true, xiahou)

Ichigo = 2 (bks, kommo)

Leet Erikson = 2 (husar, leet)

Abstain = 2 (atpg, strange)

Solo Self Selection = 4 (FactionHeir, Kagemusha, Proletariat, Roadkill)

Single Selection (voter) = 10 (shlin28 (chimp), Big King Sanctphrax (gibson), TruePraaetorian (Glenn), Louis VI the Fat (kukri), Chimpyang (winter), Jubal_Barca (pann), Pannonian (pever), The Stranger (makan), Husar (sigurd), Beefy187 (w&f)).

Changed Selection = 6 (Fahad I to Kommodus (ca), GeneralHankerchief to TruePraetorian (glenn), Sasaki Kojiro to Leet Erikson (husar), Ichigo to Andres (ichigo), GeneralHankerchief to unselect (scott), abstain to Kommodus (xehh)).

No Selection = 23 (Caeser the III, Caius, Cowhead418, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Fahad I, Haudegen, Ironside, JimBob, Jubal_Barca, Killfr3nzy, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, molonthegreat, Motep, norwegian nerd, Northnovas, Rob_the_Celt, sapi, Warmaster Horus, x-dANGEr , Xdeathfire).

[Andres]

Night One Summary (post 304)


Beefy187 had kept his evening fairly low-key. After the selection meeting, he’d gone to his office, finished up a little paperwork and then headed to a corner “tappy” for a beer. After wetting his whistle, he walked back out into the muggy dark, turned the corner, and began the 3-block walk to his apartment.

He got about 20 feet, just approaching the trapdoors to the tappy’s cellar when two cars whipped up to the curb at his side, only feet away. Out popped 4 men in dark trench coats, with their soft-brimmed hats low over their faces and their hands cradling PPSh41’s. The Russian “burp gun” was a brutal looking weapon and all 4 were pointing at him as the gunmen pulled back the bolts and made ready to fire. Beefy was stunned, too scared to run, and hadn’t even begun to mutter a final prayer when…

<> <> <> <>

All four of the brutally simple and thoroughly reliable weapons failed to fire. The gunmen were stunned – the odds of all four weapons failing to fire defied description! Beefy began to move at last, scrambling to pull open the cellar door to the tappy and make an escape. The gunman cleared the bolts and quickly rammed fresh magazines into their weapons as Beefy opened the hatch and stepped onto the ladder to the cellar.

<> <> <> <>

Stunningly, all 4 freshly-loaded weapons jammed and failed to fire again. The gunmen were shocked with disbelief. No one could have tampered with the weapons and all of the ammo had been checked by hand and meticulously loaded into the clips – yet none of the weapons got off a round.

Beefy wasted no time dropping into the cellar and running pell-mell up to the bar with it’s barkeeper’s shotgun and plenty of witnesses. As he reached the tap-room, he heard the squeal of cars making a fast exit from the scene. Beefy’s pulse would slow down eventually, but he managed a few prayers at last as well as a few brews to steady his jangled nerves. He decided to go to an all-night café after the tappy closed. Alone didn’t seem to be such a good idea.


Drisos didn’t mind operating alone. He preferred it. He would work with others as needed , of course, but he was aware that the only person upon whom you could rely completely was yourself. Now he completed engaging the elaborate sequence of locks and alarms he used to secure his top-floor studio apartment. No one could hope to get through the doors or windows without making enough noise to wake the dead – and Drisos would be ready.

But he wasn’t ready when he awoke, his limbs tied to the posts of his bed and something covering his eyes.

"Hi Drisos", a voice with an Asian accent [false?] said.

"What's the problem pal?" said another voice. “You aren’t exactly gracious to guests with all your traps and stuff.”

The “Asian” chuckled, "Rook at him. He tinks he's sho cool!"

"I'm not afraid of you!" Drisos said, mustering up whatever defiance he could.

"You probabry sho cool that when you go to sreep, the sheep start to count you..."

The “Asian” guy and his partner laughed.

"Untie me you punks!” Drisos shouted.

The heavily silenced Type 14 Nambu pistol put a neat hole directly between Drisos’ eyes. He was dead before his ears could register the heavy coughing sound they had just heard.

“Sayonara, Drisos.”

The killer’s partner carefully lifted the small pink ballet slippers that had been used to cover Drisos’ eyes. The slippers were placed carefully in “1st position” just above the entry wound.

The killers made their escape the way that had come in, through the skylight. Though wired with a breakage alarm, Drisos had not expected someone to have had the roof around the skylight sawn open and hinges installed so as to turn the skylight into a trap door – all without interrupting the alarm circuit. Drisos was found the next morning when he did not answer his page for the meeting. Fermanagh’s “crack” investigators never discovered the recently re-tarred seams around the skylight.


Glenn had always been a bit excitable, and with the prospect of having to vote to lynch somebody, his heart was racing and he had trouble staying still. <> he thought, and began to walk up the street towards the Hotel Abbatoir and Fatlington’s poshest bar.

His walk there was anything but relaxing, with Glenn spinning at every stray sound or voice that seemed out of place. Finally, he was steps away from the hotel’s entrance when four dark figures stood up from the expensively landscaped bushes surrounding the hotel’s small entryway garden and flagpole – and all of them had tommy guns.

In the second before the gunmen opened fire, a nearby street pretzel vendor made two quick steps toward Glenn, lifted him bodily and flung him into the open bin of the pretzel cart. The gunman paused a moment, stunned by this unexpected event, as the carter slammed the cart’s lid shut and started rolling the cart toward the hotel doors. Then they opened fire.

Round after round from their submachine guns slammed into the cart but the cart was apparently both motorized and heavily armored and rolled itself through the doors of the Abbatoir and directly into the bar where it crashed up against the bar itself. The doorman was badly wounded as he accidentally came under fire from the gunmen as they kept tracking the cart with their weapons ratcheting out rounds. None of them focused any rounds on the carter, however, who took the opportunity to dropp into the driver’s seat of a cab waiting at the hotel front and speed off. With sirens blaring and witnesses beginning to look at the racket, the gunmen gave up their efforts and faded back into the sweltering darkness.

It took a bit of effort to extract a stunned Glenn from cart, stained with mustard and freshly rolled in salt, but Glenn was alive and more-or-less well because someone -- or several? – had been there to help. He never did get that drink.


Xdeathfire was having a quiet drink at an all-night coffee shop – he always claimed that the caffeine helped him sleep – when a trench-coated individual, face invisible below his hat, walked in and leveled a shotgun at Xdeathfire. Xdeathfire was up and moving for the back of the café before he’d even consciously thought about it. The first blast hit the booth where Xdeathfire had just been sitting, only a couple of pellets grazing his arm as he moved. The second blast caught the surprised busboy in the stomach as Xdeathfire headed toward the back exit. There was nobody waiting at the back exit, and Xdeathfire was moving quickly toward the police precinct house in the next block.

The gunman, realizing that things were not going according to plan, made a quick exit, dropping the shotgun in the drain. Nobody got a good look at the shooter.


Morning, Day Two

It was mid-morning and the heat was already oppressive. The convention center had air conditioning – a luxury that would normally have made the meeting a cheerful alternative to a sweaty day at the office. Today’s meeting featured a lot of quiet murmuring and more than a little apprehension. Today the Committee would embark upon its first effort to stop the mafia takeover. Today would be a beginning…and an ending.
Fermanagh hadn’t shaved and didn’t look as though he’d slept much or well. For a wonder, the top cop of Fatlington had been up before 7, at his desk by 8 and was here for the 10 o’clock meeting sober. Definitely a banner day for Fatlington’s finest. He went to the podium.

“Well now, before I turn the proceedings over to Director Kommodus, I’d like to brief you on the events of last night, just in case any of you haven’t already heard…”

He recounted the story of last night’s events in a reasonably business-like manner. Fermanagh wasn’t happy, and he’d stumbled a bit in announcing Drisos’ death, but he’d had to make less pleasant reports before – perhaps this time around would be less of a horror show. He shook his head. This was Fatlington, and rooting for “happily ever after” wasn’t much more likely than making four the hard way.

“So that’s it, and you can be assured that I’m having the morgue crew and the standard investigation teams take a good look into Drisos‘ background – we will get you some answers soon. As it is, I know you’ve got a decision to make, so I’ll turn it over to Kommodus and he’ll brief you as to our meeting this sundown….”

OOC
Investigations results and other results notification from Night One will be forwarded as soon as practical.

Votes to lynch must be recorded in the thread – in bold – no later than 2300 EST 7 Feb 08 (0400 GMT 8 Feb 8) to be counted.


Information Summary

Still Alive: (78) ajaxfetish, Alexander the Pretty Good, Andres, Beefy187, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, Chimpyang, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, FactionHeir, Fahad I, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, Glenn, Hannibalbarc, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KamiKhaan, Killfr3nzy, Kommodus, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Lord Winter, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makanyane, molonthegreat, Moros, Motep, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, Omanes Alexandrapolites, Pannonian, pevergreen, Proletariat, Roadkill, Rob_the_Celt, Rythmic, sapi, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, taka, The Stranger, Tiberius of the Drake, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Warmaster Horus, woad&fangs, x-dANGEr, Xdeathfire, Xehh II, Xiahou, Zorg.

Attacked: (3) Beefy187 (N1), Glenn (N1), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (1) Drisos (N1)

Lynched: (0)

Removed from Play: (0)

[Andres]

(Game Thread Post 729)

"Where is that Yankee ingenuity
Somebody told me how the motion picture would end
I turned and glared at them
And then I read the way the world was going to end
With a whimpering sound, not a banging away
I'm sorry I gave it away

I want a big surprise tonite
A really big surprise tonite"

-- Sparks



Sunset, Day Two

Kommodus gaveled the committee to silence. The voting session had been long and contentious, with claims and arguments bouncing around the room for more than an hour before the ballots were called for.

“I have counted the votes and that vote has been witnessed by three of the officers detailed to us by Chief Fermanagh. Having received,...”

Glenn, who’d been standing alone in the lavatory for 20 minutes stepped out into the room, his face pale and drawn, but quietly defiant. Kommodus paused and surveyed the now silent assembly.

“…Having received more votes than any other, it is the sentence of the Committee of Vigilance for Fatlington that pevergreen is to be executed.”

Glenn had just inhaled in preparation for one last defiant statement. He paused, visibly stunned at the change of events.

So was pevergreen. “That’s ludicrous!…”

Other voices broke in “It was a tie…he switched his vote late…wanted them both...what do you mean you abstained?!…”

“Count those slips again,” shouted pevergreen, “this is impossible.”

Somewhat stunned himself by the turn of events, Kommodus agreed to a re-count. This one was conducted with both Glenn and pevergreen physically restrained by Fermanagh’s muscle.

By one vote it would be Pevergreen who would die.

Kommodus led him to the table he’d prepared – or so he’d thought –- for Glenn. A sumptuous meal of fine steak, succulent lobster, exquisitely sauced summer vegetables and a perfectly sweetened cobbler of Jersey peaches for dessert. The wines accompanying each dish were of good quality – one of the finest restaurants in town had provided them – and much better than pevergreen had ever drunk.

To his credit, pevergreen worked at enjoying every morsel – offering a bite to any who wanted to enjoy the rich flavors. No one did. He commented on the flavor, and managed to down each bottle provided with its respective course.

Each course was laced with a progressively higher dose of strychnine. Fortunately for pevergreen, the wine had dulled the onset of the poisoning symptoms. The pain produced by each progressively harsher seizure was also lessened, so his groans were minimal. He had lost consciousness entirely before the grand mal seizure that killed him struck.

Somberly, the Committee adjourned, each member leaving the chamber to seek their own dinner. They stepped out into a steamy, moonless night, the air strangely still but charged with the energy of an impending storm. Nobody expected a restful night.



OOC

Wild one. nn's vote was technically late, but not decisive. Charge corrected me in post #615 as to his vote and Moros' abstention (which I read when I returned from work). I think the "tie" efforts were off after this.

Night PMs need to be in to me no later than 2330 EST 8 Feb 8.

I’ll wrap up the night summary as quickly as my weekend schedule allows. I’m projecting Day three to run from then until about 1400 EST on 10 Feb 8. We’ll try to keep to 24 hour sessions from there.


Final Vote Tally for Day Two session:

Glenn = 20 (Beefy187, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Crazed Rabbit, Elite Ferret, Glenn, Hannibalbarc, Husar, Ichigo, Joe Monks, Kagemusha, Kamikhaan, Kukrikhan, norwegian nerd*, pevergreen, Rythmic, Sigurd Fafnesbane, Tiberius of the Drake, Xehh II, & Xiahou)

Abstain = 11 (Alexander the Pretty Good, Chimpyang, Cowhead418, FactionHeir, Haudegan, Ironside, johnhughthom, Moros, Northnovas, Twilightblade, Xdeathfire)

Pevergreen = 21 (ajaxfetish, Charge, CountArach, Craterus, GeneralHankerchief, JimBob, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makayane, Myrddraal, Pannonian, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, Sarathos, scottishranger, The Stranger, TinCow, TruePraetorian, woad&fangs, Zorg)

Singles = 4 [Beefy187 (Shlin28), GeneralHankerchief (Omanes Alexandrapolites), molonthegreat (Tran), Sigurd Fafnesbane (Andres)].

Not Voting = 22 (Caeser the III, Caius, Draco Leman, Dutch_guy, Evil_Maniac from Mars, Fahad I, gibsonsg91921, Hiji, Jubal_Barca, Killfr3nzy, Kommodus {not allowed}, Leet Erikson, Lord Winter, molonthegreat, Motep, Roadkill, Rob_the_Celt, sapi, taka, Warluster, Warmaster Horus, x-dANGEr)

Dead = 1 (Drisos)

[Andres]

This is post 1004 in the main thread.


"Choose the players, choose the role
Cast of thousands, cast of few
Imagination decides the plot
Play the good guy, play the bad
Heres the victim, heres the saint
Heres the canvas, heres the paint

Good luck bad luck who knows
Good luck bad luck who knows"
-- Howard Jones



Night Two Summary


GeneralHankerchief had just stepped out of the cab when it happened. Before he could even straighten up fully he was staring into the barrel of a handgun – looking like a cannon to him from his viewpoint – so he stopped.

“Sit back in car prease,” said the masked gunman in a bad Asian accent.

GeneralHankerchief saw the cabby running up the block, and knew with a sinking certainty that he’d be sitting back down next to another gunman who’d entered from the street side and that this ride would be his last. He sat back down anyway – not much choice – while the first gunman went around to the driver’s seat.

GeneralHankerchief turned to see who the second gunman was. An empty seat? There was nobody else in the cab! Stunned, but not willing to miss a chance, Generalhankerchief bolted out of his door exactly as the “Asian” gunman climbed into the driver’s seat. He was 40 feet away and doging and weaving toward a crowd of tourists – currently arguing with two Fatlington cops about a parking ticket – when the gunman got a line on him with his weapon. The gunman paused.

It was too much of a distance for the silenced hand-cannon to stay accurate at a moving target and too many eyes and cops down range. The gunman made the professional choice, got in the cab quietly without any sudden motions, and drove away. GeneralHankerchief faded into the crowd.

Cowhead418 had a quiet dinner and headed back to his apartment. Heading up the stairs to the 3rd floor flat he was slammed into from above by somebody jumping over the landing railing above to hammer him down. He blacked out.

When he awoke, he found he had been carried into his apartment, bound, gagged and tied to a chair. On the table coffee table in front of him was a lit candle….and he could hear and smell the gas that was hissing from the stove in his kitchen. In moments the gas would rise to the level of the candle and…

A key fumbled in his lock and in came his batty landlady!

“That putz! He left the gas running and his pilot light is out. He’ll blow the whole block apart. It’s a lucky thing the movie was so bad, or I wouldn’t have come back for hours…”

Cowhead418 mumbled trying to get her attention. She never heard him. She did, however, stop the gas, turn on his window fan and leave his apartment, all the while never noticing him and muttering comments about his doubtful intelligence.

Cowhead418 took hours to smash the chair and extricate himself. Other than bruises from being dropped on, he was in good shape. He’d never be quite as frustrated with his dingbat landlady again.


Andres wasn’t expecting to be attacked as he stepped out of the restaurant – too many people and too bright an area – but his reactions were lightning fast when the trench-coated attacker began to level a shotgun at him. Andres spun and rolled, putting himself behind a marble bench at the restaurant entrance while Fermanagh’s police leaped forward – just a little late – to save the day. The attackers were professionals – they had escape routes ready – and quickly beat a retreat before the policemen could do more than form a protective cordon around Andres. Nobody had attacked a director before! But the protection around one is a bit hard to break through – even it Fermanagh didn’t do much else promptly or correctly.

taka was taking his usual drive home – a well lit street that was well patrolled and therefore safe – when his car was boxed in and stopped by several vehicles. In Fatlington, safe is a relative term.

Tommy guns were coming up and starting to hose lead almost as the vehicle ground to a halt. The range was less than ten feet and there was not a chance they would miss. Police were responding in under 30 seconds, sirens blaring and several cars converging on the scene, but in that half minute more than 300 rounds had been emptied from the drum magazines of the tommy guns. The assailant’s cars sped quickly into side streets and were quickly abandoned as the gunmen clear the scene.

To everyone’s surprise, taka stepped out of the vehicle with only one wound – a gouge along one cheekbone no deeper than a bad shaving cut. He was stunned as were the police. taka had worn no armor and the car had been a stock model, yet 354 rounds had failed to take him out.

Glenn was sitting at a café – his back to a brick wall – worried about his chances of making it to the next meeting and hoping that his protector would still be there. He heared a commotion at the back of the café and reached for a recently purchased revolver in his pocket.

The assailant burst into the café from the back, flinging two masked individuals aside to crash into the back booths and making stright for Glenn. Glenn fired two rounds quickly straight and true into the center of mass. The opponent slowed, grunted, and continued forward breaking a statue of St. Michael across Glenn’s temple. Glenn dropped back into his seat unconscious.

The assailant started to lift Glenn, only to stop when he heard the twin clicks of a double-barreled shotgun being cocked to fire.

“Leave him be,” said the lone gunman. The masked assailant paused, let go of Glenn, and sobbing ran from the front of the café. The shotgun wielder leaned down to Glenn, checked for a pulse – steady – and then left.

Glenn would suffer no more than a mild concussion, though he wouldn’t be free of his headaches for some time. The police never figured out the purpose of the van abandoned at the back of the café. In the back had been a sharp filleting knife, two large helium tanks, and 4 weather balloons with the legend “deu 32:35” printed on them.

Lord Winter was cagey – walking home to his apartment via the boardwalk so that he could be sure there were plenty of people around. It would not be enough. A section of boards collapsed beneath him dumping him onto the sand below where a masked figure clubbed him into unconsciousness.

He was injected with a lethal dose of heroin shortly thereafter – mostly to keep him unconscious as he faded out. He was tied, gagged and given a heavy set of cement boots – actually a galvanized tub filled with drying cement – and dropped into 20 feet of water at the end of the pier. He was, fortunately, dead from the overdose before he slipped under the water. His remains would never be found – except by the crabs.

Two groups of shadowy figures faced one another on the roofs and alleys surrounding JimBob’s apartment. Figures would catch a glimpse of one another and freeze, poised for action – but nothing happened. The only sound came from the radio blaring in Ajaxfetish’s apartment next door to JimBobs – “My Favorite Husband,” starring Lucille Ball – followed by a lot of music and then silence as everybody in the apartments got a restful night’s sleep. Neither group of shadow figures ever made a move.


Morning Day Three

Fermanagh was visibly confused and shame-faced at his report that morning. He recounted the events of the night before as summed up on the police blotter, but he botched things and had to do it twice – he’d even mentioned Andres as a murder victim! Andres had cleared his throat and Fermanagh had started over, finally getting it out clearly.

“We’re wrapping up our post-mortem review of Drisos and we have the other ones in the pipeline.”

Fermanagh was flustered, and probably happy that he was specifically excluded from the lynch candidates by Tosa’s instructions.

“Thanks SO much chief,” said Andres, “Now let me outline the procedures for this evenings vote and any punishments meted out…”



OOC

1. Voting will conclude at 1500 HRS EST, 11 Feb 08 (2000 GMT).

2. Please remember that in addition to any lynch votes, you must select a Director for days 4 & 5.

3. I’ll try to remember that the director actually receives protection the nights before their lynch vote chairings.

4. Here’s a Full list of players to date:

Still Alive: (76) ajaxfetish, Alexander the Pretty Good, Andres, Beefy187, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, Chimpyang, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, FactionHeir, Fahad I, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, Glenn, Hannibalbarc, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KamiKhaan, Killfr3nzy, Kommodus, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makanyane, molonthegreat, Moros, Motep, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, Omanes Alexandrapolites, Pannonian, pevergreen, Proletariat, Roadkill, Rob_the_Celt, Rythmic, sapi, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, taka, The Stranger, Tiberius of the Drake, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Warmaster Horus, woad&fangs, x-dANGEr, Xdeathfire, Xehh II, Xiahou, Zorg.

Attacked: (8) Beefy187 (N1), Glenn (N1, N2), Xdeathfire (N1), Andres (N2), taka (N2), GeneralHankerchief (N2), Cowhead418 (N2)

Murdered: (2) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2)

Lynched: (1) pevergreen (D2)

Removed from Play: (0)

[Andres]

Main thread post #1234 (reads like a trill!)

"Oh, when the sun beats down and burns the tar up on the roof
And your shoes get so hot you wish your tired feet were fire-proof
Under the boardwalk, down by the sea, yeah
On a blanket with my baby is where I'll be

(Under the boardwalk) out of the sun
(Under the boardwalk) we'll be havin' some fun
(Under the boardwalk) people walking above
(Under the boardwalk) we'll be making love
Under the board-walk (board-walk!)"
-- The Drifters


Sunset Day Three:

This voting session was every bit as contentious as the last with accusations flying thick and fast. Most of the accusations -- but by no means all -- had been leveled at Tiberius of the Drake. As the meeting drew to a close and the votes were put in the bin however, it appeared that a number of votes had shifted....

"While our selection for Director for Days 4 and 5 will be Louis VI the Fat by a clear plurality, I regret to inform you that Tiberius of the Drake and Hannibalbarca have each received twelve votes from the Committee," stated Director Andres. "It is therefore MY decision as to what steps to take from here...

[I]Andres paused -- a longish seeming pause -- and then spoke./I]

"The committee feels them to be equally guilty, then the shall suffer an equal fate. Hang them both."

Tiberius and Hannibalhad their hands tied behind their backs and were then frog marched from the room by Fermanaghs strongarms. Followed by the Committee who came to witness, they were both marched down to the loading dock at the side of the Convention center (the back faces the boardwalk). Heavy steel beams lined either side of the loading bay with a heavy railed crane slung between them to haul the sometimes heavy items brought into the Convention Center at the rail spur.

The crane had not been used since the last time Barnum and Bailey's had been in town. It was in use now. Two classic hemp nooses -- one recently put up -- were hanging from the cranes support arms. The two were take by ladder up to the beams, the nooses hauled up and tightly cinched about their necks. Neither was offered a hood.

At a signal from Andres, both were pushed from the support beams and dropped the 15 feet or so to the end of the ropes. Both necks snapped instantly -- since the fall was double that used by the prison system.

Tiberius hung their with his eyes bulging and tongue protruding, blood dripping from his nose. Hannibal's neckbones had ripped apart completely, his neck stretching to more than a foot long when, after a brief pause, his head tore free entirely in a spray of blood. Both body and head landed near each other on the loading bay floor.

"Tonight's proceedings are finished," said Andres. The committee slowly filed out.

The cleaning staff never could completely erase the stain.





OOC

Lynched = Hannibalbarca & Tiberius of the Drake.

Night Three has begun and will continue until 1400 EST 12 FEB 8 (1800 GMT).

I'll try to cycle the next day phase from then until 1000 on the 13th if I can.

Tallies:

To Lynch:

Hannibalbarca = 12 (BSR, CA, Cow, Joe, Kommo, Leet, Pan, Sasaki, Sigurd, True, W&F, Stranger)

Tiberius of the Drake = 12 (Ajax, Dutch, GH, Haudegan, Kage, Myrdd, Sara, Scot, shlin, TinC, X2, Zorg)

GeneralHankerchief = 7 (Husar, Ichi, Jubal, Louis, Mak, Omanes, Prole)

Abstain = 4 (ATPG, Griz, LtP, Rythm)

Glenn = 3 (Andres, CR, X)

Kagemusha = 3 (Caius, Charge, Glenn)

Pannonian = 2 (Jimbob,Tiberius)

Twilightblade = 2 (Chimp, Tran)

Andres = 1 (Hannibal)


To Select:

Louis VI the Fat = 14 (Ajax, Cow, CR, Glenn, Husar, Griz, Louis, LtP, Mak, Prole, Sara, Tiberius, TinC, X)

Kagemusha = 9 (Andres, Chimp, Crat, FH, Joe, Jubal, Kage, Kukri, NN)

Abstain = 4 (ATGP, CA, Tran, X)

Beefy187 = 2 (Kommo, shlin)

Husar = 2 (Beefy, Leet)

A couple of others had one vote, often an auto-vote.

[Andres]

This is main thread post #1316

“Take a good look at yourself.
Your eyes always glaring always comparing
you can't stop your starring because there's always something wrong
Pull apart my heart, Scratch out my soul
Silence my dreams, When you see fit
This blood feud of chains and ice,
This blood feud has gone on too long
Cast your judgement somewhere else
Cast your judgement on yourself
Burn my idols but what about yours”
-- Xdisciplex


Summary, Night Three


taka was just a bit paranoid this evening. But is it really paranoia if they ARE out to get you? He’d gotten himself a car with a driver/guard and bullet resistant armoring. He now carried a revolver and wore a bulletproof vest – trusting to luck twice is pushing it – and the driver varied his route home. He needn’t have bothered.

At a stoplight, a loaded gravel truck rammed taka’s stopped car from behind. Since the vehicle he’d stopped behind was also a loaded gravel truck, taka’s armored ride was crunched and mangled and completely immobilized. taka was knocked senseless.

The gravel truck drivers exited their trucks – they had been prepared for the collision – and using the 10-gallon containers they’d brought with them started dousing taka’s car with gasoline, pouring it into the car wherever a crack in the armor, chassis, or glass made this possible. The guard/driver attempted to smash the broken driver’s window and exit the vehicle but was stopped by a third man who pushed the muzzle of a shotgun through the window crack the driver had been trying to enlarge and pulped his face with two blasts of a shotgun. The gasoline was all poured when the third man tossed in a lit match. Waking up in a panic, taka tried to use his gun to get out. It didn’t work. taka died screaming.


Caius was researching at the Fatlington Public Library when the attack came. Shadowy figures blocked every exit from that section of the stacks – all of them with silenced pistols. Caius glanced around, terror spiking adrenalin through his system. The only door not occupied by an armed shadow figure was the one to the back stairwell.

<> thought Caius. <>

He crept over next to the door, hoping against hope that he’d be able to overpower this attack and make a break for it. The door opened slowly.

Caius slammed the encyclopedia he’d been reading into the head of the… <> thought Caius? The librarian had gone down like she’d been hit by a tree; the noise bringing the other gunmen forward into the stacks. Caius made a break down the stairs and got away from the Library. He had no idea why the stairwell had been uncovered, but he was more than willing to take advantage of the attacker’s miscue.


Beefy187 pushed through the crowd in the taproom to make his exit and head home. He checked carefully as he exited, but things seemed clear. He was two blocks toward home when a bright light struck his vision. His night vision shot, he couldn’t see anything but vague shadows.

“Don’t move,” said a husky voice.

“What do you want,” asked Beefy?

“Check your pocket.”

He did. A book? Someone had slipped a book into his pocket as he left the bar. He fished it out and it opened to a marked page. It was a Bible, and a passage from Exodus had been circled: “Keep thee far from a false matter; and the innocent and righteous slay thou not: for I will not justify the wicked.”

Said the voice from the dark, “Exodus 23:7.”

“Can you turn off that light,” asked Beefy. He wasn’t sure what this mysterious figure wanted.

“Well, you’re NOT on the road to Damascus, so yes.”

An object whistled out of the dark, blocking part of the intense light and struck Beefy in the head. He went from light to dark in an instant.

It took Fermanagh’s team a while to find the body. Beefy187 had been quartered and floated off on four different weather balloons. The pieces, caught in trees or on roof antennae, took some time to collect. Each of the pieces had been stripped and painted with the number “216” painted on the chunk. The marked bible was found rubber-banded into Beefy’s left hand.


Evil_Maniac from Mars had gone home quietly, as he had the other nights. He was a fastidious fellow, for the most part, and definitely preferred his own cooking to that of the local restaraunts.

The attack came through both the front and back doors at once. The first attacker was met by a frying pan and hot oil flung his direction as he leveled his pistol. The attacker ducked, but never got off the shot. His jump carried him into the second assailant at the back door, knocking them both off their feet.

Evil dove down the cellar stairs, bolting the door behind him. He’d made it to the phone and dialed the operator by the time the men upstairs had started to break it down with a table – it was not your average interior door – but the men retreated when they’d heard the sirens.

Evil breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head. If the attackers had been only a bit better organized….


In restrospect, Zorg might have made it if he’d had less to drink with dinner. He’d stopped in the men’s room on the way out the door – checking to make sure nobody was in there. He hadn’t quite finished recycling some of his beverages when gunfire erupted through the door, showering the room with splinters, ricochets, and the last of his recycling effort – it’s hard to keep one’s aim true when attacked by surprise.

Still, he might have made it save for the small bathroom window. The window was too small to escape from but plenty large enough to admit a bundle of German-style stick grenades. He bled out before the ambulance crew arrived. The presence of a single perfect yellow rose was never explained.


Andres was exiting his favorite restaurant at about the same time – with nearly the same greeting awaiting him. He hadn’t gone two steps when someone across the small street opened up on him with a tommy gun. Andres had seen the glint of the muzzle as the weapon came up and – reacting quickly – sought cover. At that very moment a LaSalle rolled up to the curb and stopped in front of Andres, giving him the cover he needed.

The shooting went on for a little while, but Andres was well protected behind the motor block of the car. Andres looked around for a flanking attack, for a second gunman, but nobody materialized. With sirens wailing nearby, the gunman had faded into the shadows.

Only one of the cars screeched to a stop near Andres, the other one – and an ambulance – were headed to a different scene. When Andres stood to check on and thank the driver, there was nobody in the car.


Pannonian never actually knew what hit him. He’d been standing at the trolley stop – surrounded by plenty of potential witnesses and with a Fatlington police officer standing behind him. He only had a moment to register that the trolley car was coming toward the stop WAY too fast when the police officer “accidentally” bumped into him from behind. He was shoved into the path of the Trolley, which hit him doing more than 60 miles-per-hour. He landed hard and his neck snapped – there was little pain. The empty trolley never stopped until the end of the line.

The police officer made his way quickly to Pannonian’s corpse to see if he could “help.” Nobody saw him place the little pink ballet shoes in “3rd position” on Pannonian’s corpse, and nobody could identify him moments later when the real police showed up.


The Stranger was following his daily routine of taking a midnight stroll through the park – though perhaps a little more cautiously than usual -- when he felt a sharp pain stab his neck.

<> he thought. But the pain didn’t quite go away and his vision started to blur. He leaned against a bench, his balance suddenly chancy. <> he wondered, his mind not forming the thoughts easily.

”For you, The Stranger, death will no longer be a stranger,” said a deep voice from the shadows, chuckling at his own horrid pun.

The Stranger collapsed, never to awaken. His head was placed in a wire noose, the number “4” painted on his chest, and a crosses cut deeply into either cheek. When the weather balloon that had been attached to the noose was released his head was half severed and he shot up through the trees of the little park by the beach. Had The Stranger not been caught by the thick summer foliage of the tallest tree, it is hard to say if his body would ever have been recovered.


GeneralHankerchief was not in the mood to be trusting. His bungalow was pretty solidly built and he’d decided to have a last drink for the evening while sitting in a comfy chair – with his back to a wall and a gun sitting on the armrest.

“Always be prepared,” he said, quoting the boyscout motto while toasting himself.

But he wasn’t prepared when the wall of the bungalow itself – followed by a Packard – came crashing towards him. Stunned and pummeled by brick, glass, and beams, he couldn’t defend himself -- but against all the odds he didn't have to. Just as the attackers exited the car, the floor beneath GeneralHankerchief collapsed.

GH fell into the sandy bottom of the hole only to have a section of the bungalow roof above him cover the hole like a hatch. He wasn't much more than scratched and bruised. The police would be hours digging him out, and the attackers were long since gone, but at least he'd acquired a new -- albeit pretty banged up -- Packard as a trade in for his Bungalow.


Glenn hid nervously in his apartment, wondering his time was up. Sure he felt a little paranoid – who wouldn’t after the last couple of days he’d had. Checking his locks and perimeter once more, Glenn climbed into bed to try to get some sleep.

He was not prepared for the explosion. Dynamite, secreted into the floor beneath his bed, smashed his bedroom and bed into kindling, bringing the whole assemblage down into the bedroom of the apartment beneath his and stunning the two hooded and trench-coated people who had been waiting in that room as well as leaving Glenn half-deaf and immobile.

A cloaked figure entered the room, carefully thumping the hooded men with a statue to make sure they wouldn’t interfere.

”You deserve more pain than a quick death for your heresy,” said the figure. “But needs must…” He jabbed a syringe into the dazed Glenn, who quickly faded into unconsciousness.

“You can stop this right now,” said another man just entering the room, hat low over his face and a shotgun held tightly in gloved hands. “Your shadow is about to be ‘lit up.’”

“My path is like shining light, that grows in brilliance till perfect day,” said the figure who had stabbed Glenn as he lobbed the statue at the gunman.

The gunman fired, shattering the statue, but never got off a second shot. The syringe, flung just after the statue, had found its mark in the gunman, who dropped without a sound. The dark figure lifted Glenn over his shoulders and made off into the night.

Glenn awoke just before dawn, pulled back into consciousness by the searing pain in his stomach. He couldn’t move. Each of his limbs had been pinned to the flat tarred roof of some building, held down with what looked like horseshoes that had been hammered into the roof. The pain in his lower abdomen was a searing fire, and his left hand felt sore.

His eyes shifted. His hand held the tether of some kind of huge weather balloon, his grip rapidly weakening as he held back the massive lift – yet somehow he knew he shouldn’t let go. On the back of his left hand three lines had been written: “Jeremia, then below that 48:10, and immediately below that the numbers LQKI.” It made no sense. The burning pain grew even more intense. Glenn blinked, weakening, and let go the tether.

Released at last, the weather balloon shot skyward. It’s tether, simple rope at first, had been securely knotted to the severed end of Glenn’s large intestine. The balloon unreeled his viscera at a rapid pace disemboweling him as it raced skyward. As it hit the limit of its new “tether,” the balloon pulled free and floated far and away – away from Fatlington. The “rope” returned to the general vicinity of its dying owner.

Fermanagh’s team had hit the “dry heaves” stage by the time they were able to process the crime scene.


Morning, Day Four:


Fermanagh looked horrible, like he'd been dry-heaving his guts to get ready for his report. He went through the night's events in a numbed fashion, then paused.

"I have to reveal now that I've known Drisos' identity all along, though my team researched everything just to be sure," said Commissioner Fermanagh. "Drisos was a Fatlington detective, and a damned good one. I don't know how those mafia scum found out about him, but I hope you send every last one of them to Hell."

Fermanagh stormed out of the room, visibly shaking. Director Louis VI the Fat took over the meeting, explaining the procedures that would be used at the sunset gathering later.



OOC

Sorry this took so long, but I think you can see why. I'll take a dinner break and then start passing out results PMs.

1. Voting for the Day 4 Lynch will conclude at 2000 HRS EST, 13 Feb 08 (0100 next day GMT). Louis is director and should PM me the particulars to be used.

2. Here’s a Full list of players to date:

Still Alive: (68) ajaxfetish, Alexander the Pretty Good, Andres, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, Chimpyang, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, FactionHeir, Fahad I, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KamiKhaan, Killfr3nzy, Kommodus, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makanyane, molonthegreat, Moros, Motep, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, Omanes Alexandrapolites, Proletariat, Roadkill, Rob_the_Celt, Rythmic, sapi, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Warmaster Horus, woad&fangs, x-dANGEr, Xdeathfire, Xehh II, Xiahou.

Attacked: (12) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Caius (N3), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Xdeathfire (N1), taka (N2), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Cowhead418 (N2)

Murdered: (8) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3)

Lynched: (3) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3)

Removed from Play: (0) Note: this will begin changing soon.

[Andres]

(post #1655 in the main thread)

"Becoming weary of your lies
You disguise the truth belies
Only fooling yourself
Pretend to bite the hand that feeds
But you won't discard your security
The transparency of your fantasy"
--Napalm Death


Sunset, Day Four

Louis VI the Fat was just about to gavel open the session when Commissioner Fermanagh strode into the room and up to the podium. After a hurried discussion with Louis, he spoke to the Committee.

“I’ve got some bad news folks. Three more of the committee were found dead today. No foul play is suspected, but we found the bodies of Fahad I, Killfr3nzy, and x-dANGEr on the beach just an hour ago. It appears they’d been drinking and fell asleep on the beach. All of them appear to have died of sunstroke. I’ll have the teams check to be sure of course, but for now this appears to be a simple tragedy.”

Louis hammered the gavel into the podium and began the session as Fermanagh exited.

If yesterday’s session had been contentious, this one would best be described as viscious. Accusations flew and evidence claims were made and even the Director claimed to know who the real criminals were. In the end, however, it all came down to a scribbled set of much crossed out and re-worked ballots.

Fermanagh’s team checked Louis’ tally carefully. In the end, it came down to one name.

“Omanes has been deemed guilty by the vote of this committee,” said Louis. He turned to Omanes, who had been quickly pinioned by two of Fermanagh’s guards. “How would you like to die Omanes?”

Omanes stared at Louis but made no reply.

“Cat got your tongue? Taken a vow of silence? How about this for an answer?”

Louis nodded to Corporal Muldoon who walked to Omanes, pulled out his service pistol, placed it against Omanes’ chest and pulled the trigger three times. Omanes blanched, but did not scream and did not fall from the grasp of the two officers. He simply stared at the ceiling and quietly bled to death.

The Committee started for their homes and another long hot summer’s night.


OOC

1. A long and tough review of votes folks. This review was NOT, I repeat, NOT helped by the folks who edited their votes against the rules. Changed votes MUST be in a new post. DO NOT DO THIS AGAIN or sunstroke will achieve pandemic proportions.

2. Night 4 PM deadline is changed to 0800 EST 15 February (1300 GMT).

3. Vote Tally Day Four

Abstain = 9 (Haudegan, Ironside, Kukri, Grizzly, Mak, nn, Sara, w&f, Xehh II)

Omanes = 9 (Chimp, Count, gibson, Hiji, Kami, Lt.P, North, Scottish, TinCow)

GH = 8 (ajax, dutch, husar, omanes, prole, sigurd, True, Xiahou)

Dutch = 6 (Andres, BSR, Caius, Charge, Kage, Kommo)

Andres = 5 (Crate, Rabbit, FH, GH, Sasaki, Warluster)

Sigurd = 3 (Elite Ferret, Ichigo, Tran)

Xdeathfire = 1 (shlin28)

4. List of Players:

Still Alive: (64) ajaxfetish, Alexander the Pretty Good, Andres, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, Chimpyang, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, FactionHeir, GeneralHankerchief, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KamiKhaan, Kommodus, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makanyane, molonthegreat, Moros, Motep, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, , Proletariat, Roadkill, Rob_the_Celt, Rythmic, sapi, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Warmaster Horus, woad&fangs, Xdeathfire, Xehh II, Xiahou.

Attacked: (12) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Caius (N3), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Xdeathfire (N1), taka (N2), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Cowhead418 (N2)

Murdered: (8) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3)

Lynched: (4) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4)

Removed from Play: (3) Fahad I, Killfr3nzy, x-dANGEr

[Andres]

Main thread post #1745

"Babys black balloon makes her fly
I almost fell into that hole in your life
And youre not thinking about tomorrow
cause you were the same as me
But on your knees"
-- Goo Goo Dolls


Summary, Night Four

Proletariat left the wine bar that evening in good spirits, a gentle sense of euphoria – and her trusty umbrella -- carrying her through the rain in comfort. Though it was a dark and stormy night, darkness held little terror for Proletariat, and she refused to let the threat hanging over everyone in Fatlington prevent her from living her life as she wished. With a firm step, she turned toward the little park near the end of the boardwalk, intending to talk a brief walk among the trees and walk home on the boardwalk with its view of the dark Atlantic.

As she left the park and climbed the stairs to the boardwalk, she felt a stinging sensation in her neck. She grabbed quickly at the spot, only to find what appeared to be a sharpened dart with a single, perfect yellow rose attached. Proletariat knew what was coming, and ran for home. Amazed to have outrun whoever was pursuing her, she gratefully slammed the door and bolted it behind her. Then she thought about her neck.

<>

Turning over the dart in her hand, Prole’ noticed that the small yellow rose to find it rolled in some sort of paper. She unrolled it -- it seemed to go on forever – but finally came to a simple message. "JUST KIDDING" was written in bold letters.

<>

But she never finished the thought. She heard the hissing, smelled chloroform and then…

Proletariat awoke an hour or so later back in her favorite little park. Her head was resting on a pillow and someone had erected a tarp to shield her from the rain. As she looked around, the scene got even weirder. The tree nearest her had been defaced with a message carved into the bark, "Blessings are for the head of the just, but a rod for the back of the fool," her feet were stapled to the ground with what appeared to be horseshoes and her neck was clenched in a wire noose attached to a – deflated – weather balloon.

After freeing herself from the noose – someone had thoughtfully cut the ropes binding her hands – Proletariat noticed that the balloon had been deflated with a shotgun just before it would have yanked her upright to her death. She couldn’t make much sense of what was written on the balloon – “ncetnoni” – but she was grateful for whomever, or whatever, had saved her from a grisly death. It would be an hour before she could pry up the “staples” holding her in place.


Twilightblade was riding home after dinner – though it wasn’t an easy drive. The threatened rain had finally come and he could barely see 100 yards ahead. He was just about at the middle of the block when a car spun across the mouth of the far intersection blocking the entire street. Twilightblade slammed on the brakes. A quick glance in his rearview mirror revealed another car turning to block the intersection through which he’d just come.

<> thought T’blade. <>

Twighlightblade got out of the car but left the motor running. Drenched and ducking for cover, he could just make out the sedan blocking the mid-block alley on the passenger side. He turned.

The alley on his side was empty? ‘Blade didn’t wait to ponder why, he just pelted through the rain and puddles into the alley and away from the ambush. With the rain and poor visibility, he was a shadow after 10 seconds and gone in the next. When his car was retrieved early the next morning, Twilightblade noticed that it had been “keyed.” Someone had been just a little frustrated.


Kommodus was just a bit “defensive” this evening. He carried a .38 snub-nose as an equalizer and sported a sturdy bulletproof vest under his coat. It was beastly hot, even with the rain pounding down, but the protection was worth it. He worked his way back to his row home with a careful attention for his surroundings – awareness was the best defense. When the Fedora-clad figure stepped out from behind the stairs of the row home two houses up, even shadowed by the drenching rain, Kommodus was ready.

“Kommodus, you’re a filthy crook and its time to stand trial.”

Kommodus clicked off the safety on the .38, but kept it concealed. “Trial? Who the heck are you,” he said.

“I? The jury.” The stranger brought a gun up quickly, but Kommodus was every bit as fast with his snub. Both fired at the same time and both hit smack-dab in the center of mass. The stranger grunted and staggered back. Kommodus slammed back into the banister of the stairwell he’d just passed.

<> thought Kommodus. The impact had broken ribs and he could feel a sharp searing pain in his left lung. Try as he might he couldn’t steady the snub for a second shot. The stranger stepped closer, breathing hard but coming forward.

“Nice shot, Kommo,” he grunted. “Too bad you prefer a lady’s gun.”

The stranger leveled his .577 Webley with both hands and shot Kommodus in the knee, shattering it and causing quick pulses of blood from a torn vein. Kommodus cut off the short scream, he’d let escape – desperately trying to regain control. He was woozy from the blood loss, both internal and external, and dropped the .38.

A .38 snub-nose was hardly a “lady’s gun” but the Webley fired a truly massive slug that could transmit lots of damage even through armor. Apparently, the stranger’s vest was more than ready for a .38 slug but Kommodus’ came up short against the .577.

“Say Goodnight Gracie,” said the stranger, mimicking George Burns. A carefully aimed shot hit the listless Kommodus in the neck, immediately below the adam’s apple, and the impact of the mushrooming bullet actually severed his head. The head bounced down the steps against which Kommodus had been leaning to roll into the rain-filled gutter. Nobody on the entire block admitted to seeing a thing.


Moros made only one mistake – he used the elevator. One of the most wonderful modern conveniences, the elevator gave everyone access to all 4 floors of the Public Library without the huffing and puffing entailed by several flights of stairs. It also put Moros in a confined space with only one exit.

He never really knew what hit him. His arrival had been announced by a beautiful brass dial pointing to the elevator’s current floor and a polite little as the elevator reached the main level. The “potato masher” grenades had been allowed to “cook off” for a couple of seconds so they were more or less perfectly timed to go off just after being tossed into the elevator in the sumptuous Victorian lobby of the Library. The elevator would be unavailable for service for some time. A single perfect yellow rose made a striking contrast sitting gently on Moros’ torn body.


Xiahou and Sapi were in the midst of a conversation. Sapi seemed reluctant to go along with whatever Xiahou was proposing – but that wouldn’t matter much longer. Using the heavy rain along with trench coats and wide brimmed hats to shield their idenity, 3 gunmen stepped forward and – despite a dozen potential witnesses – pulled up tommy guns and shotguns to attack Xiahou.

Xiahou was hit several times quickly, but still managed slide across a park car and seek cover on the far side of the engine. His assailants closed the distance. Next, from across the street, another brace of gunmen opened fire with what appeared to be Browning auto-rifles. No one would ever be sure who killed Xiahou. He was hit from both directions at once as he staggered for the safety of an open doorway. Wounded more than a dozen times, he bled out before the ambulance could arrive.

The ambulance couldn’t do anything for Sapi either. He hadn’t been hit and wasn’t even targete. Unfortunately, as he backed horror-struck into the street away from the shooters, he’d placed himself in front of a large delivery truck that was already screeching to a halt to avoid the gunfire. It stopped short of the line of fire, but not of Sapi. He broke both legs and his neck in the impact, landing face down in the rain-filled gutter. Paralyzed from the neck break and unable to scream, he drowned in 4 inches of water.


<> thought Proletariat. She’d developed a taste for the stuff while serving a stint as a nurse during the first year of the occupation. Tonight had been horrific enough to where she needed her own brand of comfort food along with just a bit of sake – at the proper temperature. She called Yoshioka-san – there was exactly one authentic Japanese style resteraunt in Fatlington, the Backroom at Yoshi’s tap house where a priviledged few were served the cuisine they’d come to love – and asked to come by for a very late dinner.

Nearly 2 hours later, Proletariat was walking through a dark and quiet Fatlington, a little apprehensive to be out again on her own, but warmed by the glow of warm sake and delicate sashimi. The desire for sushi makes one take strange chances – and in this case a dangerous chance.

She was nearly home when she saw a man standing in front of her apartment house, carrying what looked like at least half a dozen red and green balloons. She gave a little gasp as her warm dinner suddenly surged in a desire to reverse course.

<>

Proletariat forced herself to steady. Her right hand rested on the semi automatic in her coat pocket – thumbing off the safety. It was locked and loaded (she’d taken to leaving a round chambered) and she was a good shot. If this man meant harm, she’d do what was needful.

”Care for a balloon, miss,” said the stranger spoke, with a difficult to place European accent? “I’d suggest a green one, matches your eyes perfectly!”

“No. Now step aside.”

“Ma’am,” said the stranger questioningly, his face assuming a “hurt puppy-dog” look. “A red one perhaps?”

“Get that f…” Prole caught herself. Surely this man meant no harm? He certainly looked harmless enough. Plus, nothing a shot to the head wouldn’t solve.

“I find I don’t like balloons much, anymore. No thank you.”

”With my compliments then,” said the man, extending a green balloon her way. Prole involuntarily backed up a few steps, taking her into the street.

Some 70 yards away, a pale man waiting in his car saw Proletariat back into the street, gunned the engine and slammed the car into gear. << Can’t believe it’s almost over,>> the driver thought. <> The car quickly ate the distance between itself and Prole.’

Prole glance at the car, then noticed that the balloon salesman was blocking the space between cars she’d just come through – she was trapped! Prole cleared her semi automatic smoothly, but it was too late. She heard the “balloon” salesman shouting “Sayonara” as she turned to take a desperate shot at the car.

Which slammed to a sudden and unexpected stop less than 50 feet away. Somehow, someone in a car only 30 feet away had nudged the nose of their vehicle into the street just in time to absorb the killing impact meant for Proletariat.

The balloon salesman flung his change belt at Proletariat as a distraction and ducked into the doorway of the store they’d been standing near. A planned escape route got him safely away. The driver of the kill car, cursing failure, slammed his car into reverse before Proletariat could get off a clear shot and made it out of sight. The car was abandoned shortly thereafter. Prole’ never saw the driver who’d blocked her death. She went home to spend a sleepless night.


Waffles. GeneralHankerchief loved them. The rich buttery taste, the way they soaked up the sweetly bitter maple syrup. Today must begin with waffles, he thought. He was up before dawn, still night at least technically, and on his bike and headed down the boardwalk to his favorite breakfast haunt. Last night’s drenching rain had given way to clear sky and slightly cooler weather. He would be the first customer of the day for a change, but then again maybe not – no one in Fatlington was sleeping well these days. He was about halfway up the boardwalk when his bike lurched and ground to a quick mushy stop.

<> thought GH! “Always be prepared” he said out loud, chuckling.

He always had a pump with him – his waffling need not be interrupted. As he knelt on one knee to fix the tire, a friendly voice spoke from behind:

"Perhaps you need a little more "air."

A quick pinprick sensation in his neck and GH was suddenly fumbling, moving too slowly to counter the threat. His hands were yanked behind him and quickly handcuffed together. Barely able to stand he offered no resistance when the wire noose was flung over his head.

The voice quietly chucked, then spoke. “This pump is much better then yours.” GH could barely make out the face of the man now staring rapturously at the auto inflation pump he was engaging – a powerful compressed gas transfer tool. It was….

An auto-inflation tank quickly filled the weather balloon to capacity, taking GeneralHankerchief skyward while strangling him. It took him several minutes to die, slowly strangling as the first true rays of dawn reflected off his faintly struggling form and the bright, silver balloon. His death did spare him the pain he would have felt when, after a trip of more than a mile, his body was impaled on one of the long brass horns of the gargoyle/drain spouts atop the Hotel Abbatoir. He hung there in the sun for some time.

The balloon had been carefully stenciled with the legend Matt. 12:31
The police found GH's bike in the same spot he left it, except for the little bicycle pump, that now had a neatly printed little card attached reading “16 over 100.” This tidbit of evidence was, of course, mis-placed by one of Fermanagh’s “crack” detectives – apparently anyone with a working brain was already undercover. It was found, hours later and returned to the evidence locker….with a patrol shift’s doughnut order on the back. Ah…Fatlington.


Morning, Day Five.

<> thought Fermanagh. <>

“So anyway, the results on pevergreen indicate that he was some kind of criminal – a WiseGuy is the term we kept hearing – but wasn’t know to be part of one of the reputed crime families. He was said to be affiliated with all sorts of shady groups. I say we’re better off without him.”

“Lord Winter, on the other hand, was just what he appeared to be – an innocent Fatling who got murdered by the mafia scum who are terrorizing us all. I implore you to hang them all higher than Haman!”

Fermanagh left the room. Louis reminded everyone about the procedures for the evening meeting and further reminded that a Director – not necessarily a new one – should also be selected today.



OOC

1. Voting for lynch and Selection of Director for Days 6 & & commences. All votes need to be recorded in this thread by 1200 EST 16 Feb 08 (1700 GMT).

2. NO EDITED VOTES WILL BE TOLERATED. YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE THE VOTING PROCESS IF YOU DO.

3. List of Players:

Still Alive: (59) ajaxfetish, Alexander the Pretty Good, Andres, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, Chimpyang, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, FactionHeir, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KamiKhaan, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makanyane, molonthegreat, Motep, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Roadkill, Rob_the_Celt, Rythmic, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Warmaster Horus, woad&fangs, Xdeathfire, Xehh II.

Attacked: (15) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Caius (N3), Cowhead418 (N2), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Proletariat (N4, N4), taka (N2), Twilightblade (N4), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (12) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4)

Lynched: (4) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4)

Removed from Play: (4) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4)

4. Investigation results and the like posted as time permits.

[Andres]

This is main thread post #1908

“I can feel no sense of measure
No illusions as we take
Refuge in young man's pleasure
Breaking down the dreams we make
Real
Ah leave it
Ah leave it
Goodbye goodbye goodbye bad
Hello hello heaven
Goodbye goodbye goodbye bad
Hello hello heaven
One down one to go
Another town and one more show”
--Squire/Rabin/Horne


Sunset, Day Five

All of these meetings seemed fractious now. Arguments would rage back and forth, accusations and dismissals were flung about with abandon. In the end, it always came down to a vote…

"Andres do you have any last words?" Louis VI the Fat asked.

"Indeed I do! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the star of tonight:

The Stracci family's most talented singer:

Andres!"



"Thank you, thank you! I have another song ready for you, my favourite audience."



"I like that enthousiasm! Kudos to Vaya con Dios for the original version of this wonderful song. Ladies an gentlemen, may I have your attention for "Stracci, don't cry for Louis."




He gave up all my friends
My friends from out of town
Bought himself what he wanted
Yes he let us down
When he saw me crying
He said I was a wuss
When my heart was bleeding
He turned around and laughed
Stracci's don't cry for Louis
Louis wouldn't cry for you
When you walk the streets for Louis
You better watch out for what Louis tells you
I met Louis on a hazy morning
When the bars where closing down
He said Andres I really like your family
You and I we'll burn this town
This traitor, sir, mislead me
Hurt me in my pride
Who are you to judge me?
Who are you to take his side?
He cheated on me mister
Told me nothing but lies
I just had to teach him
Not to overstep the line
Stracci don't cry for Louis
He wouldn't waste a tear on you
When you walk the streets for Louis
You ain't walking down no avenue
I met Louis on an early morning
In a sleazy part of town
I was tipsy and feeling kind'a lonely
Louis offered me his arm
He said: you and I we'll burn this town
He said: you and I we'll burn this town





Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you





You're a fantastic audience!





Thank you so much! Thank y...

*BANG*

Andres fell down, a bullet in his head marking the end to his musical extravaganza with a .38 caliber grace note. Muldoon seemed happy to oblige Louis again, but the Committee was surprisingly dismayed by the sudden end to the entertainment. Some even shouted their dismay!

"Enough of this! What's wrong with you townspeople? This was a dirty mafia scumbag, yet you all love him?"

Louis rolled his eyes in disgust.

"I handed you the Stracchis on a platter and you barely vote for their lead killer over me? You are NOT getting it people. Wake up!"

"Here, maybe you can knock some sense into them," said Louis, handing the gavel to JimBob.

"Kill him!" several in the crowd yelled, "Kill the director!"

"Fools!" the director yelled at them. "Idiots! He was a natural born killer! A danger for this town! Gah! How could you still even have considered to let him live?"

The cursing director had to be escorted by his bodyguards to a safe spot, the charged up and semi-irrational crowd still yelling and screaming for his blood and arguing over who would be lynched next.

It would clearly be another restful night...


...not.


OOC

As noted, night PM deadline is 2200 EST 17 Feb 08. I’ll keep as up to schedule as I can.

Tallies:

Lynch Vote:

Andres = 18 (Caius, Charge, Cowhead, Craterus, Elite, Haudegen, Hiji, Husae, Ironside, Kukrikhan, Pinard. Makanyane, Myrddraal, Proletariat, Rythmic, Sasaki, Sigurd, woad&).

Louis VI = 14 (Ajax, Arach, Dutch, Faction, Ichigo, Jimbob, Joe, Jubal, Northnovas, Sarathos, Scottish, TinCow, Tran, True).

Abstain = 2 (Grizzly, Kagemusha)

Sasaki = 2 (Andres, Shlin)

Xdeathfire = 1 (Rabbit).


Director Selection:

JimBob = 17 (Ajax, Charge, Cowhead, Rabbit, Haudegen. Hiji, Ironside, JimBob, Joe, Kukrikhan, Louis, Pinard, Makanyane, North, Proletariat, Rythmic, Shlin).

Sasaki = 6 (Arach, Jubal, Sarathos, Sasaki, Scottish, TinCow).

TinCow = 4 (woad&, Tran, elite, Caius).

Several other self-selections were made.

[Andres]

Main thread post #1957

…Ashes, ashes
We all fall down.
-- Nursery Rhyme


Night Five Summary


Kamikhaan was as ready for trouble as he could be. He disdained armor in favor of mobility and a good counterpunch. He wasn’t going to load himself down with an armored vest and a car that could be trapped. Instead, he traveled on his motorcycle. He’d been a courier during the war and had shelled out a pretty penny to buy his bike as war surplus when he’d mustered out in ’46. The Harley wasn’t pure Harley anymore, as he’d hand-tooled more than a few parts from old, wrecked Indians to create a bike that was unique – and uniquely powerful. He wasn’t likely to be trapped or caught with this ride. Just in case, he’d also got his .45ACP as surplus and he checked the clip each night.

When the meeting ended, he headed for his bike, checked to see that there had been no tampering, and then fired it up and zipped up the ramp and onto the boardwalk for the trip home. This wasn’t exactly legal, but Fermanagh’s finest weren’t stopping committee members much – things were tense in Fatlington. Unfortunately, he’d used this route a couple of times already.

He saw the other motorcycle cut up onto the boardwalk as he passed, it’s rider was wielding some king of lance or spear which made it a little conspicuous. The other driver gunned his motor and came after Kamikhaan. Kami pulled out his .45, aimed behind him at the bike – didn’t think he’d hit, but wanted to make the pursuer wary – and squeezed off a couple of rounds.

He missed – the pursuer. One slug caught molonthegreat right at the base of the skull as he looked towards the lancer-cycle. Molon went down like a pithed frog, quivering and jerking and quite dead even though his body took almost a minute to accept the fact of its demise. The lancer just opened his throttle to full and continued the pursuit.

Kamikhaan opened his custom cycle to the limit, quickly accelerating to 110mph as he raced down the boardwalk, pulling smoothly away from his pursuer – but not from the pursuer’s accomplice. That person had simply waited for the revving motor sounds and begun lifting the pre-cut section of boardwalk up on a hydraulic lift mounted on the back of a pickup truck. Most of the middle of the boardwalk lifted, up to 40 degrees on Kami’s left and about 25 degrees to his right just as his bike raced into that length of the boardwalk. Kamikhaan ended up doing a spectacular barrel roll jump to right onto the sands below – without benefit of landing ramp.

He did his best, but the soft sand landing made a smooth finish impossible. He was flung from his bike and both he and the cycle tumbled end over end for a long way. He survived, despite the injuries he’s suffered, until the lancer cruised up next to his battered body and skewered him with the lance. A small pennant at the top of the flag read “il destino è inesorabile.” The lancer cyclist picked up his partner and sped off into the sultry dark.


Chimpyang wasn’t the most avid of chess-players, but he appreciated a good game now and then. At the moment, he was actually heading toward the Hotel Abbatoir’s well-known bar to tipple a little of their Armangnac – he left Cognac to the plebs. Chess maneuvering wasn’t the first thing on his mind.

His trip was interrupted by a gunshot and the <> if a round ricocheting off the car next to him. He moved quickly, ducking behind the car, trying to put the car between him and where the bullet must have come from. As he took a position behind the car, he noticed that he was more-or-less perfectly parallel to a red-painted figure in the shape of a crouching man that someone had sprayed onto the side of this white sedan.

In chess, the goal is to force your opponent to maneuver – of his own accord – exactly where you need him to go. Chimpyang smiled sardonically. <>

One shot from a scoped Garand announced the checkmate of this particular game. The first shooter trotted up, dropped a perfect black rose on Chimpyang’s corpse, and faded into the sweltering black night that enveloped Fatlington. The players in this game were growing fewer and fewer.


Tran was heading carefully away from the convention center and toward his evening meal. The street was brightly lit and he had company –

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Warmaster Horus

– so he wasn’t very worried, though he still kept a watchful eye.

Just steps away from the restaurant, a car pulled up and two gunmen in the full regalia of cordon bleu chefs jumped out and started hammering shots at Tran from their submachine guns. Warmaster Horus took the brunt of the first bursts, shredded as he provided living armor for Tran. Tran leapt for the only possible exit from the shooting gallery, an exit so obvious that, in retrospect, he was sure it should have been covered. It wasn’t. As sirens announced the imminent arrival of the police, the gunmen looked at each other, then both turned and emptied one more burst into Warmaster in frustration, climbed back in the car, and let their wheelman whisk them to safety. This recipe would not be going into the cookbook.


Motep reveled in the rich taste of the salsa Bolognese he was enjoying. Rich and hearty, it was simply perfect. And to find such a sauce in this over-lit cheesy Italian corner place had been an unbelievable find! He knew he would share it with his friends – eventually. For now, it was a perfect antidote for those ghastly committee meetings. He’d been silent thus far – hadn’t even voted really – but he’d signed on, so he stayed. Fortunately, there was this sauce to sustain him, along with a chianti that wasn’t half bad.

He was too engrossed in his food to notice the three men who entered the little restaurant or remark much on the fact that trench coats and low brimmed hats were a little “much” during this heat wave. One of the men starting arguing with the proprietor – he handled everything outside of the kitchen solo in this small place – and tried to push past him toward the back until the proprietor leapt in front of him to stop this nonsense.

Thus, nobody noticed when the other two men stepped behind Motep, grabbed his arms and shoved him face-first into his pasta and it’s rich salsa Bolognese. He struggled of course – inhaling such a thick sauce not being a natural act – but he couldn’t break the iron grip of his assailants. The argument lasted nearly 6 minutes before the first man of the trio ran out the back of the restaurant. Motep lasted 4. The proprietor called the ambulance, but there was no hope. The sauce had been his undoing. A pair of small pink ballet slippers were found, placed in "2nd position".


Rythmic never really had the chance to defend himself. Two cars had pulled off the road, one in front and one behind him as he walked on the sidewalk. Two gunmen had opened fire from each vehicle. Rythmic was hit 47 times in less than a minute and fell dead. 3 tourists were killed and another 4 wounded in the crossfire. Nobody identified the shooters. Blood in the gutters was all too common in Fatlington.


Sasaki Kojiro was, strangely, alone when it happened. He was walking quietly when a man leapt out of the alley at his side shoving him into the street. Kojiro spun, dreading the sight of headlights...but the street was quiet. No car, no gunmen, just the cloaked figure on the sidewalk whose body language made it appear that he was just as surprised as Sasaki at the absence of a high-speed vehicle. He made a break for the shadows before Sasaki could get to his weapon or even hope to catch him.


Twilightblade never expected to be accosted by waiters. Sure the men had been wearing masks to hide their faces, but who really looks at the white dinner jacket guys to scan for a threat? So he wasn’t prepared when, just after exiting the restaurant he was facing three armed waiters. He mumbled the first thing that came to his head…

“The tip wasn’t that crappy…”

The gunmen merely waved him into the back of a canvas truck. Two of them climbed into the cab while the third took ‘blades car to drive it into the salt marsh on the bayside of the island and abandon it. Fortunately for Twilightblade, there was no guard in the back of the truck. As the truck slowed to take a turn, he simply hopped off the back, rolled to a stop, got up and ran to the nearest police precinct house. T’blades car was found the next morning, sunk 2/3’s of the way in the muck. Nobody ever found the truck or the offending waiters.


woad&fangs hadn’t bothered with a restaurant. He’d decided to finish up his business and spend the rest of the night at home, quietly. He almost made it. As he reached his steps, a shrouded figure sprang up from the darkest corner of his porch and lashed downwards at him with a knife.

The attacker was a master with the blade, and woad&fangs could barely keep himself on his feet. Already his arms were sliced as well as his face and at least one of the puncture wounds in his chest was sucking and bubbling – not a good sign. But the attacker was slowing and woad&fangs managed to make it to the side-alley by his home and grab up a trashcan lid to use as a shield.

It wouldn’t help.

“Say goodnight, Gracie,” said a voice behind him. A single thundering shot and the .577 Webley had punched a hole the size of a teacup through what had been woad&fang’s right kidney. woad’ crumpled in a heap, rapidly bleeding out.

The 2 men faced each other, both now holding guns, each shadowed figure pointing at the other. Sirens began to sound in the distance. Both had dealt fatal blows to woad&fangs and neither had planned on the other. Finally, both nodded without saying anything. The chap with the big pistol faded backwards into the alley without ever turning his gun away. The knife wielder waited a moment, fished something out of his pocket to drop on the corpse, and then walked away before the sirens got closer.

When the police arrived, they found a playing card on the body – the King of Hearts. On the back had been written: “dead rat.”


Proletariat left the convention center with a sense of urgency: She had to get home fast. By maneuvering her way through heavy traffic, Proletariat arrived home in record time. Proletariat opened her front door, walked in, and locked the door behind her. She went into the kitchen to fix herself some dinner when she turned to find a huge frying pan flying towards her head.

It never connected. Coming out of her pantry light a bolt of lightning, a cloaked figure intercepted the frying pan and flung it back at the masked and shrouded assailant. The assailant ducked, but came up with a small statue – St. Michael – to use as a weapon. Prole scrambled through her drawers to get her holdout weapon. Just as the two started to face off, a group of figures piled through the front and back doors of the apartment and went after both cloaked figures. A wild melee ensued.

Proletariat was no shrinking violet, but 6 cloaked figures fighting in her apartment kitchen left little space for good shooting and her ammo limit didn’t allow for mistakes. She leapt through the kitchen window in a shower of glass, landed on the fire escape, and rode the ladder down to the street in a hurry.

The fight continued only briefly after that. Though it was soon apparent that the fight was 5 on 1, that 1 -- with the aid of St. Michael – was an almost superhuman opponent. Despite the efforts of the others, he was able to fight his way out of the apartment and make and escape. A scrap of paper, fallen from that one’s pocket – and a half-smashed apartment – were all Proletariat had as a memento. It read: “Therefore thus saith the Lord GOD; Behold, mine anger and my fury shall be poured out upon this place, upon man, and upon beast, and upon the trees of the field, and upon the fruit of the ground; and it shall burn, and shall not be quenched."

Proletariat decided on dinner out, after all….and a new apartment.

Morning Meeting, Day 6:

“Allright folks, before I turn you over to JimBob for his preview of this evening, let me summarize the reports we’ve generated and make sure you’re up to date. In addition to last night’s sad events, I can report the following.”

Fermanagh paused.

“Your lynching efforts paid of handsomely. Hannibalbarca was a local criminal, a WiseGuy in their slang and may well have been involved in some of the killings. Tiberius of the Drake was your real success though. We’ve been able to confirm that he was a Made gangster in one of the mafia families. You scored a real success there.”

“Our records suggest that the mafia is killing good guys and bad guys about evenly, though that’s only small consolation. Beefy187, taka, and The Stranger are all confirmed to have been townies with no known criminal involvment – at least none that we can confirm. Pannonian and Zorg were both Wiseguys like Hannibal, but we were unable to note any mafia connections there.”

Fermanagh looked down at his notes.

“Glenn is a strange case. On the surface he seemed a regular townie, but a thorough search revealed a small memento album with scrolls in Latin, a print of some French medieval tapestry and one photo of him in some kind of Crusader regalia. Along with some stray rumors about a secret society, we’re just not sure about him. We may never know the whole story.”

“One final sad note. It would appear that Rob_the_Celt fell to his death from the top of the Hotel Abbatoir early this morning. He landed on the statue of Washington Refusing The Crown in the seaside park. He was killed instantly, but he also broke the crown off the statue. He has no known relatives here in Fatlington, though we’ll try to contact the family while investigating.”

Fermanagh turned the proceedings over to JimBob. Daylight had arrived.


OOC

1. Voting for Lynch will conclude at 0900 EST 19 Feb 08 (1400GMT).

2. Thanks for all the birthday wishes. As I begin my 45th year, I’ll try not to let my decrepitude get in the way of the fun.

3. List of Players:

Still Alive: (50) ajaxfetish, Alexander the Pretty Good, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, FactionHeir, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, Lt. Pinard, Makanyane, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Roadkill, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Xdeathfire, Xehh II.

Attacked: (19) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Caius (N3), Cowhead418 (N2), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5), Sasaki Kojiro (N5), taka (N2), Tran (N5), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (17) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5)

Lynched: (5) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5)

Removed from Play: (7) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5)

4. Please excuse any errors, it's late and I'm trying to finish and sleep.

5. investig & other results sent. Promotions if any wait til later. Ciao!

[Andres]

Main thread post #2129

"Well where I lived
Don't make no bones
Was several feet below a stone
Far from appalled
I was enthralled
The snake that slithered learned to crawl
Through the quagmire of my mislaid plans
That backfired
I felt enlightened
My senses heightened
You called me up
To wish me luck
To let me know this business sucks
Let's change it
Let's rearrange it
So why do I get the feeling
That there's something you're concealing?"
-- Edwyn Collins


Sunset, Day Six

There hadn’t been all that much open discussion this time. The Committee had met, and a few points had been argued, but most of the members seemed to have arrived with a goal in mind. Many chose to remain in their seats and not vote. Others, from what the plethora of hushed whispers might suggest, were hoping to use one of the more obscure rules of Tosa’s “system” to repeat what had been done on the day of Hannibalbarca’s and Tiberius of the Drake’s lynching and end two lives…or more…at once.

As the count wound down to a conclusion, scrupulously witnessed by Fermanagh’s guards and -- as the recount continued -- by Fermanagh himself, the face of the Director, JimBob grew more and more visibly upset. He gathered his notes and looked at the assembled committee.

“It is the will of this committee…”

Guards positioned themselves behind Tran, Dutch_guy, and Xdeathfire.

“…that Xdeathfire be executed as a criminal against the city of Fatlington. May God have mercy on your soul. Any last words?”

Dutch_guy looked more surprised than anything else; Tran perhaps a little relieved. Xdeathfire just stood mute. He looked as though he might say something, but then thought better of it and stood silently.

“Very well, and I thank you for not regaling us with your musical talents. You will be taken to the boardwalk and there executed by firing squad. You may face your executioners or the sea at your choice. The committee will watch from here as our windows overlook the boardwalk.”

The gaurds took Xdeathfire and marched him from the room.

“Some of you might actually want to LISTEN to my advice,” said the Director. “I warned you that getting cute with the vote-counts might backfire, I even made some specific suggestions as to how we should proceed. But once the votes are in, I too am bound by hizzoner’s rules, no matter WHAT I think of the result…”

This last line had been delivered in a pointed stare at Dutch_guy, whose response was the slightest of sneers. JimBob was not the only one glaring at Dutch_guy.

“We will now bear witness to our judgement.”

Xdeathfire was escorted to the boardwalk by four of the guards. He chose the Atlantic as his final view, quietly smoking a cigarette while the squad behind him prepared. Death came before the sound reached his ears; Xdeathfire’s last view was of the darkening sea as night once more slid its shroud over Fatlington.


OOC

1. Night Six now begins. PM deadline is 0900 EST 20 Feb 08 (1400 GMT).


2. Day 6 Lynch Vote Tally

Xdeathfire = 12 (CountArach, Craterus, Dutch_guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, Hiji, Kagemusha, LittleGrizzly, Louis VI the Fat, norwegian nerd, Sarathos, TruePraetorian)

Dutch_guy = 10 (ajaxfetish, Crazed Rabbit, FactionHeir, Haudegen, Husar, Kukrikhan, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, Xdeathfire) Sara claimed in 2076?

Tran = 8 (Caius, Charge, Ichigo, Lt. Pinard, Myrddraal, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, TinCow)

Andres the Nosferatu= 0 (Elizabeth Borden, Robespierre, Louis the not quite so fat, Van Helsing)

Abstain = 3 (Brave Sir Robin, Joe Monks, Twilightblade)

Sasaki Kojiro = 1 (Makanyane)


3. Explanation Part One: All of the last second vote-changers were on line and active at the deadline. Rabbit’s edit at 0901 was a clear response to Haudegan’s at 0857. Dutch’s slightly belated post at 0903 I did not count as the tone and timing suggest it was made AFTER the 0900 deadline and did not simply arrive a few seconds late crossing the ether. Therefore, the vote count at 0900 was the final count.

4. Explanation Part Two: Having reviewed my rules, as well as the customs of the Gameroom, I am forced to list Sarathos’ vote for Xdeathfire in post #2065 as a valid vote. That post, which even noted a reason valid within the context of the then-current discussion to support that vote, was properly bolded, formatted, and never subsequently changed. Despite his own protestation that his first vote had been for Dutch_guy (see post #2076) which was correct, the Capo rules do not invalidate any vote that fails to use the “unvote” format and the customs of the Gameroom and of this game have been to accept a change of vote merely by the imposition of a properly bolded vote for a new name. Once properly listed I will count it until changed -- even if ill considered. This produces the count above.

[Andres]

Main thread post #2171

"There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me…

Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

Someone to watch over me"
-- George Gershwin (singer: Ella Fitzgerald)



Summary, Night Six


Proletariat was headed for the market. Changing apartments – she’d picked a building with a private security force this time – meant that she’d need groceries. Fortunately for her, the market she preferred was open late and situated on a busy thoroughfare with plenty of people around. Shipments in were a problem now, but Mr. Konstantinos would have the good stuff – kalamatas, feta, humus – if anyone did.

As she browsed through produce amid a small crowd of shoppers, she heard something from the side door to the store – the one leading to the storage cellar dumbwaiter and the restrooms.

<>

Cliché’d or not, she couldn’t leave a potential threat behind her. She pulled her revolver – if there was a person from the Committee who went unarmed these days, she hadn’t noticed – and went gently to the side door, one of those wide swinging types that went both directions. She eased through the door, revolver in front, “clearing” each side of the hallway in front of her. To the right, only a step away, was the empty dumbwaiter. She turned left, facing the longer arm of this side hallway the one leading toward the small restrooms. She cautiously edged forward.

The attack came from behind. A chloroformed cloth in a gloved – surgically gloved – hand was flung across her face and a syringe glinted in the light streaming in from the produce section. Prole’ turned to fight but was already woozy as she tried to break the powerful grip of her assailant.

A second masked figure broke out of the bathroom and jumped into the fight, knocking the syringe-armed assailant back into the dumbwaiter. Proletariat dropped to her knees, losing her weapon, struggling to hold on to consciousness. The fight was impressive. Prole’s attacker was powerful, and though he’d lost the syringe – which shattered and broke leaving a lethal dosage of morphine on the tiled floor – he was not only defending himself well, but slashing with a scalpel at Proletariat’s rescuer, who was trying in vain to get his weapon clear without getting cut apart.

Neither man seemed to gain the upper hand in this struggle, but witnesses in the produce section were screaming and now police sirens could be heard in the distance. Snarling, the syringe attacker grabbed Proletariat’s rescuer and flung him bodily away and straight at Proletariat. She went down and out from that hit, her rescuer scrambling to regain his feet. The assailant leapt into the large dumbwaiter, slashed the cord with his blade and dropped into the cellar to make an escape through the access doors. Proletariat’s rescuer exited the scene as well. Nobody – including Proletariat – got a chance to identify those involved. Proletariat decided to skip dinner.


Lt. Pinard was wary and well-armed – Fatlington was no longer safe and anyone with half a brain knew it. So, when the gunman broke from the shadows of the storefront half a block ahead – the shape of a BAR was unmistakable to anyone who’d served as a footsoldier as had Pinard – he’d quickly broken toward the alley he’d been nearest.

Pinard intended to stay a step ahead, so only a step inside he quickly glanced to see that the alley was clear and that no one was on the fire escape above his head. He quickly got behind the small trash dumpster and prepared to fire from cover at his attacker. The BAR man took cover behind a car parked at the curb opposite the alley. Both men knew where the other was and both were well aware of what was likely to happen to the first person who broke cover. The BAR man gave a thumbs up.

Once again, getting your opponent to move of his own accord precisely where it will do you the most good proved the means to an end. Triggered by a hidden accomplice, the plastic explosives – some people can get anything at a GI surplus store – turned most of the side of the dumpster next to Pinard into jagged metal shrapnel and turned Pinard into something resembling hamburger. A perfect yellow rose – a just-opened bud – was placed on Pinard’s mangled corpse.


Crazed Rabbit was cautious, but not particularly worried. He hadn’t drawn anybody’s attention – just gone quietly about his work. So he was surprised when the gunfire erupted as he exited the pool-hall where he’d had dinner – the place was a pit, but the chili was excellent – but not too surprised to slam back through the door and seek cover. Glancing out – from solid cover – at the lone gunman, he could see his would-be killer’s perplexed body language. The shooter broke away at a run and disappeared into the darkness. All Rabbit found after the gunmen left were some empty submachine gun casings and a single, broken-stemmed white rose.


Kagemusha, sitting in a restaurant across town, came face to face with his own mortality at more or less the same exact moment. He was ordering a third martini when a pair of gunmen burst out of the kitchen door, knocking over a single trench-coated man who’d been barring their path. Both men leveled their heavy pistols and made a bee-line for his table. Kage stood to run, knowing it would be too late…

As the shooters opened fire though, a secretive waiter managed to a) push the sommelier between the shooters and Kagemusha and b) lob a tray of perfectly seasoned pasta dishes at the two gunmen. The shots would probably have missed Kagemusha, since they were aimed behind him, as though expecting him to be backing away from some other threat. They didn’t miss the surprised sommelier. He caught all 4 rounds in the torso and hit the floor dying. The pasta, however, was right on target, covering the face of one gunman with hot sauce and a plate knocking the gun from the other’s hand. Both took off in the ensuing confusion, as did the secretive waiter and the fellow who’d tried to block the kitchen entrance. Kagemusha did not finish dinner.


FactionHeir was upset and stalking home in a huff. He was completely unprepared when the assailant – clad in a close-helm and a white hauberk emblazoned with a red crusader cross, but armed with a very modern shotgun – leapt out from behind a parked car in front of him.

The red crusader’s first shot missed, as FactionHeir began to react, bringing his own weapon out. The second shot caught FactionHeir in the belly – fortunately covered by the bulletproof vest FH had taken to wearing – and drove him backward. FactionHeir, half stunned, still managed to get off a couple of shots at the knight as the latter broke the shotgun to reload. Down went the crusader under the hammering of FactionHeir’s well-placed shots. FH paused and went down on one knee, gasping for breath.

A heavy shot shattered FH’s hand and knocked the pistol clear as a quartet of figures stepped out of several “hides.” Each was clad in a visored helm and a white hauberk sporting the black cross of a crusader.

“Armored, of course,” said one of the knights as his .45 put a round into FactionHeir’s knee. FactionHeir collapsed.

“Undoubtedly,” said another muffled voice as he double-tapped FH’s other leg. FactionHeir was bleeding profusely and moaning from the pain.

“But no helmet,” said a third as he put a round through FH’s temple, splattering brains and gore on the pavement in a short arc. “Remember, proper headgear at all times, lads.”

“What about ‘Red,’ asked the fourth black cross? It was his shot that had disarmed Factionheir – nearly literally. “He’s probably armored too, so aside from some sore ribs he’ll be up and going in a couple of minutes. Should we…”

“Never mind,” said the head-shooter. “He’s served his purpose.”

The crusaders faded into the night. “Red” managed to wake up and crawl out of sight before Fermanagh’s cops arrived to stand around, look important, and munch a few doughnuts until the coroner’s team showed up.


The guardian looked out under the broad brim of his hat at his charge. Louis VI the Fat strode with confidence just a few steps ahead, head up and steps crisp – the air of a man who knew his place in the scheme of things and was happy with that role. The guardian nodded, everything in place. One walking lead, himself, and a third ensuring that neither of the two close in guards could be….

The sharp crack of the pommel of the blade on his temple sent the tail-guard into the arms of Morpheus before his synapses had done more than announce they’d been hit. And now a new figure strode just a few steps behind Louis.

A few steps in front of Louis, the lead guard fell victim to an ancient trick. When a man in front of him tossed a loaded automatic softly to him, the lead guard simply caught it – with both hands. A second figure pistol whipped the lead guard into oblivion and turned toward Louis as the person who’d tossed the automatic pulled a matching pistol from a trench coat pocket and joined his companion. The other passersby began to scatter.

Louis had come to an abrupt halt at the commotion in front of him, but had only just begun to react when the two gunmen in front leveled their weapons to shoot him. At that same moment – a moment that moves liquidly for the participants with the freeze frame slowness you perceive in a car wreck or some other crisis – the figure behind Louis grasped his chin from behind and pulled his face to the left.

With time still swimming through molasses, Louis started to shout as the man at his back plunged a stiletto precisely through the small opening between neck vertebrae and skull he’d created by turning Louis’ head, and the gunmen’s shots crashed into Louis in the lower abdomen and just above his right temple – both shots aimed where body armor would not cover. All three attacks would have been either immediately or eventually lethal. It would be impossible to discern which had taken his life.

Staggered back by Louis’ convulsing body, the stiletto assassin dropped the corpse in a heap on the sidewalk and reached for the gun in his own coat pocket. With the passersby scattering, the six created an odd tableau. Two with aching heads would wake, while one with a shattered head would never do so. Across this last, one masked gunmen stared at two more – and neither side moved a muscle. Neither had expected the other’s arrival but all had profited from the unexpected cooperation.

Finally, by unspoken agreement, the lone killer knelt, dropped a playing card on the corpse and backed away, fading into the darkness. The pair paused only a moment more, and then left a calling card of their own before departing in turn.

When the police arrived, all that remained was the remains of Louis VI the Fat, with a small pair of pink ballet slippers placed in 5th position on the top of his battered skull and next to them a King of Hearts with the word “traitor” printed neatly on the back of the card. The first officer on the scene – a rookie new to Fatlington – promptly vomited on the whole thing.


Craterus knew enough not to take an elevator. Unfortunately, his apartment was on the top floor of the 6th floor building, and it made his trip upstairs a royal pain. Still, better a little discomfort than dying like a trapped rat in a convenient elevator. Despite his innate caution, he wasn’t ready for the two assailants who burst from the door of a 5th floor apartment just as he reached the top of the steps. Neither went for a weapon, but both went for his legs, quickly upending him over the railing to plummet 5 floors.

Both stood to watch as Craterus fell, but to their stunned disbelief he did not arrive at the bottom with a thud. As he fell, a bed stacked with extra blankets rolled under him at the bottom of the long stairwell to cushion and absorb the fall. Craterus bounced off the bed only to be caught by a pair of hands reaching out to him and pulling him aside. There would be no chance of a successful “second effort” by the pair above.

With footsteps hammering up the stairs from below, both would-be killers ran ahead of them up the stairs, out onto the roof, and then off across the dark rooftops into the comforting invisibility of a dark night.


For ajaxfetish, then end came all too quickly. He’d made it back to his apartment easily enough, put all the locks in place, took off his shoulder holster and was just leaning toward the radio for some music – he wasn’t prepared to spend for a TV yet, too darned expensive and only a couple hours of programs each week -- when it happened. His bedroom wall seemed to explode outward in a rain of plaster and lathe-board – but the explosion was the result of numerous rounds of .45 caliber ammunition courtesy of a couple of tommy guns firing through the wall of his bedroom and into the living room.

His radio and a side table blocked some of the shots, but both shooters had the 100 round drums and neither was worried about saving the barrels. Ajax was down and bleeding from a half dozen wounds in his legs and torso when both gunmen stepped into the living room and – after loading a fresh drum each – finished their work. A piece of parchment with the legend “il destino è inesorabile” neatly printed on it in Gothic script.


Morning Briefing, Day Seven


“…and that sums up last night,” finished Commissioner Fermanagh.

“As to our post-mortem results, we’ve come up with this information. Fahad I, Killfr3nzy, Sapi, and Xiahou were all clearly townies with no information linking them to the mobs or to criminal activity in general.”

Fermanagh smiled.

“But we did eliminate some of the scum too. Kommodus was a Mafia Luca – one of their special protection thugs, and Omanes Alexandrapolites was a DON! One of those viscious criminal kingpins is dead, Dead, DEAD! This is a real victory for Fatlington. So much so that I’m not gonna worry too much about tracking down whichever vigilante took Kommodus out.”

Fermanagh paused.

“It’s harder to be sure about the others on the list, but we’ve developed what we can. GeneralHankerchief and x-dANGEr were both criminals – WiseGuys – though we can’t really be sure how active either one was. Moros too registered as a Wiseguy with our sources, but there was something fishy there as well. We found a train/boat ticket to Havana hidden in the tank of his toilet as well as some kind of “brag” book featuring pictures of dead individuals with code words scrawled on the pictures – “Fauchard, Glaive….We’re just not sure what to make of it. I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that we’re better off without him.”

So saying, Fermanagh turned the meeting over to JimBob, who reiterated the procedure for this evening’s lynch vote and director selection. Fatlington continued to bake in the hot sun.



OOC

1. Voting and Director Selection for Day Seven will now commence. Deadline will be 1300 EST 21 Feb 08 (1800 GMT).

2. Investigation Results and Promotions as soon as possible.

3. List of Players and Events

Still Alive: (45) Alexander the Pretty Good, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Dutch guy, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Husar, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Makanyane, Myrrdraal, Northnovas, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Roadkill, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Xdeathfire, Xehh II.

Attacked: (22) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Caius (N3), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6), Sasaki Kojiro (N5), taka (N2), Tran (N5), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (21) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6)

Lynched: (6) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6)

Removed from Play: (7) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5)

4. Note: More inactives will be leaving us shortly.

[Andres]

Main thread post #2333

“I can feel them, they're here.
The howling winds of war.
You can sense them.
They are bad omens.
You can see the death dealing hordes….
There's no reason.
There's no rhyme.
They will bring eternal night.
Oh no!
It's too late to turn back now.
A soldier lives to die.”
-- Yngwie Malmsteen



Sunset, Day Seven


The discussion at the evening meeting involved interesting revelations, claims and counter claims. The voting itself, despite a lot of confusion in the counting, ended up with a clear result.

“The committee has chosen death for Dutch_guy,” said JimBob. “That sentence will be carried out imm….”

JimBob whipped up a Buntline special from the podium and in one fluid motion shot Dutch-guy in the middle of the face.

“ediately.”

Dutch-guy’s lifeless body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood leaked out of both ears as well as the shattered hole that had replaced Dutch’s nose. The Director apparently did not favor full metal jackets for his ammunition.

“I will continue as Director, courtesy of your support. Guard yourselves well, for I assure you that our task is not yet complete.”

JimBob gaveled the meeting to a close. The Committee shuffled out, more than a little disturbed by the sudden conclusion to the meeting – even though a clear majority had voted that way.

Night arrived with yet another series of thunderstorms. The skies themselves mirrored the mood below. Few intended to “go gently” into that good night.


OOC

1. As Noted before, Night PMs will be accepted up to 1300 22 Feb 08 (1800GMT)

2. Lynch Vote Tally:

Dutch_guy = 14 (BSR, Charge, CA, Crate, EMM, Hiji, Husar, Joe, Kukri, Griz, Mak, Prole, Sig, TB) 1 unbolded vote by Ciaus as well.

Sigurd Fafnesbane = 10 (Cow, CR, Kage, Myrd, North, Sara, Scott, Tin, Tran, Xeh)

Crazed Rabbit = 1 (Shlin)

3. Selection Vote Tally:

Didn’t bother, not worth counting.

[Andres]

Main thread post #2351

“Tell me, who can you trust these days
Cause people don't be about it like they say
Gotta be watching your back night and day
Who can you trust
Tell me, who can you trust or not
The ones that be trying' to get what you got
Just listen to these words whatever you do
The only one you trust is you”
-- Keri Lewis


Summary, Night Seven


Sasaki Kojiro left the Convention Center and went towards a restaurant to get a bite. He wasn’t really interested in company at the moment – in point of fact he was a little listless as things just hadn’t been going smoothly.

<>

He finished supper and went out the front towards his car. He put the lock and tried to turn it, but it didn’t work. With the rain coming down, this was not comfortable.

<>

As he jiggled the key, it finally turned and a dripping Sasaki sat down, closed the door and began to start the car.

< thought Sasaki, as he went through the start-up sequence on autopilot.

Just as he turned the key in the ignition, a gunman appeared from either side of the vehicle, each of them carrying Johnson LMG’s. Both guns opened up, their in line stocks letting both gunners keep their weapons on target despite long bursts. Round after round hammered into the windows and doors of Sasaki’s car as he dropped below the dash in a reflexive effort to escape his own destruction.

Which he did. Much to the surprise of both gunmen as well as Sasaki, each gunner had emptied a full 20-round box of 30ought6 ammo into the doors and windows without making a single hole. The doors and windows were gashed, dented, and spidered with cracks, but not one round had penetrated. In fact, more than a few rounds had ricocheted dangerously close to the shooters themselves. They themselves had come closer to death than their target! With sirens announcing the imminent arrival of the police, both gunmen ran up the street and disappeared into the rain and darkness.

Panting, Sasaki sat up in the vehicle and looked around.

<>

As he peered out of the cracked windows of his “borrowed” vehicle – fortunately heavily armored as opposed to Sasaki’s normal ride – he thought he caught a glimpse of a trench-coated figure across the rainy street. The figure gently tipped his broad-brimmed hat toward Sasaki and faded into night.


Brave Sir Robin was just turning the key in his apartment door when he heard someone thudding up the stairs from below and the <> of a bolt from behind the door. He jumped back, just in time to avoid the fusillade of shots coming through the door and the space he’d occupied a half second before.

<>

As the gunman kicked open the shattered door and stepped into the hallway, Robin raced to the end of the hall a dove through the hall window onto the fire escape. The Gunman smiled to himself.

Robin rolled to the edge of the fire escape and allowed himself to drop, hanging on by his hands. Robin then jumped sideways onto the fire ladder and rode it to the ground below, quickly racing off in the direction of the nearest police patrol.

Inside, the apartment gunman walked up to the broken window, looked around and confirmed a distinct absence of an accomplice, then commented on the parentage of his missing partner. He met his other partner at the top of the steps and both quickly made ther escape..


Proletariat was on edge. She hadn’t managed more than a couple hours of sleep for several days. Her reactions were off, her temper was short, and she was ready to jump away from – or fire back at – the slightest sound.

<>

Prole’ giggled to herself – a giggle with just a bit of hysteria carefully shrouded behind it. She continued to duck from one doorway to the next, carefully scanning for threats before moving to the next.

<>

Prole’ moved quickly to the next doorway, but this time something was different. Sitting in a small fishbowl in the doorway was a milk snake!

<>

A figure leaned out of the second story window above and just to the side of the door and dropped to the street. Prole went for her gun, but the stranger was faster – flinging another snake at her face.

Surprising both Proletariat and the stranger, the door behind her opened and a hand grabbed the snake neatly out of the air just before it would have struck her. The hand disappeared behind the door, taking the snake with it.

Proletariat had her gun out and firing at the retreating figure of the stranger, but wasn’t able to get off a clear shot in the rain and dark. Her stomach aching from adrenalin, she turned to check the door behind her, hoping to find out who had helped her so. Knotted on the latch was the 2nd snake – a Coral snake – its crushed head dripping the venom meant for her. The door was once again locked.

Prole’ sat in the waiting room of the local police precinct all night, sipping bad coffee and glancing quickly toward any strange sound. She made sure that she didn’t fall asleep.


Tran was pretty well prepared for anything – he thought. So he was, of course, completely unprepared to see four men dressed in visored helmets and crusader outfits with black crosses leveling shotguns and pistols at him from within his own living room as he opened the door. He was, however, prepared for a quick escape.

He fired his pistol in the crusader’s general direction without even bothering to get it clear of his pocket – a coat can be replaced – and spun toward the window at the end of the hall. They fired back, but not expecting him to be quite that fast they were unable to make contact, hammering holes in the door and the opposite wall of the hallway instead. Two of them moved forward to pursue.

Tran leapt through the window in a shower of glass and out onto the fire escape – only to find that the crusaders had thoughtfully removed the fire escape earlier in the evening. His planned escape route became 65 feet of free fall to a side-street below. One crusader – hoping for this result – had placed himself at the apartment window to watch the show.

Instead, he got to watch Tran plummet onto the back of a moving canvas-topped truck passing in the street below at that precise moment. The canvas billowed up, absorbing the impact of Tran’s fall like a cushion and depositing him – rather messily – into a half load of ripe Jersey peaches. The stunned driver slammed on his brakes and got out of the vehicle. A small crowd quickly gathered. Tran was emerging, bruised and shaken but apparently unhurt. The frustrated Crusaders made their way up onto the roof and went from roof to roof until they were clear of the scene.


NorthNovas was taking no chances. Despite the rain, he’d gone around the perimeter of his two-bedroom home both inside and out, checking for anything out of the ordinary and making sure that nobody was lurking nearby. He’d gone in, locked up, and was pouring himself an iced tea when he heard the commotion out front.

Moving carefully, shotgun in hand and a pistol at his belt (well this IS Fatlington!), North went to his shuttered front window.

<>

Peering out through the rain he was flabbergasted to see a small mob of several hundred people moving down his street carrying lit torches, clubs, and – oddly enough – a few pitchforks. Aside from the tourist-at-the-beach wear most sported, they looked pretty much like the villager mob from one of the Frankenstein movies he’d watched so avidly as a kid. The rain and occasional lightning flash in the background only added to the effect.

The mob stopped in front of his house and started screaming. “Show yourself villain,” shouted one! “Give yourself up,” shouted another! One wag shouted, “We’re here for your monster Doctor Frankenstein!” This caused a good portion of the crowd to break into laughter. “You’ve betrayed our town!” They weren’t really angry, just playing it up for yucks – and making a lot of noise.

Enough noise that North never heard the attic trapdoor swing down into the kitchen or the men step softly behind him into the living room. The first he knew that they were there was when the .45 went off behind him sending a slug through his right wrist. His crippled hand dropped the shotgun. A quick series of following shots hit him repeatedly in the back. His body armor stopped the shots, but NorthNovas was slammed unconscious into his front door, dropping in a heap.

North awoke moments later as his arms were nearly yanked from their sockets. His attackers had quickly hammered eyebolts into the framing above the door and used ropes to both bind his hands and pull him upright, facing the front door. He’d been gagged, his armor vest removed, and his legs bound together with the rope run through an eyebolt put into the floor between his feet. The crowd outside were still making noise, though mostly it was laughter now at one bad monster-movie joke after another – enough beer and anything seems funny.

“How much did the crowd cost,” said one of the voices behind him, glancing out the shuttered window.

“Couple of kegs and we had to provide most of the torches and such,” answered another.

“Nice. Hey, look! We’ve got a reporter and two photographers out recording the “joke” for posterity,” laughed the first voice. After a short pause he continued. “Our man seems to have finished passing out beers and such and is behind the reporter and getting clear.”

“Good,” said a new voice, standing just behind NorthNovas. “Just one last little thing.”

This last person took a long knife and plunged it into the middle of North’s back, just to the right of the spine. North screamed into the gag. The knife was turned ninety degrees and sliced down and through NorthNovas’ diaphragm and into his intestines. North tried to scream, but couldn’t really breath – barely any oxygen was drawn into his lungs – his loudest sound was a faint wheeze.

“With your lung muscle cut, you should choke to death long before you bleed out,” said this last man. “Of course, you get to enjoy the pain for several minutes either way.”

He leaned in to whisper in North’s ear.

“Just so you know, villain, the heroes in this little production are…”

The men left quietly, with the crowd out front starting to disperse. They had no trouble mingling in and clearing the scene unnoticed. It was hours before anybody found North’s body hanging from the inside of his own front door.


Husar had just reached home and headed for the kitchen to grab a beer when he discovered he wasn’t alone. There were noises coming from the kitchen ahead of him. He broke through the doorway with his gun drawn and level.

There, roped to a chair in his apartment kitchen was his landlady, gagged and struggling to break free. She looked at him, looked at his weapon, and screamed into her gag. He paused, shocked at the sight nearly as much as she.

<> Husar thought, irrelevantly.

The distraction had served its purpose. Two figures, one in the pantry and one stepping out into the living room behind him both opened up with their Kalishnikov assault rifles, model 1947 – apparently bribery worked just fine in the USSR as well as the West – on full auto. They fired low, so that none of the shots would be instantly fatal. Husar went down, screaming, bleeding from more than a dozen wounds in the abdomen, legs, and…elsewhere…in that vicinity.

The shooter from the pantry stepped forward, holding up a javelin with parchment attached.

“Ciao,” said the masked shooter.

The shooter skewered Husar through the throat, stopping the screaming and killing him instantly. The second shooter stepped into the doorway and put a short burst through the landlady’s face, splattering it across the back half of the kitchen.

“Sweet,” said the woman’s killer. "Shame it's probably the last time we get to use them."

“I agree, and yeah,” said the first. “Gun looks like it’s been stamped out from scrap metal but it works like a charm. Guy who sold them to me said I could even dump ‘em in the surf for an hour and they’d still fire. If the Rooskis can keep building them like this, we’re in trouble.”

“Commie,” laughed the other. “Why do you hate freedom?”

They both left quickly. The police responding to the scene 10 minutes later found a message on the penant attached to the javelin: “il destino è inesorabile.”


Tincow was almost home when it happened. He was armed, wearing armor, and carefully watching and listening for anything unusual. He still didn’t hear the attacker until too late.

The attacker had glided up from behind virtually without a sound. One gloved hand grabbed TinCow’s forehead while a second brought the razor-sharp blade in across Tin’s throat. A short spray of blood and a gasp from TinCow and then the attacker let him drop to the ground. A playing card – the king of hearts – with the word “traitor” printed on the back was dropped on TinCow’s body and the attacker faded into the shadows and the misting rain that followed the worst of the storm.

Only it wasn’t a body. TinCow had been stunned and had a shallow cut across his neck just below the adam’s apple, but most of the cut had slashed through the thick throat padding of his armor vest rather than through him. He’d only added the bulky throat-piece as an after-thought tonight – normally he went without. By all rights, he should be dead instead of having the next thing to a bad shaving cut. By the slimmest of chances, he’d survived his own death at the hands of a master assassin. He went inside for a drink…make that several.


Morning Day Eight.


“Anyway, now you’re all up to date on last night,” said commissioner Fermanagh. “Here’s the results for our follow up investigations.”

“We lost at least two confirmed innocents that night,” said Fermanagh. “Rythmic and molonthegreat have checked out as townies pure and simple. We’re less sure of two other townies, Chimpyang and Kamikhaan, both of whom mayhave been involved in the killings – though we only have rumors about that.”

“Four criminals died as well. You got one Mafioso made gangster – that scum Andres was just that. Motep and Warmasterhorus were both WiseGuys, though we have no evidence of their involvement in any crimes recently. The other WiseGuy who died was woad&fangs, and there is some evidence that he was involved in the killings – probably trying to work his way into a crime family.”

“Lastly, we found memorabilia similar to those Glenn had in Rob_the_celt’s apartment. He was a townie and a loaner, no criminal for sure, and just maybe he was part of the same whack-job group that Glenn was.”

JimBob glared at the Commissioner.

“Excuse me,” mumbled Fermanagh. “I’ll on about my work.”

He left, and JimBob reviewed the procedures again before breaking up the meeting until evening.



OOC

1. Lynch Voting for Day will now commence. Deadline will be 1300 EST 23 Feb 08 (1800 GMT). WARNING – it’s the weekend and my schedule is not as much my own, be flexible.

2. Investigation Results and Promotions as soon as possible.

3. List of Players and Events

Still Alive: (42) Alexander the Pretty Good, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Elite Ferret, Evil_Maniac from Mars, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, johnhughthom, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Makanyane, Myrrdraal, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Roadkill, Sarathos, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, Sigurd Fafnesbane, TinCow, Tran, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Xdeathfire, Xehh II.

Attacked: (27) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (23) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7)

Lynched: (7) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7)

Removed from Play: (7) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5)

[Andres]

Main thread post #2489

"A skeptical star
Of lost generations
A blistering fascination
With visible scars
If this is all that I am - an abstract illusion
I'll fade into nothing to become a foregone conclusion"
-- Seven Ways Out



Sunset, Day Eight


"Sigurd Fafnesbane, you are judged guilty and sentenced to death," intoned Director JimBob -- with just the faintest hint of relish in his voice. "You will be taken to the beach and there placed in a modified lifeboat for your execution and funeral."

Sigurd looked up quizzically, but made no other reply. His arguments all evening had fallen on deaf ears -- the conclusion had been reached before it had even begun. He went with the guards stoically and the comittee followed.

When they reached the beach, Sigurd was escorted to the lifeboat and chained to one of its thwarts. The boat had been modified with plywood and canvas to resemble, at least vaguely, a Viking longboat. It reeked of gasoline and was stacked with straw.

"In the boat you will find a pistol, disassembled, with one bullet," said Jimbob. "The boat will be towed out by the tug you see there offshore," JimBob waived to the tug which started to ease forward at his signal. "If you hurry, you'll have the chance to save yourself from the flames...so please, take your time."

JimBob put a match to some of the straw, which lit quickly. The boat went out 100 yards fairly quickly and then the tug held it in position. Sigurd was bent over, ignoring the heat and ever-closing flames, hurriedly assembling the pistol intended for his coup de grace. As the flames reached his position and he began to burn, Sigurd stood erect and shouted at the shore.

"I may burn in Hell, but at least one of you <> is going with me!"

Sigurd aimed at the shore with his pistol, rocking on the burning boat, and --ignoring the agony of his now burning legs -- squeezed off his only round at the Committee, aiming for JimBob. He missed, of course. 100 yards is a long way for a pistol and his aim wasn't the steadiest. He did, however, shoot johnhughthom through the left eye, killing him instantly. Sigurd collapsed as the flames soared over him. Seconds later the lifeboat blew to fragments.

"I added a bit of dynamite for a spectacle," said JimBob. "Officers, if two of you would please remove our dead committeman here? The rest of you are free to go, but remember that our work will continue."

The committee filed away, and night came again to Fatlington.



OOC

1. Night 8 begins now, with PMs due by 1300 25 February 2008 (1800 GMT). My schedule tomorrow does not permit me to run a 24 hour block, sorry for the delay.

2. Specific voting tally posted later by edit. Sigurd is lynched and johnhughthom removed from play.

[Andres]

This is main thread post #2518


Today's Program Will Be Interrupted By Acts Of Blood Vengeance

“…So here we are, Monsieur Derida.
Tell me what's so despicable
about a little enlightenment?
Because our little vendetta
has been cancelled due to bad weather.
Go ahead, please shed your wisdom.
You have no time to loose.
Oh, it's a long way home from here to downtown,
especially if it's uphill on both ways.
And I'll tell you about the Differance
If we just could meet again….”
-- “Awesome Deryck” Username at Tabcrawler.com



Summary, Night Eight:


Tran was as paranoid as the rest of the Committee, so when the fight broke out in front of him on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant at which he had planned to have a bite to eat, he quickly crossed the street.

<>

He was halfway across the street when he saw the car coming for him. Tran leapt sideways just before impact, and the car bounced off one of the nearby, parked cars and spun into the next intersection. Tran followed, gun out, ready to identify his attacker – or seek vengeance for himself. The battered car wasn’t out of commission yet, so the lone driver was able to get away from the scene.

Tran returned the gun to his holster, went back to the far side of the street, and warily resumed his walk towards dinner. After a few minutes, he finally began to relax – though he made a point to wait for ZERO traffic before crossing the next few intersections.

He had actually relaxed again by the time he neared “Athenos.” His musings about Spanikopita and Baklava were cut short as he reached the block where his restaurant was by the sudden arrival of a tall man wearing a pink ballerina outfit and full facemask pirouetting in front of him on the sidewalk. Tran went for his gun (wouldn’t you?). However, for one critical moment his attention was fixed on the “ballerina,” and that moment was all it took. Two pairs of strong arms grabbed his from behind, each of the men behind him hooking a leg to take it out of play – Tran was held tight!

“”Let go of me you scum-bags! Police! Anyone…” yelled Tran.

But this was Fatlington, and the formerly crowded street was rapidly emptying. The “ballerina” calmly reached down and removed his slippers. He quickly unraveled a thin wire cord from one slipper, attaching it to the other. He looped the garotte over Tran’s struggling head and pulled it tight just under his Adam’s apple. Tran kicked and struggled, gasping and strangling, but was unable to free himself. As consciousness started to fade, the “ballerina” spoke.

“Go to Hell, Stracci!”

Tran was left on the sidewalk. No witnesses ever came forward.


Sarathos had finished dinner and was having a brandy when he heard the commotion at the back of the restaurant – he just loved the salads here at “Athenos” – so he quickly downed his brandy and left by the front exit. He had a standing arrangement with the proprietor, so he knew he didn’t have to hang around and find out what trouble was gunning for him from the kitchen.

He’d reached his car and opened the door when the gunmen appeared on the sidewalk 50 feet in front of him. He reached into the holster he’d put in the door and came up with a little firepower of his own. His door took the first two blasts from the shotgun – armor can be a useful after-market option in Fatlington – and his return shots, though not on target, were more than enough to convince the shotgunner that hanging around on the sidewalk to reload and try again was a losing proposition. The gunman fled.

Sarathos quickly sat down to put some distance between himself and the scene.

<> came from the man sitting behind him.

Sarathos spun his head quickly, so the stranger put the silenced double tap into his face instead of the back of his head. Same difference.

<> murmered the shooter.

The shotgunner returned to Sarathos’ car, dropped the rolled parchment on the passenger seat and then the two killers walked slowly away. When police found Sarathos an hour later, they read the scroll’s message: “il destino è inesorabile.” It had been neatly printed on it in Gothic script.


Proletariat strolled with confidence along the boardwalk to the new, much more secure, apartment building to which she had just moved. Despite all the attacks, things just seemed to “work out” for her. She’d developed a new fatalism about things, and her fears had largely subsided into a desire to know who was doing this – and for the chance to put a stop to it.

She was guarded in her motions of course – recklessness was not part of her nature (except perhaps in her willingness to try interesting new cuisines) – but she hadn’t counted on an entire span of the boardwalk collapsing and dumping her into the sand.

As Prole’ struggled to get back to her feet, a man in scuba gear complete with regulator – but wearing surgical gloves -- stepped toward her. She scrambled to get her gun up but the stranger was already moving to pull the cork on a small glass via he held…Another figure leapt from the boardwalk above and crashed into the chap in scuba gear knocking everybody – including Proletariat – flat. Prole’ lost her gun in the sand and her consciousness to the boot that had kicked her in the temple.

The two figures struggled for control, each trying to overcome the other. With a sudden surge of energy, the scuba-clad man flung the jumper away against one of the pilings on which the boardwalk rested. He turned towards Proletariat and knelt to retrieve the small glass vial from where it lay, resting on the white sand and reflecting the lights of Fatlington.

<>

The second stranger had found Prole’s gun and put one shot through the center of mass. The suit proved to be little protection against a .380 round and the first stranger collapsed onto the beach, dying. Proletariat’s rescuer staggered upright, went to Prole’ to confirm she was still alive, and then made his way into the night.

The police came in a few minutes. Proletariat was bruised and possibly concussed, but Evil_Maniac from Mars lay dead on the sands where he’d bled out from the wound in his back. The vial he’d dropped contained was some kind of nerve agent so secret that the Government never told Fermanagh’s inspectors what they’d found (Sarin). Another vial found in EMM’s drysuit pocket contained sodium hydroxide with a small label reading “Musashi” attached to it. This was never fully explained.


Makanyane had gotten through most of her evening pretty quietly. Dinner had been unremarkable, but the picture – “All the King’s Men” – was simply brilliant. Sleazy politics, political corruption – all the good stuff. She brushed her teeth, pulled off the body armor, put on a Summer nightgown and tucked herself in. She reached over to turn off the light…

“Nice pins, Mak,” said a muffled voice from her bedroom doorway. “Too bad you’re a filthy criminal.”

Makanyane was bolt upright in an instant, but the figure in the doorway only needed to tighten one finger.

<>

The gunshot sounded more like a cannon in the small room – hardly surprising since a .577 Webley carries a heck of a charge and the man behind the gun had up-grained the ammunition he filled for himself. The shot struck Makanyane in the middle of her sternum, punching through it and her heart with little effort on its way to a mushrooming impact with her spine – shattering that and severing her spinal cord. She slammed back into a sitting position against her headboard, eyes wide with shock, the light fading from them even as she stared at her killer.

“Say goodnight, Gracie.”

Fade to black.



Morning Meeting, Day Nine

“…So, anyway, it was a wild night, saints preserve us,” said commissioner Fermanagh, “we’ll know better what to make of it after we’ve investigated a few things. Now, for the latest results…”

“You lynched a Wiseguy – Xdeathfire – and we’ve been able to confirm his involvement in a few killings, though we have no particulars, just word on the street. As to the others, ajaxfetish and Lt. Pinard were townies with no known crime involvement, while Louis VI was a criminal who’d been involved in some of the Stracci murders – no surprise there I guess. FactionHeir was the surprise. “Word” and some of the tidbits we’ve dug up suggest he was a Made Gangster in one of the families. His death is a clear advantage for the town. We’re not through this yet, folks, but we’re having some success – at least with the smaller fish.”

JimBob took over the meeting as Fermanagh finished.

“Okay folks, remember we have to select a Director today, as well as lynch some scum…”


OOC

1. Day Nine is both a Vote and Selection (for 10/11) phase. Deadline for votes/selections will be 1600 EST 26 Feb 08 (2100 GMT).

2. Results of investigations will follow later tonight.

3. Updated List of Players:

Still Alive: (37) Alexander the Pretty Good, Big King Sanctaphrax, Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Elite Ferret, gibsonsg91921, Haudegen, Hiji, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Myrrdraal, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Roadkill, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, TinCow, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Xdeathfire, Xehh II.

Attacked: (29) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7, N8), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7, N8), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (26) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7), Evil_Manica from Mars (N8), Makanyane (N8), Sarathos (N8), Tran (N8)

Lynched: (8) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7), Sigurd Fafnesbane (D8)

Removed from Play: (8) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5), johnhughthom (D8)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #2598


“No one is innocent we all commit crimes, if you’re not guilty in their eyes, you’re guilty in mine. There are only two sides and a line that divides, if you stand in the middle you’re not on my side….Won’t shed a tear, I know I am right, and if I am caught, I’ll pay the price….If you don’t make a choice it could mean your life for if you’re not on my side you’re a target in my eyes.”
-- Vegan Reich



Sunset, Day Nine


“Thank you again for selecting me as your Director. I live for the opportunity to destroy the mafia utterly. This method is a harsh regimen for justice, but we face an ancient and cunning group of thieves and murderers. Harsh justice is the only thing they will understand.”

JimBob paused, gazing at each committee member in turn.

“Hiji!”

Hiji was suddenly stiff and upright in his chair. He was quickly flanked by two of Fermanagh’s goons.

“The Committee has adjudged you guilty and thereby sentenced you to die. Do you have anything to say.”

Hiji stood, silent tears coursing down his cheeks. He spoke.

“None of us, save the Lord, is truly innocent. If this is the way I must atone for my sins, then I go willingly to the Mercy Seat. You too are sinners – all of you! I warn you to seek your own atonement!”

The committee looked at him, some incredulous, others faintly nodding. JimBob merely indicated that the officers should take him away. Hiji was bound and taken to the loading docks to be hanged where the other hangings had occurred. This time the rope was much shorter and the drop did not snap his neck. It took Hiji several minutes to strangle. Whatever visions he saw as he shuffled off this mortal coil he did not share.

“Another one executed. Guard yourselves well this night and prepare to remove more of our enemy from this town. Farewell.”

The Committee filed out of the building and off into the gathering dark of another Fatlington night.



OOC

1. Night PMs are due by 1400 EST on 27 Feb 08 (1900 GMT). I have an evening commitment with the family and want this processed for you all prior to that time.

2. Vote and Selection Tallies:


Vote To Lynch:

Hiji = 10 (BSR, Cow, CR, Ferret, Kukri, Leet, Eyeless, Sasaki, Tin, True)

Ichigo = 3 (Craterus, Haud, Grizz)

Abstain = 2 (‘blade, Xehh)

Shlin28 = 1 (Caius)


Select Director (10 & 11)

JimBob = 13 (BSR, Cow, CR, Haud, Joe, Grizz, Myrd, nerd, Sasaki, shlin, Tin, True, Xehh)

Caius = 1 (Caius)

Craterus = 1 (Craterus)

Proletariat = 1(Kukri)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #2636

“A war's broken out in the funhouse
Targets painted in the mirror hall
Explode into shards of confusion
Embedded with trust behind unproven walls

Dodging the bullets of jokers
I'm hunting for aces in a deck of cards
Streaming the view from the frontline
Yet the frontline may be in our own backyard

I can't turn away from the glaring
In the eyes of such desperate hate
Am I taking control of my future
Or am I just taking the bait?

Chorus:
Enemy of my enemy
I've gone out on a limb to defend
Enemy of my enemy
I may never know if he's a friend

Enemy of my enemy
On his actions and words I depend
Enemy of my enemy
He may turn on me in the end”

-- Jason Didner (2003).



Summary, Night Nine

Ichigo had just stuffed the last half of his recently purchased hotdog into his mouth in one huge bite when the gunmen popped up from their hides across the street. Both gunners were well positioned – each to one side and angled so that Ichigo was in a crossfire and that any move away from the cart would involve crossing 20 feet of open pavement covered by one of the gunmen.

Up popped the first gunman, incongruously dressed in a hooded cape with tall pointed ears on the hood/mask.

“I’m Batman!” He shouted as he fired a short burst from his BAR.

“No! I'm Batman,” shouted the second – and equally costumed – gunman stood to fire a burst from his “Broom-handle” Mauser.

Their first bursts were short and controlled, perhaps 4 rounds apiece – just enough to force Ichigo to duck behind the hot dog cart, while spraying hotdog from his mouth. A stray round knee-capped the hotdog vendor who fell into the street in front of his cart screaming. Ichigo’s mind began moving at rapid fire.

<>

Ichigo felt the hairs on his neck raise when he remembered that the cart was parked directly in front of a narrow dark alley between two buildings…a third perfect hide. He gulped as a second short burst from each gunman announced that he was still very much in the crossfire, and then he looked into the alley, peering into the shadows for yet a third “caped crusader.”

<>

He didn’t ponder this for long, though the way things had been going he wouldn’t have been entirely surprised to find Vicky Vail waiting for him in the alley with a bazooka. Ichigo half slid/half duck-walked into the mouth of the alley – the only avenue not covered by the gunmen. He had no trouble leaving the scene.

Both Batmen looked pointedly at one another when Ichigo’s departure was not met by gunfire, and then both of them quit the scene as well. Whether they used radar to navigate the dark streets of Fatlington was never revealed.

Charge’s apartment looked like some kind of fortress. Iron grilles barred the windows, interior shutters of wood backed by steel could be swung to cover those windows, the door was reinforce with metal bands and locked at 4 points, and all of the exterior walls had been backed by neatly stacked sand-bags. Anything less than an M4 Sherman wasn’t likely to force its way in. He was as safe as a Fatlington committee member could be – unfortunately, that wasn’t a very high benchmark.

The hit team moved with a reasonably quick efficiency. One quickly climbed the utility pole out front and disconnected both the power and the building’s phone cable. Two others broke into the basement to start up a generator they brought with them. Another made a purposefully botched effort at breaching the door while yet another used a silenced rifle to take pot-shots at Charge’s windows.

Charge slammed the shutters on all three windows, slid the armoire in front of the door and chocked its wheels, checked his weapons to be safe, and sat back to laugh at their puny efforts to kill him. After a time, with only a few pings/splinters from the window shutters, he found himself growing listless. This feeling grew until, despite the occasional shots at his windows, he fell fast asleep.

The basement crew kept the generator running for more than an hour. Then they shut off the generator, snaked the exhaust tubing back down the air vent from Charge’s apartment, and removed their equipment and themselves.

Skin flushed in a pleasant pink glow, Charge should have been deader than a brick when Fermanagh’s “you must attend the meeting team” broke down his door to fetch him for the Mid-morning meeting at the Convention Center. Instead they found him unconscious but not seriously harmed on the floor of the empty – but well ventilated – apartment immediately below his. Apparently, unknown to Charge or anyone else, termites had been at the flooring of his apartment and the floor had chosen the brief timeframe after he’d passed out but before he’d expired to collapse, spilling him into the fresher air below. The ventilation had been sufficient to prevent the carbon monoxide seeping down into the second apartment from killing him.

Of course, Fermanagh’s bright lights figured out exactly none of what had happened. Though they noticed a few shots into all the shutters and some crowbar damage at the apartment door, nothing had penetrated Charge’s defenses. They shrugged and took him to the meeting.


Haudegen was on his guard these days, so when the kid who was tossing up his baseball and catching it underneath the streetlight turned and tossed the ball to Haudegen, he suppressed his reflexes and ducked behind one of the parked cars while pulling his weapon.

The kid screamed and ran, but Haudegen ignored him, focusing his attention on the fellow in the trenchcoat just behind the next apartment building stoop. That one was drawing a weapon. Haudegen shifted to his left to put the roof of the car between him and the shooter without having to crouch and slow down his mobility. He’d maneuvered carefully…right where his killers wanted him. Checkmate.

Two long muzzle flashes lanced from the back of a canvas topped delivery truck, the heavy reports of the weapon arriving only a split second after the rounds themselves. Both bullets struck Haudegen squarely, hammering themselves into large mushrooms on the front of his body armor. Unfortunately for Haudegen, he’d been shot from behind. Ma Deuce had spoken, and her word was very, very final.

A single red rose was found on Haudegen’s shattered body.


Proletariat wasn’t out to win friends and influence people. Her walk home tonight would not likely get her elected Miss Congeniality either. People shied from her path or found a reason to go back into the store they’d just exited rather than cross her path. This might have been a result of the tense scowl on her otherwise alluring face, but it was more probably a reaction to the fact that she was walking with her handgun drawn and held in a half-raised position. It wouldn’t do, in Prole’s view, to rely solely “on the kindness of strangers.”

When the attack came, she still hesitated a second before firing. She’d feared a balloon of some sort – walking by a child’s party at some restaurant was getting her nervous for Heaven’s sake – but never really expected that the attack would be from someone wearing a high-collared black coat and wielding a huge two-handed sword.

Proletariat ducked the first swipe of the ashandarei and broke left to widen the distance between them. The swordsman spun on his heel and pulled back for another stroke.

<>

Prole’, off balance, fired as rapidly as she could pull the trigger. She hit her target twice but failed to punch through the body armor that he – like just about everyone – was wearing. By firing off balance, she managed to knock herself off her own feet, but this did serve to put her under the next swipe of that deadly blade. Supine, she would be at the mercy of the next blow – but already there were sirens blaring and the footsteps of some of Fatlington’s beat cops announced that there would be no time for that final killing stroke.

The swordsman cursed under his breath and faded into the shadows before the police could apprehend him. If only an accomplice had materialized to divide her fire or to delay the police….


Morning Meeting, Day 10

“…the police are doing everything we can to hold a lid on this madhouse. We’ve had no knew outbreaks, so we don’t have any worries on that score, but I simply don’t have the patrol power to interdict the violence of the mafia. You’ve GOT to bring this to a conclusion.”

Fermanagh paused.

“I also regret having to notify you of the deaths of Alexander the Pretty Good, Big King Sanctaphrax, and Roadkill as they were being driven here this morning. Some idiot tourist ran a light and well….I’m sorry for those of you who were close with any of them.”

“Our investigations following the deaths of committee members have turned up the following. Husar was, at least at the outset of this, an innocent townie. We’ve turned up mixed leads as to his acitivities since the committee formed, but nothing conclusive. Vigilantes apparently did us a favor with NorthNovas, who was a made member of one of the mafia families and no loss to Fatlington. We’ve confirmed the same about Dutch_Guy, who we were able to identify as a Mafia Luca, though we weren’t able to provide independent corroboration as to which family. Keep up the good work!”

JimBob went briefly through the procedures and adjourned the meeting until late afternoon.


OOC

1. Lynch Voting for Day 10 will conclude at 1600 EST, 2-28-8 (2100 GMT).
2. Current List of Players:

Still Alive: (31) Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, CountArach, Cowhead418, Craterus, Crazed Rabbit, Draco Leman, Elite Ferret, gibsonsg91921, Ichigo, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, LittleGrizzly, Myrrdraal, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, TinCow, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Xehh II.

Attacked: (32) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Charge (N9), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Ichigo (N9), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7, N8, N9), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7, N8), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (27) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7), Makanyane (N8), Sarathos (N8), Tran (N8), Haudegen (N9)

Lynched: (9) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7), Sigurd Fafnesbane (D8), Hiji (D9)

Removed from Play: (11) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5), johnhughthom (D8), Alexander the Pretty Good (N9), Big King Sanctaphrax (N9), Roadkill (N9)

3. That’s 9 Executions and 59 murder attempts so far – what a wonderful town Fatlington is!

[Andres]

This is main thread post #2829


"So they say theyll set me free if I plead quilty and let it be
but Im not the one who did their crimes so why should I keep taking their jives
Im done playing all their games…
when Im innocent and concerned of who I am and what I’ve learned
I’m not the one who did their crimes -- there’s no justice,
There’s just us blind justice screwed all of us theres no justice
there’s just us we need justice for all of us"
-- Agnostic Front



Sunset, Day Ten

JimBob visibly scowled as he looked over the results. After a long pause, he spoke.

“Crazed Rabbit, you have been judged guilty by this committee of vigilance. Do you have anything to say?”

Rabbit looked back at JimBob, nodding <> with a slow shake of his head. He then turned to scan the rest of the committee with a steely glare. TinCow stood quickly as though he would say something, but Rabbit merely held up his hand, shook his head <> again, and walked from the room accompanied by Fermanagh’s officers.

The committee watched in silence from the windows overlooking the boardwalk as Rabbit was marched out to the far railing and a firing squad of officers was lined up opposite him. Rabbit refused the blindfold with a nod, but took the offered Camel. He took a few long pulls from the cigarette as the squad of officers checked their weapons, and brought them up to the firing position.

The fusillade rang out as Rabbit made one last long exhale. He slammed into the railing and softly crumpled onto the boardwalk.

“That concludes this meeting,” said JimBob. He continued, so softly that only a few could hear, “omelets and eggs; omelets and eggs.”

The remaining committee members filed out of the center and into the fading light of another Fatlington sunset. Perhaps tonight would bring relief from the sweltering heat…perhaps.


OOC

1. I’ll be out of town from about mid-day tomorrow until mid-day Sunday. An unplanned family trip resulting from a change in the wife’s work plans. I’ll take you PMs up to 1800 EST on Sunday 2 March 08 (2300 GMT). My write up will probably be published the following morning and we’ll resume 24-hour cycling from there. Sorry for the longer than usual session.

2. Vote Tally for Day 10

Crazed Rabbit = 7 (CA, Ichigo, Kage, Leet, Sasaki, shlin, True)

Ichigo = 5 (Crat, CR, EF, Kukri, Tinc)

Craterus = 4 (Cow, Joe, Griz, Myrd)

Charge = 1 (Xehh)

Abstain = 1 (Prole)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #2898

“Running through this neverending night
lost in space and time, beyond the light…
Just dare a look behind you and you'll see
the one who can now save you is me
I guide you on this lonesome ride
and if you trust in me you'll see the light”
-- Lonewolf



Summary, Night Ten


LittleGrizzly breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight’s thunderstorm had a different “feel” to it. Maybe, at long last, they’d get a break from this weeks-long hot spell and go back to some regular summer weather. He patted his coat, making sure the automatic was there and paused to adjust the line of his armor-vest. With all of this gear now more or less required in Fatlington, he’d appreciate a spell of cooler weather for sure.

This first shot came from above and behind, ricocheting off the van he was standing behind. Grizz broke quickly, moving toward the shooter. A burst of heavy automatic fire hammered into the far side of the van, the spot to where most would have fled seeking cover from the opening shot.

<> thought LittleGrizzly. <>

Griz’ whipped out his handgun and ratcheted off 4 rounds at the group of windows where he guessed the first shooter was hidden. He jogged to the right to put a metal post between his back and the 2nd shooter, who was moving out from the far side of the van to line up another burst from what appeared to be a BAR. LittleGrizzly tossed a couple of rounds that way too – sometimes the best defense is a good offense. He missed.

The BAR man opened up – shooting controlled three-round bursts and keeping Griz’ on the move. Try as he might, the shooter couldn’t keep a bead on LittleGrizzly long enough to hit him. LittleGrizzly changed magazines on the run and hopped over a low cinderblock wall to get behind cover. The BAR hammered a few rounds into the blocks but couldn’t reach Griz’, who fired back more carefully this time, hammering down the BAR man with a torso shot.

<> thought LittleGrizzly. <>

A new weapon spoke from the windows where the first shooter had started the drama, and these shots – from a .50 caliber M2 Browning heavy machine gun – tore through the cinderblocks and hammered into Griz’s arms and chest. Despite the wall and the armor, he was wounded and unconscious when the BAR man painfully walked over to him. A single head shot ended LittleGrizzly. A red rose was dropped on the corpse.

Cowhead418 knew he’d been lucky from the outset. After dodging death just after the formation of the Committee, he’d been left in comparative quiet. Even so, he carefully looked around as he exited his favorite Tappy – caution was always called for these days. There was nobody around.

He’d only taken two steps when all 4 cars parked near that corner seemed to explode at him. Actually, large blocks of plastic explosive had been taped inside the doors of those cars where they faced the taproom door. The effect was as though 4 gigantic grenades had been placed in a semicircular arc in front of Cowhead. He was torn to ribbons by the gigantic pieces of shrapnel and a dozen patrons at the bar were injured as the door, windows, chunks of car door and a few pieces of Cowhead418 were driven into the bar itself by the force of the explosion. Two others died from their wounds along with Cowhead418.

The firefighters and police who responded moments later were surprised to find a large banner with a message in Gothic script draped between two windows above the shattered bar. The message read: “il destino è inesorabile.”


Ichigo met his destiny while driving towards a late-night coffee shop. The car in front of him slammed on its brakes, causing him to slam into the car despite his quick reactions. Then the following vehicle hit him from behind, sandwiching his vehicle and keeping it completely immobilized.

Ichigo was already trying kick open one of the bent doors when the firepower began. Tommy guns, shotguns, even a Garand hammered at Ichigo and his car from at least four directions. Rounds found their way through the doors and windows and, eventually, through Ichigo as well. Despite the body armor and the reinforcing on the doors, Ichigo was wounded more than 30 times and bled out before help could arrive. Investigators later counted more than 400 bullet holes in the vehicle – not counting the ones that went through the glass.

Only one thing marred the “normality” of the scene. Sometime during the accident or the shooting – whether because it had been opened or because the trunk latch had been shot apart – the trunk of the car that Ichigo had hit had popped open. Inside was a banner with a short message: “Sorry, buddy.” Nobody could explain this.


At four A.M., Elite Ferret was soundly asleep when his apartment door was rent in two by some kind of axe. At least that was what Elite thought it sounded like as he shot bolt upright in bed and cracked his head on the headboard. Shouts were erupting from all of the apartments on that floor.

Ferret was reaching for his revolver in the bedside table when some kind of thin blade sliced down and through the upper half of his bedroom door. Ferret leapt out of bed and went to the window as a second slash tore off the top corner of the door. The window was open and Ferret starting to climb through when a heavy boot kicked the weakened door off its hinges. Ferret looked at the figure in the doorway.

Below the full facemask was a high-collared black coat with a silver sword-pin on the left collar point. In the hands of this figure was some kind of sword on a long wooden handle.

<> thought Ferret, fixating on the deadly blade.

The ashenderei swung out, reaching for Elite Ferret, who dropped his grip on the window and fell the 20 feet to the bushes below rather than test the blade’s sharpness. He landed well, without breaking or spraining anything, and quickly made his way to the nearest police precinct. The officers did not believe his story until people in the nearby apartments confirmed it. Nobody had tried to stop the bladesman as he made his exit. Go figure.


Proletariat…

….slept soundly after a good dinner. She awoke better rested than she had in many a day.


Morning Meeting, Day Eleven.

“…and so that’s what we know happened last night,” concluded Chief Fermanagh.

“Now, for the results on those who died during this fight.” He paused again, and smiled -- dimples appearing on his round cheeks.

“You’ve done great work so far. Your lynch victim of Day Eight – Sigurd Fafnesbane – has been proven to have been one of the Dons of a local crime family! Well Done! Moreover, either vigilantes working for the town or scum killing off one another managed to take out more mafia! Makanyane was a mafia Luca and both Sarathos and Tran were WiseGuys rumored to have been part of mafia killing teams. If we could determine who was working with what family, it would be easier to sort things out, but all-in-all Fatlington won big that night. Keep up the good work!”

JimBob gave the group one of his rare smiles and then began to review the procedures.



OOC

See addendum of information in #2903.

Lynch Voting and Director Selection both for Day 11. This phase will conclude at 0900 EST on 4 March 2008 (1400 GMT).

Thanks for your patience with me on the long weekend session. The “neverending night” jibe as aimed at your host.

List of Players

Still Alive: (27) Brave Sir Robin, Caeser the III, Caius, Charge, CountArach, Craterus, Draco Leman, Elite Ferret, gibsonsg91921, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, Myrrdraal, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, TinCow, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Warluster, Xehh II.

Attacked: (33) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Charge (N9), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Elite Ferret (N10), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Ichigo (N9), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7, N8, N9), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7, N8), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (30) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7), Makanyane (N8), Sarathos (N8), Tran (N8), Haudegen (N9), Cowhead418 (N10), Ichigo (N10), LittleGrizzly (N10).

Killed During an Attack: (1) Evil_Maniac from Mars (N8).

Lynched: (10) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7), Sigurd Fafnesbane (D8), Hiji (D9), Crazed Rabbit (D10)

Removed from Play: (11) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5), johnhughthom (D8), Alexander the Pretty Good (N9), Big King Sanctaphrax (N9), Roadkill (N9)

Addendum from post #2903

NOTE

Fermanagh stepped quickly back into the morning meeting just before JimBob adjourned.

"I'm that sorry, but I forgot one sheet of my notes. The only one to have been killed while attacking was Evil_Maniac from Mars. He appeared to be another WiseGuy though we had no rumors of his having been part of a kill team. When we tossed his apartment we found a hidden room with poisonous snakes, fish, and a full chem lab as well as a collection of about 100 different scalpels....still don't know quite what to make of that. johnhughthom was an innocent townie."

JimBob finally gaveled the morning meeting closed, telling Kukri to put his ballot in the box and check it at the evening meeting later.

[Andres]

This is main thread post #2991


“I used to be so certain
Of where my life was going
But now it seems that I've been flirting with disaster
Now I can see all my plans
They're dissolving in the wind
And now it seems it's time to find another road”
-- John Mark Thomas


Sunset, Day Eleven -- incomplete

JimBob seemed strangely “absent” as he went through the tallies. He’d been so avid for the destruction of the mafia that this new and “disconnected” left the tense members of the committee concerned that he was no longer the one for the job. Accordingly, JimBob was forced to step aside as director in favor of Proletariat. Selection choices had been clear, with almost all of the voting members selecting her.

The lynch vote was much closer and, as a result, was tallied and re-tallied to be certain of a clear result. Finally, JimBob stood holding the tally sheet and looking at the committee. Officers moved to flank Warluster and Charge.

“I am unable to get a true sense of this committee’s wishes. It is my preference to avoid a tie, unless we have a clear notion that such a tie is the actual desire of the committee. Accordingly, I am following Mayor TosaInu’s dictum that the resolution of the tie is my choice. I therefore choose to allow another round of voting and have that be the final decision. Should a tie occur at that point, I will consult with my successor as to a final disposition.”


OOC

1. Myrddraal's unvote of Prole left him, officially, with no registered vote as he did not re-vote Warluster. Picky, yes, but we're in the endgame so....

2. Current Director unavailable so far to PM me as to his wishes for a tie.

3. Data Backup occurring at 0900 slowing votes/participation.

4. Therefore, I extend lynch voting (only) to 1300 today (1800 GMT). All lynch votes prior that point will be counted. Here is my latest tally:

Latest Tally

Lynch Votes: (of 26)

Charge = 7 (BSR, CA, Crat, Joe, Kukri, Prole, Tinc)

WarLuster = 7 (Caius, Charge, Ferret, gibson, kage, Sasaki, shlin)

Abstain = 3 (Iron, True, ‘blade)


Selections: (15 of 27, complete)

Proletariat** = 12 (CA, Iron, Joe, Kage, Kukri, Myrd, Prole, Sasaki, shlin, Tinc, True, ‘blade)

Abstain = 1 (Crat)

Myrddraal = 1 (Charge)

TinCow = 1 (Ferret)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3023


“I hold on clutching to the hope that i'll be strong
When it comes down to the wire
I'll hold on to with every ounce of strength within me
When it comes down to the wire”
--Fates Warning


Sunset, Day Eleven – Concluded.

The votes were tallied again, with two guards flanking each of the committee members deemed likely to be a “finalist” in this particular vote. JimBob spoke.

“The will of the committee is that Charge is to be executed. That sentence shall be carried out immediately. You shall die by the blade.”

JimBob reached behind the table at the back of the dais and removed an ancient hand-and-a-half sword from its sheathe. He strode forcefully toward the pinioned Charge, who struggled slightly in the arms of the police as outgoing Director as JimBob raised the weapon.

“Need a big knife to compensate for something,” sneered Charge.

“Anything else to say, Mafioso?”

“Yeah, I think this whole t…”

JimBob punched the pommel of the heavy sword into Charge’s teeth, breaking several and cracking his jaw. The police jumped back reflexively.

“That concludes your statement,” said JimBob.

The big sword whirled and reflex brought up Charge’s arms to ward off the blow. Ancient or not, the blade went most of the way through the arm, severing arteries and bone and leaving Charge’s hand quivering in a never-spasm as it dangled from the loose flesh still connecting it. Charge screamed through his bloodied face. JimBob’s second blow met less resistance and slashed down through one shoulder cutting into Charge’s scapula and collarbone at the same time. Charge dropped, bleeding profusely and in too much pain to say anything. JimBob raise his sword once more as he looked down at Charge. Gathering himself, he shouted…

“Sic Semper Furibus!”

… and plunged the point of the blade down through Charge’s heart, killing him.

The committee and the officers had all backed away as JimBob attacked Charge, leaving the two figures in the center of an open circle as some kind of tableau of brutal justice.

“The Axe is broken, the crown riven, but the blade strikes true,” said JimBob. “Our affairs here this evening are concluded. Proletariat will brief you in the morning.”

The committee filed out in an ominous silence.



OOC

Night PM’s will be accepted up through 1000 EST 5 March 2008 (1500 GMT).

Late Vote Changes were not counted. No technical difficulties were delaying things and all were present.


Lynch Votes: (18 of 26)

Charge = 8 (BSR, CA, Charge, Crat, Joe, Kukri, Prole, Tinc)

WarLuster = 7 (Caius, Ferret, gibson, kage, Myrd, Sasaki, shlin)

Abstain = 3 (Iron, True, ‘blade)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3045


"We are beasts
Out of the light, into the dark
Hatred grows inside of me
Like a torch it is burning high
Step into my mind….
My true face shows disharmony
I am my own reality…
Open your eyes and look"
-- Teatre


Summary, Night Eleven


Warluster had enjoyed a quiet dinner at his favorite café. Though on the committee, he had seldom voted and had only rarely spoken up with his opinion. He had been present, but had chosen not to stand out. His low profile would not be enough protection.

He was walking for his car when he saw the shrouded figures detach themselves from the shadows between and in front of the buildings across the street. Warluster raced for his car – a car he’d had retrofitted into a “Fatlington Special” with armor and bullet resistant glass. If he could get inside, he’d stand a chance and might even be able to use the car for a counterattack. He reached the door and pulled on the handle. It didn’t budge. Someone had thoughtfully spot-welded the door shut.

<>

Warluster heard the bolts of the gunmens’ weapons click back as they readied to fire. He spun himself, going for a handgun, but was much too late. He cleared his pistol from its holster, but didn’t even get it up and level before the first shells from the sustained bursts by all 5 Tommy guns slammed into him. He took more than 30 hits on his body armor along with a dozen grazes and hits in the arms and legs, slamming back into the door of the car.

Warluster was built tough. Despite the wounds, he stayed focused and brought his gun up, firing a quick double tap just before all five Tommy gunners let loose with a second burst. With wounds and shock hampering his aim, both of Warluster’s shots missed…his attackers. Draco Leman, sitting in a café on the opposite side of the street took both slugs square in the face, depositing his brains across half a dozen other café patrons. Despite all of his injuries, Warluster had still managed a tight shot group.

Warluster died more or less the same way. His attackers, by some unspoken but fully shared agreement, let their second bursts drift high. Most of the shots still hit Warlusters arms or body armor, but 3 slammed into his head bringing the tough man down.

Seconds later, a 6th shrouded gunmen jogged up.

“When’s the hit?”

His partners looked at him, then looked back at Warluster’s body.

“Oh, a bit late. Sorry.”

With the first five shaking their heads, all of them made their way back under the cloak of darkness.


Myrddraal was proving a source of vexation to the two men currently staring at him through the crosshairs of their 10X-scoped Garands. There was simply no way to get a good bead on him. He didn’t move at a consistent pace, he would seemingly effortlessly put a lamppost or step railing or group of tourists between himself and one of the shooters. His movements were unpredictable and he didn’t leave any real opening for an attack.

Then another figure walked out of an alley and confronted Myrddraal. This man was masked and clad in a jet black, high-collared frock coat bearing a silver sword pin on one collar point and a gold and red dragon on the other. He held a five-foot black wooden staff with a silvery-sharp 15” blade on one end. Myrddraal stopped and the masked figure spoke.

“Shall we dance, Eyeless?”

Myrddraal leapt back two steps as his attacker whirled the Ashenderi through a deadly arc. Despite his swift reactions, the tip of the blade had still slashed a shallow rent across the face of his thick body armor. Myrddraal slipped sideways and went for his gun as his attacker moved forward with a thrusting attack. He side-slipped that attack and hit his attacker with a pair of shots from the .38 he carried, driving him back but failing to knock him down Apparently the coat was not just for looks..

“You’ll need to do better then that, half-man!”

The bladesman moved forward with a rapid series of attacks, pressing Myrddraal and forcing him to block at least two strikes by using the revolver as a shield – it would be useless thereafter as anything else.

Coming to Myrddraal’s aid, Caeser the III darted out from the crowd of onlookers gathered at the windows and doorway of the store in front of which the two men were “dancing” and attempted to tackle the bladesman. Caeser was fast, but not quite fast enough. Just as he reached the bladesman, the ashenderi had been spun and brought back in a rapid back-spike. The blade punched through Caeser’s ribs, transfixing him sideways through the chest. Myrddraal dropped his useless gun and pulled his backup piece from a leg-holder.

Eyes wide with shock, the dying Caeser the III grabbed the bladesman’s mask and then collapsed, unmasking Myrddraal’s attacker and wrenching the ashenderi from his grip. Myrddraal stopped in surprise.

“Twilightblade?”

Whatever ‘blade's answer would have been, Myrddraal never heard it. The shock of seeing Twilightblade as his attacker had caused him to pause in place for the first time all night. Both shots struck above his left ear within an inch of each other and traveling at different deadly angles. The right side of his skull blew outward like a shattered melon, spraying the onlookers in the store and bringing the whole dark affair to a shocked conclusion. Myrddraal was dead before he hit the pavement.

In the stunned silence following, ‘blade bent down and, with some effort, retrieved his weapon. He was gone into the night before the stunned onlookers could gather themselves to move. Moments later, one of the shooters used the milling crowd surrounding the macabre scene as cover and dropped a piece of parchment bearing a message in Gothic script: “il destino e inesorabile.”

Few of the witnesses gave a consistent version of events to the investigators and none knew where the parchment had come from. Only one component was consistent across all of their stories. One member of the Committee of Vigilance could look forward to a lot of questions the next day.


Morning Meeting, Day Twelve


“…well, as odd as it sounds, that’s what our witnesses report,” said Commissioner Fermanagh.

“Our longer term investigations have produced the following results. Roadkill and Alexander the Pretty Good were honest townies with no apparent crime connections. Big King Sanctaphrax and Haudegen were both WiseGuys, but neither seemed to have any links whatsoever to the mafia. In fact, that may have been why Huadegen was killed. We’re unable to figure out what was going on with Hiji. He was, by all accounts, a very straight-laced citizen with no criminal record or leanings whatsoever. His apartment was barren, save for a cot, a stool in the kitchen, and a large wooden cross. His storage closet outside contained a pair of shears, 50 yards of mid-gauge wire on a spool and about 2000 feet of nylon cord, also on a spool. Makes no sense to us.”

Fermanagh exited the large meeting room with its bloodstained floor. Proletariat went over the procedures again before adjourning the meeting.



OOC

1. Lynch Voting begins for Day 12. This phase will conclude at 1600 EST on 6 March 2008 (2100 GMT).

2. Current List of Players:

Still Alive: (22) Brave Sir Robin, Caius, CountArach, Craterus, Elite Ferret, gibsonsg91921, Ironside, JimBob, Joe Monks, Jubal_Barca, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, TinCow, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Xehh II.

Attacked: (33) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Charge (N9), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Elite Ferret (N10), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Ichigo (N9), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7, N8, N9), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7, N8), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (32) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7), Makanyane (N8), Sarathos (N8), Tran (N8), Haudegen (N9), Cowhead418 (N10), Ichigo (N10), LittleGrizzly (N10), Myrddraal (N11), Warluster (N11).

Killed During an Attack: (1) Evil_Maniac from Mars (N8).

Lynched: (11) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7), Sigurd Fafnesbane (D8), Hiji (D9), Crazed Rabbit (D10), Charge (D11)

Removed from Play: (13) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5), johnhughthom (D8), Alexander the Pretty Good (N9), Big King Sanctaphrax (N9), Roadkill (N9), Caeser the III (N11), Draco Leman (N11)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3201


“Announcements, announcements, announcements ,
A terrible death to die, terrible death to die,
A terrible death to be talked to death,
A terrible death to die
Announcements, announcements, announcements,
Ohhh... “
-- Scouting Song



Sunset, Day Twelve

Proletariat went through the counting procedure smoothly. She herself had chosen to abstain before recalling that her own vote was invalid.

<>

After checking the tally and having it confirmed by one of the six officers assigned to her as director, Proletariat addressed the assembly.

“TinCow, you have been condemned by the vote of this committee…”

Two officers quickly pinioned his arms.

“…do you have anything to sa…”

“Of course I do,” said Tincow, "It is completely incorrect to assume I am guilty here…”

TinCow launched into involved argument as to his innocence and Arach’s and Sasaki’s guilt at what a later age would call “spreading” speed in policy debate. As each point was made and affirmed, TinCow grew progressively redder and redder in the face. Counterpoints flowed in a beautiful and intricate dance from his tongue even as his breathing became more and more ragged and his left foot began to stutter-tap as he spoke. Finally, somewhere in counterpoint 19, paragraph two, sub-point eleven, his adrenalin tortured body had enough. His left eye bulged a bit as the aneurysm burst inside his brain and his red face quickly paled. He paused.

“Oh, bother,” TinCow said softly, and then he collapsed into the flanking grasp of Fermanagh’s officers. He was dead before they could lay him flat to “give him some air.”

Proletariat confirmed his death and announced:

“The condemned has expired. This evening’s meeting is concluded.”

The committee filed out into the relative cool of the gathering dark. Another night would soon weave its shroud over Fatlington.


OOC

1. Night PMs are due by 1600 EST 7 March 2008 (2100 GMT).

2. Final Tally (15 of 21 possible):

TinCow = 5 (Caius, Arach, Joe, Kage, Leet)

CountArach = 4 (Ferret, Sasaki, shlin, Tinc)

Abstain = 2 (scott, True) & Prole

Sasaki Kojiro = 2 (gibs, xehh)

Gibsong91929 = 1 (crat)

Twighlightblade = 1 (kukri)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3258


”Hope you reach the sphere you dreamt of
Broken dreams seem so dreadful, grotesque
Slowly all your power's fading
Your own life shines so worthless, sinful
Embraced by silent shadows
Loneliness, guides all your path
No one's left to hear you
Alone with your fear of death”
-- Fleshcrawl


Summary, Night Twelve


Elite Ferret was running late. Dinner had been just perfect, but staying for the soufflé was obviously not helping him get where he needed to be. So, while racing down Atlantic Avenue past the Hotel Abbatoir, he wasn’t quite as attentive as he should have been. When the dump truck rolled into place to block the next intersection, Ferret reacted quickly enough to stop and avoid an accident, but not quickly enough to make it to the side alley or pull a bootleg turn and get clear.

The masked driver grinned at Ferret and glanced toward the back of the dumptruck. With a cold shard of fear-adrenalin spiking through him, Ferret followed the man’s gaze, only to see…nothing. Both Ferret and the masked driver looked at the empty space at the back of the truck and then both got their vehicles in motion.

Almost immediately, Ferret had his car in reverse and was riding backward against the legal flow of traffic towards the hotel as fast as he could move. Luckily for Ferret there was no oncoming traffic. Accelerating more slowly the dumptruck turned into the street and followed him – any impact would not favor Ferret’s sedan. Ferret tried to bootleg his car in front of the hotel, but ended up hitting the curb and stopping his car. The truck reached the intersection still accelerating, intent on smashing Ferret’s car and ending the pursuit.

JimBob was staring at Ferret’s car as he drove through the intersection, surprised by a car reversing through – he never looked left. The dumptruck t-boned JimBob’s car at 50 miles an hour and ended up skidding both vehicles into the parked cars. JimBob was dead at the scene with his car crushed to the width of a sofa.

Stunned and unmasked by an earlier collision than he’d been planning on, CountArach was seen by a dozen Fatlings before he could get out of the dumptruck and make his exit from the scene. A shaken Elite Ferret spent much of the rest of the evening at the hotel bar.


Brave Sir Robin was returning to his bungalow quite frustrated with the evening’s events.

<> he thought.

He smelled the gas when he opened the door, turning quickly to get away. Then the whole bungalow blew to fragments. Robin wasn’t killed by the blast, but between the burns and the splinters he wasn’t in good shape when he landed in the middle of the street. It took his killer no time at all to finish the job with a quick double-tap from a revolver. A piece of neat parchment was left on Brave Sir Robin’s corpse: “il destino e inesorabile.” The killers made their escape by heading the last half block to the beach and walking clear under the boardwalk.

It took the police hours to sort things out. All-in-all 4 other people besides BSR had been killed by large flying splinters and shards of glass from the exploding building and another 13 injured. Among the dead was Jubal_Barca transfixed through the neck by a long sliver of exploded two-by-four while standing on the boardwalk half a block away.


Kukrikhan just wasn't himself. He chatted with a couple of others on the way out of the meeting and then went home, walking as though numb and unthinking. When he reached his rowhome, he sat at the kitchen table and began cleaning a large heavy pistol. He cleaned it, then cleaned it again. He went on oiling and polishing the weapon for hours.

At midnight, his front door burst open and a masked man strode through. Shotgun in hand and at the ready he advanced into the kitchen, while all the while Kukri just stared at the Webley and went on polishing the weapon. Incredulous, the gunman walked up next to the table standing at the kitchen window with his shotgun trained on an unseeing Kukrikhan.

And then gunfire erupted from tommy gunners who had been scattered throughout the apartment. One ducked out of the laundry room behind the kitchen. Two others came from the front room through which the assassin had entered. All of them fired bursts that slammed into the gunman and hammered him through the kitchen window and down into the alley below. Kukri' never moved, save to continue his slow meticulous polishing.

The tommy gunners looked out the shattered window for the gunman, but the fall was less than 10 feet and the coat had, apparently, been well armored. They only glimpsed a figure staggering back into the shadows at the end of the alley. By the time they reached the alley, the lone gunman had disappeared.

Kukrikhan kept polishing the gun until about 2am when he passed out on the table. When he awoke the next morning, he was stunned and surprised to see his window shattered and bullet holes hammmered into the wall. He recalled nothing.


Morning Meeting, Day Thirteen

“…and that concludes my wrap-up,” said Commissioner Fermanagh. He paused, and then his face grew very somber.

“Our investigations teams and the coroner’s folk have produced the following results – and for the most part they’re not too good. Cowhead418 was one of my secret detectives on the committee. His loss leaves me with a big whole to fill in the department.”

Fermanagh paused, then resumed.

“We also lost a protection specialist, a surgeon, when Littlegrizzly went down. He’d been very active in supporting the Fatlington cause. Our only success was the removal of Ichigo. Our sources indicate he was a made gangster in one of the mafia families.”

Another pause.

“We blew it big time with the lynching on Day 10. Crazed Rabbit was a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Director Hoover has been tearing me a new as…er…expressing his displeasure with Fatlington and with me in particular rather volubly. It seems Director Hoover was personally writing Rabbit a letter of commendation for something or other when he heard the news. We really hurt the town with that one folks. You have to do better – or we’re all in for it."

Fermanagh turned over the meeting to Proletariat, who reviewed the procedures and then adjourned. What would today’s sunshine reveal?


OOC

Lynch Voting begins for Day 13. This is also the phase to select a Director for Days 14 and 15. This phase will conclude at 1200 EST on 9 March 2008 (1700 GMT).

Current List of Players:

Still Alive: (18) Caius, CountArach, Craterus, Elite Ferret, gibsonsg91921, Ironside, Joe Monks, Kagemusha, KukriKhan, Leet Erikson, norwegian nerd, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Xehh II.

Attacked: (35) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Charge (N9), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Elite Ferret (N10, N12), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Ichigo (N9), Kagemusha (N6), Kukrikhan (N12), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7, N8, N9), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7, N8), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (33) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7), Makanyane (N8), Sarathos (N8), Tran (N8), Haudegen (N9), Cowhead418 (N10), Ichigo (N10), LittleGrizzly (N10), Myrddraal (N11), Warluster (N11), Brave Sir Robin (N12).

Killed During an Attack: (1) Evil_Maniac from Mars (N8).

Lynched: (12) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7), Sigurd Fafnesbane (D8), Hiji (D9), Crazed Rabbit (D10), Charge (D11), TinCow (D12)

Removed from Play: (15) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5), johnhughthom (D8), Alexander the Pretty Good (N9), Big King Sanctaphrax (N9), Roadkill (N9), Caeser the III (N11), Draco Leman (N11), JimBob (N12), Jubal_Barca (N12).

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3561



“Where you eat food, snatch plate, wherever drama come
Live by the gun, die by the gun
When it jump off - make it pop, you be the only one
Live by the gun, die by the gun
In this game of life - play hard, you only got one
Live by the gun, die by the gun”
-- Tragedy Khadafi



Sunset, Day 13

This evening’s meeting had been…different. No longer did the Committee mingle. Instead, as if by some unspoken choice, they had gravitated to opposite sides of a central aisle among the chairs. One side held a few more people than the other, and the expressions on several of those faces was nothing less than feral. Those grins only got more wolfish as Craterus was selected to be Director for the next two days. The counting continued.

Proletariat looked incredulously at the slip of paper with the vote talley. Her blue eyes narrowed to slits, and through gritted teeth she spat out:

"KukriKhan, it's all over," Proletariat gulped hard and then continued. “Hand over your firearm, and accept your destiny."

"From my cold, dead hands!" shouted Kukri as he went for his own hand-cannon.

He'd always fancied himself a Mike Hammer-type guy, even going so far as to affect the worn, cheap double-breasted suits and fedora of that dark hero of pulp fiction novels. He'd also taken to loading his own ammunition for use in his beloved .577 Webley revolver. But this morning, perhaps because of last night’s events, he'd mis-counted. Three extra grains of gunpowder were in the shell that just this instant found itself spinning into position in front of the hammer that would strike its cap – just three little grains…

"Die Scum Sasaki!" Kukri raged, aiming the Webley at Kojiro.

<>

The crowd ducked, but no slug left the barrel on its deadly course. Instead "the only one who understood" Kukri exploded in his hand, mangling fingers, thumb and palm into what looked like ground beef. Kukri paused, swaying slightly as the meeting room echoed with the concussion of the explosion.

Kukri fell back, silently crumpling to the floor. Kojiro fell back into his seat – he’s knees not willing to hold him up. Commissioner Fermanagh walked over and gently lifted the battered fedora from Kukri’s head. Fermanagh immediately saw Kukri's fate. The Webley's broken hammer had imbedded itself more than an inch into Kukri's skull, crudely lobotomizing him – and killing him instantly. Fermanagh looked at Proletariat, shook his head <> and tenderly placed the fedora back to cover Kukrikhan’s face.

“We’re done for tonight,” spat Proletariat with an obvious edge to her voice, “…here.”



OOC

1. Night PMs for night 13 are due by 1500 EDT (1700GMT?) tomorrow, 10 March 2008. At this stage of the game, it is important that ALL of you PM me with your actions -- or inactions -- for the night.

2. Vote Tallies were as follows:

Lynch:

Kukrikhan = 10 (CA, Crat, Ferret, Gibs, Joe, Kage, Sasaki, Scott, True, Xehh)

Elite Ferret = 6 (Caius, Iron, Kukri, Leet, nerd, Shlin)

Not Voting = 2 (Prole [cnv], 'blade)


Director:

Craterus = 7 (CA, Crat, Iron, Kage, Sasaki, True, Xehh)

Kukrikhan = 6 (Caius, Kukri, nerd, Prole, Shlin)

Elite Ferret = 1 (Ferret)

No Selection = 4(gibs, Joe, Leet, Scott, 'blade)

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3639



"King of the castle
More room at the top
All sorts allowed
Now the gloves are off
Heya! hello neighbour
Benevolent mother
Smother the child
The benefactors are in denial
The banality of evil"
-- Nine Horses



Summary, Night Thirteen


Elite Ferret was headed home after dinner, walking alone as was his custom. The streets weren’t deserted, but he hadn’t passed anyone for blocks. Previously, he’d found these walks calming, but tonight he started off feeling a bit relaxed – after all, without pretense it was easier to just get things done. Though relaxed, he hadn’t let his guard down completely. When the stranger stepped out of the alley a few feet ahead, his hand was into his coat and his revolver out of its holster quickly.

“Relax,” said the shrouded figure. “I only have a message.” The figure knelt and placed an envelope on the sidewalk in front of Elite Ferret, then backed away. Elite Ferret walked forward and knelt…

The <> of the sniper rifle sounded the moment Ferret squatted and became immobile. The thirty-ought-six round struck the back of his head, killing him instantly. He crumpled softly to the pavement. Inside the envelope was a simple typed message: “Dal capitano, con Amor.”


On his way home, norwegian nerd tried to play it safe. He stuck to busy streets, paused to wait for a beat-cop to “shadow” him where possible, and always kept an eye out for escape routes. But he couldn’t avoid the lobby of his own building.

As he walked in, the night clerk of his building seemed strangely quiet and unmoving. Nerd paused long enough to note that something was wrong, when the first bolt struck from behind, through the doorway.

The heavy steel quarrel, though slowed by the armored vest, was a non-deforming penetrator, so it wen’t through the vest and into nerd’s left kidney. He staggered forward.

A man stepped from behind the night-clerk – who’d been dead for 20 minutes and only stood courtesy of the spikes nailing him to the front desk, now slumping with nobody holding his head up from behind – leveled his own crossbow at nerd and fired. The bolt took nerd in the pit of the stomach, puncturing the diaphragm.

The shooter spoke as he leaned behind the desk for a second crossbow. “So, who’s your buddy?”

A second man stepped into the doorway nerd had just vacated, leveling a second crossbow of his own. This man didn’t speak, he just put a bolt into nerd’s other kidney. nerd dropped to his knees, unable to get a deep breath and bleeding badly from internal wounds.

“Having trouble talking?”

The inside shooter leveled his crossbow.

“I’ll help clear your throat.”

The quarrel took nerd straight in the Adam’s apple, transfixing his throat and burying the point of the bolt into his spine. Nerd fell over and died quickly, passing out before death finally took him.

The silent shooter turned on the “room available” sign as the killers departed.


Shlin28 ran when he heard the footsteps behind him. Paranoia wasn’t an illness in Fatlington, it was a survival skill. In his haste, however, he’d ended up in one of the few alleys on the block with no exit…of all the luck. His luck continued as he fumbled and dropped his weapon as he turned to face his assailants.

The two assassins behind him weren’t interested in neatness – just results. A pair of fragmentation grenades bounced into the alley next to shlin. Neither went off. Both assassins went for their pistols next, while shlin knelt to desperately try and find his own weapon.

Just as the two killers opened fire, the heavy metal back door of the neighboring restaurant opened into the alley, providing a heavy metal shield for shlin – who decided he’d had enough luck, bad and good, for one evening and ran into the restaurant to make his escape. The perplexed dishwasher watched as shlin raced by him, then went to dump the trash. Both grenades went off and turned him to hamburger.

Neither of the attackers was ever identified.


Ironside had made it home safely…when he noticed his front door was ajar.

<>

He backed away, scanned the surrounding area, and then went quickly to his neighborhood café to use the phone. He’d just sat down in the booth when the phone rang – and then blew to pieces from the hidden explosives placed there. Ironside was killed instantly.

The man sitting at the counter reading the newspaper put the paper down. He picked up the gun hidden beneath it and gestured for the counterman to turn around.

“Just so you’ll stay quiet,” he said, and cracked the man over the head with his pistol. He dropped a white rose on the torn corpse of Ironside as he left to join his accomplice at the phone booth down the block.

The counterman died two days later, never regaining consciousness.


Morning Meeting, Day Fourteen

“So that’s what we know about last night,” said Fermanagh. The Commissioner looked around the room. It was tense this morning and the chief was anything but comfortable.

“Our follow-on investigations have produced the following results. Night 11 appears to have been a battle. The town lost two good citizens, Myrddraal the Surgeon and Doctor Draco Leman. Our losses were heavy. Caeser the III was an innocent townie by all accounts. We had one success. Warluster, whoever killed him, did Fatlington a favor by dieing. Our sources have confirmed that he was a mafia Luca. Unfortunately, we lost two doctors to the Mafia’s one. Your lynch choice was sound, Charge checked out as a Made Gangster working for one of the families. I wish the news were better.”

“The news is adequate,” said Craterus. “Adequate enough to our purpose I assure you. Now, as to tonight’s “departure….”

Craterus smiled faintly.

“…we’ll follow our usual...democratic...approach to the vote."


OOC

Significant Change necessitated by un-pardonable error on part of host. I regret the inconvenience that I know this must cause. I offer no excuses. If a majority of you wish to discontinue play, I will honor that request.


1. Day Fourteen Lynch vote commences. This day phase will finish 0900 EDT (1300 GMT) on 3/12/8.

2. Results/promotions/etc. will be sent later as time permits (no later than tomorrow 1200 EDT 3/11/8).

3. Current List of Players:

Still Alive: (14) Caius, CountArach, Craterus, gibsonsg91921, Joe Monks, Kagemusha, Leet Erikson, Proletariat, Sasaki Kojiro, scottishranger, shlin28, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Xehh II.

Attacked: (36) Andres (N2, N3), Beefy187 (N1), Brave Sir Robin (N7), Caius (N3), Charge (N9), Craterus (N6), Crazed Rabbit (N6), Cowhead418 (N2), Elite Ferret (N10, N12), Evil_Maniac from Mars (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N2, N3), Glenn (N1, N2), Ichigo (N9), Kagemusha (N6), Proletariat (N4, N4, N5, N6, N7, N8, N9), Sasaki Kojiro (N5, N7), shlin28 (N13), taka (N2), Tran (N5, N7, N8), TinCow (N7), Twilightblade (N4, N5), Xdeathfire (N1)

Murdered: (36) Drisos (N1), Lord Winter (N2), Beefy187 (N3), Glenn (N3), Pannonian (N3), taka (N3), The Stranger (N3), Zorg (N3), GeneralHankerchief (N4), Kommodus (N4), Moros (N4), Xiahou (N4), Chimpyang (N5), Kamikhaan (N5), Motep (N5), Rythmic, (N5), woad&fangs (N5), ajaxfetish (N6), FactionHeir (N6), Lt. Pinard (N6), Louis VI the Fat (N6), Husar (N7), NorthNovas (N7), Makanyane (N8), Sarathos (N8), Tran (N8), Haudegen (N9), Cowhead418 (N10), Ichigo (N10), LittleGrizzly (N10), Myrddraal (N11), Warluster (N11), Brave Sir Robin (N12), Elite Ferret (N13), Ironside (N13), norwegian nerd (N13).

Killed During an Attack: (1) Evil_Maniac from Mars (N8).

Lynched: (13) pevergreen (D2), Hannibalbarca (D3), Tiberius of the Drake (D3), Omanes Alexandrapolites (D4), Andres (D5), Xdeathfire (D6), Dutch_guy (D7), Sigurd Fafnesbane (D8), Hiji (D9), Crazed Rabbit (D10), Charge (D11), TinCow (D12), Kukrikhan (D13).

Removed from Play: (15) Fahad I (D4), Killfr3nzy (D4), x-dANGEr (D4), Sapi (N4), Warmaster Horus (N5), Rob_the_Celt (N5), molonthegreat (N5), johnhughthom (D8), Alexander the Pretty Good (N9), Big King Sanctaphrax (N9), Roadkill (N9), Caeser the III (N11), Draco Leman (N11), JimBob (N12), Jubal_Barca (N12).

[Andres]

This is main thread post #3814



"Mama told me one day it was gonna happen
But she never told me when.
She told me it would happen when I was much older.
Wish it wouldve happened then.

Is this the end?
I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna know.
Is this the end?
I gotta know, I gotta know, I gotta know.
Is this the end?"
-- New Edition



Sunset, Day 14

Caius, Shlin28, and Proletariat sat huddled together, staring at the argument raging between two (more?) factions that had, only the previous evening, voted nearly in lockstep with one another. Accusations flung at Caius that he was a traitor to 'What’s best for Fatlington' had caused a storm of criticism early in the meeting and Caius’ response – “I only wish I had the chance to kill a few more Mafia Scum!” had sent a brief chill through the room, but the argument changed and shifted. Eventually, the trio found themselves little more than spectators. Finally, it came time to vote.

Craterus huddled with the two counting officers for tonight while the other 4 guards paired off near the likely candidates for tonight – Kagemusha and Caius.

“It is the will of this committee,” intoned Craterus in an oddly formal voice, “that Kagemusha has been judged guilty and a threat to Fatlington. Kagemusha, it is with sincere regret that I hereby declare your life forfeit.”

The guards quickly immobilized Kagemusha.

“Do you have any last words before execution of sentence?”

Kage stared daggers at Craterus.

“It should not be this way. There is no honor in this.” Kagemusha shook his head sadly.

No one else spoke. Kagemusha was walked down to the boardwalk by the guards and tied to the railing on the seaward side. He was offered a blindfold, which he spat upon. He was offered a cigarette, which he accepted. The officers formed the firing party. Kagemusha stared up defiantly at the windows from where the committee watched the execution of justice. With a sneer, he turned his face away to stare directly at the firing squad, looking through and past them to the last rays of the setting sun.

<>

Kagemusha didn’t fall. Chest riven by four shots and slammed back into the railing he struggled to bring himself to his feet one last time. He laughed, or at least it would have been a laugh with untorn lungs, and then whispered one final word.

“Rosebud…”

Coughing and chuckling to himself, Kagemusha slumped in his restraints, and died of his wounds.

Craterus released the committee and they all went out into the dark.



OOC

1. PM’s for night 15 are due no later than 1000 EDT 13 March 2008 (1400 GMT). I will expect PMs from all, clearly stating their actions, inactions or any other relevant statements of intent.

2. Lynch Tally: (13 of 13 possible votes)

Kagemusha = 8 (Caius, Gibsons91291, Proletariat, Scottishranger, Shlin28, TruePraetorian, Twilightblade, Xehh II).

Caius = 4 (CountArach, Joe Monks, Kagemusha, Leet Erikson)

No Lynch = 1 (Sasaki Kojiro)

Not Allowed to Vote = 1 (Craterus, Director).