Summary Night Five
The Stranger was exiting the evening meeting when a strange gust of wind sent a large object of glass and metal hurtling through the air at him. It revealed itself to be the round-screened cathode ray tube of the amazingly new RCA television sets being constructed in Camden. Somehow, there was even a picture displayed on the screen! The screen showed a single word – Screenies – with a gray circle (no color tubes of course) with diagonal slash superimposed on the bold-typed word. The Stranger was stunned, but not dead. <> everyone wondered?
Ultrawar was taking no chances. He wore armor under his trenchcoat. He drove a vehicle with discretely armored sides and bullet resistant glass. His neckband had metal D-rings sown into it so that a garrote would find no purchase. He carried a Broom-handled Mauser submachine gun. He even had a syringe of epinephrine with him – just in case. He never made it home from the voting.
On the slick roads he traveled toward home, a heavy Packard touring auto braked sharply in front of him. The Packard had an unusual rear grill, with three long spikes protruding from the reinforced bumper. His armored vehicle had but one weakness – the reinforced grille at the front of the radiator. All three spikes plunged through the radiator, tearing it apart and slamming it back into the motor’s fan.
Two men leaped out of the Packard, carrying heavy pistols. Ultrawar smiled – his car was proofed against anything shy of a bazooka – and the cops would be along before too long. Both men dropped metal facemasks over their already masked faces and each quickly pulled a welder’s torch from their packs. Within seconds, the locks on both sides were slagged and very shortly thereafter all of the doors – and the trunk – had been spot welded shut.
Ultrawar tried to get out, but with the doors welded, the heavy immovable glass and thick armor of the car now prevented him from exiting. He hammered on the windows to no avail.
Meanwhile, the welders had returned to the Packard and driven it quickly into a garage while a third person, dressed as a police officer, calmly directed what little traffic was on the street around the “stalled” vehicle. Within minutes, the welders had returned driving a tow truck. Ultrawar’s armored car was hitched up and slowly towed to the docks.
There, one of the cranes they’d used to ship Shermans over to kill krauts was employed to quickly lift the car up, out, and gently down into the water at the side of the pier.
Water slowly made it into the vehicle – it was armored, not hermetically sealed – but the trapped air formed an air bubble in which Ultrawar could cling to life – for a while. The air bubble ran short on oxygen, and anoxia is every bit as painful as drowning. It would be nearly 4 AM by the time Fermanagh’s boys found the car – hours too late. They were also perplexed to find a “tin star” like those used by the Texas Rangers welded to the driver’s door.
For no discernible reason, at least according to the 12 witnesses interviewed afterwards, at about 1:15 AM theRTWGuru finished a final shot of rye whiskey, put his revolver to his head and blew his brains onto the wall at the far side of the booth.
Dutch_Guy was not going to be anybody’s fool. When the man knocked at his door at 9:30 PM that night and said he had to “read the meter,” Dutch didn’t hesitate. The man was pulled through the door, slammed into a chair in the parlor and treated to a close view of Dutch’s .38 police special. The meter man peed himself.
“Not too tough now, are you Wise Guy,” said Dutch. “Now it’s time for you to make like a canary…”
The man looked up, perplexed and scared, but then looked past Dutch towards the front Door. Dutch glanced away quickly, and was surprised to see two police officers standing behind him, guns drawn. He recovered quickly.
“Officers! This man is one of the mafia assassins we’ve been hunting. He was trying to masquerade as a meter man – after 9PM – like I’m supposed to believe the power company is ever THAT responsive to its customers.”
“He’ll end up dead quick enough,” said the younger officer. He then calmly shot the meter man in the chest twice, killing him.
Dutch wasn’t expecting that to happen, so he missed the second police officer’s quick shot from the hip – though it didn’t miss him. His gun arm was shattered by the dum-dum round, the arm almost severed at the elbow. He stared at the blood pulsing from the wound in shock then looked up at the face of the cop.
“But…you…”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the officer. He fired the coup de grace. “Don’t trouble yourself about anything.”
As he dropped the white glove on Dutch’s body, the younger “officer” spoke.
“Pity about the meter guy.”
“It got the door opened,” replied the second faux-gendarme.
“True, but Dutch is gonna have one hell of a penalty charge on his next power bill.”
“We should help him a bit then.”
The second “officer” walked over to the doorway, carefully turned off all the lights, and then both of them left.
Peasant Phil had had enough. Distraught over all the carnage and just unable to reliably feel “connected” anymore to his fellow Fatlings, he had decided to end it all. Liking fast cars, he had chosen autocide, figuring a high speed run down the main boulevard would be a thrill and that when he hit the obelisk in the center of the City Hall traffic circle, he wouldn’t feel much of anything. His plan worked – more or less. His high speed run – topping 110 in the last stretch – was a thrill, and he did reach the circle at speeds guaranteed to squelch him in an instant. He hadn’t counted on the blowout, however, so when his car veered into the café just across the street from City Hall he realized he wasn’t going to crush that stupid obelisk he always thought looked so out of place.
Instead, his car went through the front of the café, through the booth occupied by Hepcat, Ignoramus & Zalmoxis – wrong place, wrong time, and into the brick wall at the far side of the building. Phil’s objective had been achieved. Hepcat, Ignoramus, and Zalmoxis just weren’t quite active enough to see this one coming and get out of the way.
Sigurd Fafnesbane thought his role in Fatlington important. As a leading voice on the committee of vigilance, he knew that he could help bring about a better place – but dealing in secrets is hard. He needed time to collect his thoughts, gain perspective and revive his zest for life. He needed an anodyne for these trying times.
This is what brought him to a small room off Boyle Street. The red light coming from the buildings outside mixed with the smoke inside to give the place an other worldly quality. This was how Sigurd liked it. Even more, he liked what was moving in the red haze in front of him, a nubile form with long black hair.
All of his senses were alive and the troubles of Fatlington far away. As she came close, her hair brushed his face and her nails trailed lightly across his cheek. His breath caught in a delighted gasp. Sigurd hardly noticed the prick at the base of his neck. She continued to sway slowly in front of him, each gentle turn suggesting, inviting, taunting. His eyes reached for her, but his hands didn't follow.
<> And that’s when the tingle of fear began. “I mixed in twice the amount of jando.”
His body was no longer his. What was happening? His head swam. She stepped back and away. He was no longer her concern. Things went numb and he crumbled to the floor. Lying there unable to move, his head throbbed and his vision was hazy, but he could see shiny black shoes and realized someone else was now in the room. It was difficult to focus.
<> The words floated over him.
A quiet, resolved woman’s voice spoke.
“A bit excessive,” a man’s voice replied. “Anyway, here is the rest of the money and the ticket. You'll have a comfortable passage back to Sao Paulo and your family won't need to worry ever again.”
Sigurd saw a white glove drop to the floor in front of his face.
<> he thought. < >
Whiteout.
The morning briefing followed its usual sad course. As always, Chief Fermanagh tried to finish up with the “good” news of the post-mortem investigations.
“Well, it would seem that pevergreen wasn’t lying. We’re not sure what group he was officering, but his claim to be a mafia “Don” is checking out. We’ve got payment receipts and orders to anonymous associates – he was as bad an egg as Dutch Schultz. Moroever, our informants are now singing a little, and it would seem that two more Wise Guys were taken out of the picture. Sir Boo and AndrestheCunning were players and met up with some folks who took offense to their actions. On the down side, information from all sources makes it pretty clear that Caius Flaminius, Sir Moody, and Copperhaired Berzerker were just what they always claimed to be, regular old townies.”
“Keep after them folks, don’t let up the pressure on those scum!”
Seamus turned and walked from the room.
OOC
The Butcher’s Bill to Date:
Attacked: Proletariat (N1), Sasaki Kojiro (N1), Redleg (N2), Moros (N3), theRTWGuru (N3)
Lynched: Kralizec (D2) [mafia don], Beirut (D3) [mafia made], pevergreen (D4) [mafia don], Lord Motep of Kendermore (D5)
Murdered: GeneralHankerchief (N1) [mafia luca], Stig (N2) [wise guy], AggonyDuck (N3) [wise guy], Major Robert Dump (N3) [mafia made], Caius Flaminius (N4) [townie], Sir Boo (N4) [wise guy], Sir Moody (N4) [townie] AndrestheCunning (N4) [wise guy], Dutch_Guy (N5), Sigurd Fafnesbane (N5), Ultrawar (N5)
Suicided: Ichigo, (D2) [townie], Tribesman (D2) [townie], Copperhaired Berzerker (N4), Peasant Phill (N5), theRTWGuru (N5)
WoGged: MarcusBrutus (D5), Hepcat (N5), Ignoramus (N5), Zalmoxis (N5)
PM's with results and investigation results will be delayed.
Day 6 voting will begin, Sceduled to finish at 1600 HRS EST on 1/28/7.
NOTE:
I am very upset at the screenshots thing. It is possible that someone "did not know" that screenshots were forbidden by the rules even outside the thread. I will accept such an explanation for now.
Please be advised, however, that if this kind of cheating continues, I will have to consider my game compromised and unplayable. Yes, this is one thing that will upset me enough so that I take my marbles and go home.
The goal here is fun, not real life police work.
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