Friday 10 November
The Weasel savaged John The Ferret Miller:
Having enjoyed a fitful lunch and a good few pints of ale this evening in the Pickerel Inn, I sauntered off back to Thompson's Lane to enjoy a good long soak in the shower. If only I had stayed in the pub for once; the irony of my death still haunts me as I slip into and out of conciousness in a pool of my own life blood, soaking into my Marks and Spencer's bathrobe.
I saw the stranger minutes before he killed me. At first, I thought nothing of a strange man hanging around in the corridor as I took a shower. However, as he drew a large calibre handgun, the gravity of the situation began to dawn on me. I lunged for my door. Too late. His first and only slug hit me in the stomach. I sank to my knees, cursing myself and the Guinness for my dulled reflexes. Now I was on eye level with him. He said nothing. The hole in my side was now beginning to sting a little.
"Please, tell the many children I have sired that I died like a
gentleman." I pleaded.
"Yeah, alright then." He replied, realising the stature of the assassin whose life he had so callously terminated. Off he strode into the night, not even pausing to do me the honour of a decent head shot. Shit, this hurts.
I donate my ample frame to medical research (you wouldn't believe the number of women who compliment me on my excellent vein structure) and/or the police.
The Weasel reports:
Last night I was happily lounging in my set when a gust of wind blew open the door and my ratty informant staggered in. "Your worst suspicions are true," he panted, "for there is another underlord working in the Cambridge underground! The Ferret has been spotted!"
At this, I twitched. I had long suspected another, but surely not the Ferret himself! Steeling myself, I understood that the time had come for a final confrontation. There was room only for one small furry mammal in Cambridge, and as far as I was concerned, it would be me. He is dangerous, but I am more so.
With my native cunning and wits, I tracked the Ferret to the sewers under Thompson's Lane, and craftily using my ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound, gained entry. Insinuating myself away from the entrance hall, I spotted my quarry heading towards his cleaning den, and chittered pleasantly towards him as we passed. He had not recognised me under my still-warm wabbitskin!
His one mistake, that lack of vigilance, would prove his undoing. Situating myself so that I could watch his sleeping burrow, I waited for the inevitable. As I knew would happen, he returned quickly, bright eyes scanning every nook and cranny for intruders... and saw only a wabbit. Nodding to himself, he turned away... and I struck! I pounced, and drove my needle-sharp teeth towards his throat. Though his supple frame shook desperately, my grip was iron, and my claws raked his belly whilst I tore his throat out in a shower of blood.
I settled down to feed...
Porters discovered the body of Emma Roxanas (The Death Shroud) lying in her corridor, she was an unusual shade of purple, and clutching a letter signed by Tion:
Due to Emma Roxanas inconsiderateness in living in Lucy Cavendish I had to recruit an accomplice in order to let me into her building. Even when there her impoliteness did not end, dispite being an English student and thus presumably having nothing better to do, she still failed to wait at home for the assassins knock. I was thus forced to rely on the paltry poisoned letter trick, I shall be back though even if I have to poison every chip in the place.
Abdollah Dark Horse of the Night Ghavami is missing, presumed gone:
On 10th November 2000, at 16:56 pm, the assassin 'Dark Horse of the Night''s messenger, by the name of 'The Immortal', discovered that the assassin's residence had been evacuated, leaving behind a black leather glove with an 1888 'Holland and Holland' silver pistol. With this came a note, written in black fountain ink on a yellow-cream card, with the heading the'Queens' College Dark Horse of the Night' Cambridge University:
I, hereby, Dark Horse of the Night, still alive, roaming secretly through the dreary, wet alleys of this well-established City, in pursuit of my targets,and for what treasures that are left for me to enjoy. The gold, the silver and the work of art that I have come across during my assassinations, have left me with abundant wealth and power. Thy poor victims that have died by my hand and sword, I shall thank thee for their luxuries. My dutiful service, I shall end. Thy name I shall change, and my departure hath been forthwith alas. My pistol shall be left behind for my accomplise, The Immortal, who has served me for a suitable amount of time. Thy pistol contains one silver round. Use it wisely, Immortal, for thy defense and honour!
Kelpie went to the far ends of the earth:
I went to Girton today. I thought, since it is so far away, my target would have become lazy from the lack of attempts on him. So I was all ready for a nice easy kill.
I spent half an hour walking round Girton looking for the p'lodge. Once there, I spent the next hour looking for the house where he lived. The house, of course, was locked so I loitered suspiciously near the door until some nice person came up and let me in. I went in and spied a phone next to the door of the target room, so I tried ringing from it. It didn't work - even better :) I knocked on the door.
Now, I know there are some names that do not give much information about the gender of the person, however this name is not one of them. So I was a bit surprised to find a girl opening the door and looking at me impatiently. The room behind her was pink and had a double bed. I am afraid to admit that I chickened out and (after a few more prowls around the house) left Girton without trying anything. An evening wasted :(
I should have stabbed her at least..
Saturday 11 November
The Black Death couldn't get at his target:
The world just isn't like it used to be. I remember a time when you could leave your bicycle unlocked in the street and folk smiled and helped each other out. But now when you knock on somebody's door, you first have to gain the access code to the perimeter of the staircase and then the target questions and eventually decides against opening the door (which had a spyhole in anyway). I couldn't find his e-mail address in the university directory so this will serve as the forum to tell my target that if he saw my face in today's attempt on his life, that nobody sees the face of the Black Death and lives to tell the tale (for very long). The Black Death (rather annoyed about hiding in a toilet for an hour and still getting no result).
Edward Leon Haworth killed two policemen before the pain of his wound became too much:
After seeing my name added to the wanted list I realised I had to make a preemptive strike to protect myself. I decided to abuse my friendship with PCs Lyons and Szatmary by killing them. A brutal gun battle raged across Churchill, the two PCs fighting admirably in the cause of duty as the buildings were turned to rubble and their inhabitants were riddled with bullets. I myself felt several bullets slam into my legs and I fell to the floor in agony. When the plumes of dust had cleared I saw that my two opponents lay dead and I struggled painfully to my feet. It was then I noticed the gaping hole in my belly and realised that I too would soon join them. So close to the prize but yet so far. In order to stem the great pain I put my gun to my head and pulled it's trigger. This is Kurgan/Leon signing off
Chief Wiggum killed Sam The Black Death Wilson:
After my recent promotion to Chief I finally wanted to drive my own police
car, so I didn't invite Dave Hammond (he's always
complaining about my
driving style) and chose to visit the criminal living the furthest away
from my house so that I could really test out the speed of my vehicle.
Impressive speed really, especially if you are a pedestrian trying to avoid it. When I was past Fitz I increased the difficulty for them by switching off my lights drastically increasing my success rate.
Eventually I arrived at Girton and about 5 hours later at my targets house, which was at the far end of the college. And some more time later I even managed to get into the house. And after searching around a bit I found the right room, which was unlocked.
Sam was sitting on the bed watching TV with his girl friend, but categorically denied being the correct Sam:
"My neighbours called Sam, too. He's the assassin and he gave my room number instead of his."
He wasn't too convincing though and was therefore put to the question. After some reasonable amount of torture he then confessed to being Sam Wilson.
He was hence executed before the eyes of his poor friend.
PC Random Lee brought justice to Lobo:
I would have liked to think that Carlos Ludlow Palafox was Tuco Benedito Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, and that I had been the Man With No Name, but sadly, I was too Good, and he was too Ugly. So I tracked him through his native Mexico during the Day of the Dead Festival, then when the moment was right, decapitated him mercifully with my well used blade. Farewell Carlos, I'm sure your countrymen will remember you in festivals for many years to come. As for myself, I look forward to promotion, and gaining my Sheriff's star.
An attempt was made which ended in the retreat of one of the participants:
I had this very week complained to the umpire about the complete lack of
attack on my person, and consequently implored that he assigns more
experienced assassins to me.
My dream came true this evening when I met a fellow assassin , he waited for me with his CPS VeryBigNumber which is also a VeryBigGun, i had already closed my door and had no other options but to step into the nearest bathroom, my cricket-sized gun could not favourable compare with his apocalyptic weapon.
It was also the case that my grandparents were waiting for me, but I persuaded him that I was determined to stay there safe, my own life being more important than any length of time my grandparents might spend waiting.
I offered him to go down my stairs and there fight in more appropriate surronding than my corridor, he feared I would run back to my room, I therefore gave him a warrranty to the effect that I would no do such a cowardly thing, he then requested my swearing to not go in my room, come down to where he would wait for me and not start playing again before one of us said so, I so sworn, after having him to repeat his vey long sentence to give me time to find a way to escape without breaking this oath.
I came down seconds after him giving him his throwing knife back and declared the fight open, a faint instant before running away to be on time to meet my grand parents.
Those witty will no doubt see in this story a very clear example of the ever so subtle difference between a lawyer and a liar.
Sunday 12 November
Insankameel was taken out by Commissioner Wiggum
This morning got up early (around 1pm) and visited the house of
Insankameel. Just when I arrived someone left the house. I
suspected him to be the criminal, but there was no proof and he told me
that Hafiz wasn't in. I let him go, but I would find out
it had in fact been the wanted criminal.
I now knew this would be a difficult job and therefore I decided to undergo a especially bizarre ritual involving the consumption of particularly disgusting things (such as Aubergine Goulash) in order to gain the necessary strength.
After I had narrowly survived this so called 'hall', I visited the house again, rang the door bell and someone opened the door for me.
"Whom are you looking for?"
"I'm here to visit Hafiz."
"Oh, he's just in the kitchen, we've just been making dinner. Come in. Shall I go and get him for you?"
"No, thanks, I'll just come along to the kitchen."
"Here it is."
"Is that Hafiz there, at the table?"
"No, he's the one cooking over there."
"So it was you after all this morning..."
"Yes..." *spurts blood* "it was..." *dies*
Andrew Clarke has changed his room status from no water to water with care.
Monday 13 November
Fliegenfische cooly shot Morag Kelpie Gray.
The man had been standing on the stairs, leading up to the Lecture
Theatre, for 10 minutes now, his breath misty in the cold air.
His long black Coat slowly flapping in the wind, and his eyes carefullz watching the crowds of students flowing by from behind his shades, he threw his cigarrette to the ground und flexed his fingers.
He knew his time would come soon, and when it came he would be ready.
He knew his target Morag had to arrive soon, if she would come at all. She was far from unexperienced, but he thought his long years of training and his experiences back from Berlin during the cold war would pay off once again.
When she finally did, he was surprised to notice, that she appeared to be unarmed, but there was no time, for idle Thoughts.
He stepped into her Path, when she noticed him she nodded at him friendlzly und he returned this Courtesy.
Then the Man said:"I am so sorry," but she hardly heard, for her fearful Eyes were fixed on the German made G3 Rifle in his Hand.
Then a single Shot broke the cold Silence of the Morning and he watched his target falling to the ground, before he slowly walked off and lit another Cigarrette.
Looking back at the Corpse, with a single Tear glistering on his Cheek, he thought, he would become a very sorrowful Man soon, if he had to kill more of his Targets to avoid incompetancy.
Not that incompetencancy was an actual threat for a disciplined Man like him, but he took his pride in always considering all possibilitys.
I am most grieved to have to report the death of Kelpie:
Kelpie came to the lecture theatre slightly late, tired and in a hurry. The lecturer this morning was known for not letting students stay if they came late. As she turned the corner, she saw her assassin waiting for her, just as she had known he would be one day. She could have run, but she saw no dignity in that, and it would make her even less likely to be allowed in to the lecture. She waited for death, and it came.
The shade of Kelpie would like to thank her assassin (not for pinching her email name, oh no) but for using a non-water weapon. Cats react badly to water. Of all the deaths she has died, this was by far the most professional, and it was almost a pleasure (note: 'almost'). She would also like to thank the sender of the anonymous tip in the email about her pigeonhole. It was totally unnecessary, not because she was dead (that as well) but because the letter bomb in question was rather amateurishly done. The note inside was childish, signed by Jakob Creuzfeld. The insult therein is not appreciated.
The shade awaits next term when she shall return, but for now would like to join the police force :)
Darknight was visited by Judge Wiggum
Hall always makes me want to shoot someone.
This someone turned out to be Charles Andrew Darknight Clarke, who has carelessly left his window open.
He was lucky though in that he was standing next to the door so that he was able to dart out of the room, when my gun appeared between his curtains.
He then locked himself into the toilet, while I dropped into his room and locked door and window at once.
I felt a tad malicious and hence started applying tooth pas...ahhhm...deadly contact poison to most surfaces in his room.
Should he survive the contact poison on his door lock, he might grab his gun and die, because of the poison on the trigger. Or he might try to drink his coffee...and die or try to make coffee with his kettle for that matter. Or he might try to switch any of his lights on or off...and die. Death would also occur upon opening or closing any drawers or his wardrobe. Maybe he will even be foolish enough to put his bicycle helmet on his head*shudder*. Touching the buttons of his coat would be unwise as well, I guess. Other dangerous things include his stapler, his alarm clock, his chairs, most of his cups, a bottle of wine and a few other surprises that I keep forgetting.
May he rest in...tooth paste.
As I was making a cup of tea in my room, a grim figure stuck its head in the winsow and dragged himself up. I scampered out the door and returned later to find that every handle and object had been poisioned. I carefully dealt with this, and firmly shut the window.
Tuesday 14 November
Sgt. Random Lee visited Darknight but couldn't get close enough to make the arrest.
Wednesday 15 November
PC Dirty Harry has gone berserk and attempted to kill other policemen:
As a cop one is not allowed to kill players......but there is no mention of killing cops. In an effort to bring up standards within the police force, random checks will be done to see if they were performing satisfactorily.
Today two PCs were tested and both failed. Both have been charged with failing to survive while on duty. It might be argued that since I shot them it is entrapment. Their corpse could'nt argue too much....
So now Christian D'Cruz and Joseph Zuntz are dead and I am a very very BAD cop.
The coroners are still unsure about whether the shot cops are dead, since police
weapons will only fire on wanted criminals and those bearing weapons.
PC Dirty Harry is now wanted for (attempted) murder, please note that he's still a cop, he can't kill anyone who's not a wanted criminal or openly bearing weapons. But you police can kill him, oh yes...
The end of the next kill period is 12 noon on Saturday. Anyone who hasn't reported a valid attempt for the current kill period by then will be placed on the wanted list. Those already wanted for incompetence will be placed in a rocket and fired into the centre of the sun. Or else face some similarly unavoidable fate.
For this kill period only direct attempts are valid. Bombs and poison will still kill your
targets, but if they fail then they don't count as an attempt.
Ask if you're in doubt as to your competence.
Thursday 16 November
After surviving for an incredible length of time on the wanted list, Andrew Darknight Clarke was brought in by Sgt. Random Lee... in a bodybag:
In a previous incarnation as Fenster, I was put on the wanted list for the murder of an innocent, so I had sympathy for Darknight as he had had the misfortune to do the same. This however, did not deter me from my duty to bring him to justice, and this was ruthlessly achieved this morning. I had been watching Darknight through his rear window for almost an hour and I saw he was visibly agitated. I guessed that he was likely to leave his room at 11am, and I was proven right. At about 1055am he put on his coat and scarf, and left his room. How would he leave? I waited at the back for a couple of minutes, but there was no sign, so I went round the front of St Peters Terrace. He was unlocking his bike, a Raleigh Genesis, that he had outside his front door. I took a position behind the hedge opposite so I could see from which exit he would depart. He chose the exit closest to town, and I waited for his appearance. My knife at the ready, he came round the corner and I unsheathed my blade. He tried to duck out the way, but my knife ripped through his neck, decapitating him. As his soul passed away, storm clouds drew in, and peals of thunder echoed all around. Moments later, the clouds had passed. Darknight was dead, and we can all rest easier now his spirit has passed back whence it came.
Tion received some fan mail:
As well as all the dodgy men who have taken to hanging round my door (I now realise the advantage of living in a womens college, you all stick out a mile) someone sent me a poison letter today. Unfortunatly for them it was immensly suspisious looking as it had no stamp so I carefully went through the old scarf/mask and gloves purloined from practicals routine to open it and thus did not die horribly as intended. It was another contact poison attempt from a alledged 'Lady Diamond'. Thus a clue to the cross dressing nature of one of my pursuers, I feel.
Judge Wiggum checked up on his police force:
A random check has been done to see if renegade PC Dirty
performs satisfactorily when subjected to his own methods.
For some reason though he refused to open his door to "The Campaign for Equal Examination Standards" (CEES). Therefore charges of cowardice and paranoia have been brought forward against him. Due to these allegations Judge Wiggum would like to discuss his further career in this term's police force with him.
There are 6 assassins left alive. A free for all between them has been declared, with all assassins having the other 5 as targets.
Lord Denning avoided death by poison letter:
Who should I thank for reminding me about two overdue books :
Psychopathy Vol. II (Baron von Holzhausen)
More Grey Rags for Compscis (Laura B.)
But as always I had taken the envelope in a copy of TCS and then took great care when opening the letter with scissors and sticks, sorry psychotic chief librarian I am still alive
An excellent use for a copy of The Cambridge Student. Hopefully he burned it afterwards, prolonged exposure has been known to have harmful effects.
Ed Nokes was coshed by Psycosix and impaled by Tion:
"Mathter... There ith thomeone hanging around at Tion'th" The minion burst into thhe room to deliver it's message. Psycosix stirred from his works. The blade was sharper than ever, honed to a fine edge. He dismissed the peon to inform it's Mistress of the situation. He took up 'the rucksack', concealed the blade and waited.
Tapping happily away, a message from the network informed me that for the third time that evening my room had become a magnet for the dubious elements of the science faculty. I proceeded carefully towards the afflicted area. Establishing the position of the undisirable I convened with P6 in a handy hidden HQ.
Professional courtesy demanded that Tion should atleast face he wouldbe assailant, and professional pride required his death to be swift and brutal. She trailed out along the corridor and past the conspicuous outsider (a girls college really isn't a good place for a bloke to be trying to hide in a big dark coat y'know).
Adopting the role of riteous citizen I accosted the interloper and demanded to know for whom he was waiting, on being informed it was myself I tried to lure him out with friendly, though suspicious chat. I retreated to lull his paranoia forcing him to come closer to danger and leaving the doorway clear.
A shade detached itself from the wall and in one fluid movement swung around into the exposed opening. The knife came out of it's hidden fold and glinted cruelly under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Seeing his plight the would be assassin retreated backwards into the corner and fumbled for the cold metal salvation of the gun in his pocket. Too late. The knife was already in flight. It arced gracefully towards his heart yet struck the steel barrel of the gun. Sharp though it was, it was but a fine blade and shattered on the impact. Dismayed at the loss of a favoured weapon, Psycosix charged in, anger rising within him. He closed the short distance between them before the gun was clear and coshed the unfortunate over the head, the limp form slumping to the ground.
While this was occuring I returned hurridly to the scene in time to see our new friend collapsing. Contemplating his vulnerable form, the threat neutralised I began to think of how to dispose of the body discretely. Psycosix reappeared with 'the backpack' and I knew it was time to step in...
Psycosix knelt by the prone form and opened the backpack. He withdrew a fine needle and thread, a pair of nails and a hammer. Fully intent on nailiing the victims kneecaps to the floor and then flaying him to death he was just feeling for the groove above the patella when Tion interrupted his work.
Thinking of the noise, my human rights record and more importantly how to convince the cleaner it was her job to clean up the mess I looked disapproving and used a sure restraint 'It's not professional....'
Withering under the glare Psycosix replied, "Killing is killing whether for duty, profit or fun". It was a feeble excuse, but he was still angered over the broken blade. He didn't want justice. He wanted vengeance.
Her rights over the potential corpse asserted Tion looked round for a poetic (ie fancy) demise. The prominant exclamation mark on her door caught her fickle humour and she wrenched it down. Sharp edge, good weight, minimum of blood, an attractive solution to the problem at foot.
Psycosix felt cheated at first but then realised that the man was unlikely to have regained consciousness anyway... without that there would have been no pain and no satisfaction. He gathered up the splinters of what had been his favourite knife. The blade could be reworked, remade. It would take a while to get it back to the sharpness it had had before but it would otherwise be as good as new. Given a little time it may even become as good as old.
Index * Week 1 * Week 2 * Week 3 * Week 4 * Week 5 * Week 6 * Duel