Before the killing recommences, I bring you a short plea from PC Fu Hsi's Ghost's Ghost:
Ah! Misfortune. No rain falls for ninety
The watchers of the streets are currently far under-taxed. Though I am in but a lowly position, I feel I speak for every policeman when I entreat, no, beg the surviving Assassins to disregard law and order and unthinkingly slay innocents, poison door-handles, hurl fragmentation grenades into packed crowds of shutter-happy tourists, make obscene gestures at porters and not change their Special Assassin Issue Reinforced Underwear (as designated in rule 794ii) until they sag from the weight of lice and sweat.
Such heinous crimes can only be justified because of the disgusting and unnatural current climate of efficient and responsive law and order. As soon as an assassin comes on the wanted list, even though he appears to have eschewed evolving sufficiently to avoid scraping his knuckles on the floor (even though he is followed everywhere by a shining trail of drool, even if he is so deficient in any attribute which might concievably confer some level of prestige upon his murderer) he is so ruthlessly destroyed that his prospective killers are frequently hospitalised from injuries suffered in the headlong press to be the first to take his head. If you will suffer your humble servant to clarify this, I shall give an example. On Tuesday, I sought the demise of one Matt Adam, wanted for the somewhat limp-wristed crime of bringing quietus to an innocent. In my ignorance, I considered that he could be a dangerous and paranoid criminal, and thus sought to acquire allies in my righteous endeavour. Yet none were to be found. Combing the names of all known assassins and police in King's, I drew a blank. All were involved in such trivial and meaningless activity as writing essays, attending supervisions, and other such doltish nonsense. Perchance, I thought, still deluded as to the real state of affairs, all feared this deadly renegade?
Then it dawned upon me. No normal, well-adjusted human being would be sufficient to take on such a threat. No, for this task, I needed people dedicated so utterly to the paths of death that nothing could obstruct them. In short, I needed Geeks.
And not just any geeks. No, I required geeks of the highest possible calibre. Accordingly, I sought the respeced Chief of Police, and, with an accomplice, proceeded to the inhuman edifice of Harvey Court. It appeared to have been designed by the same people who designed the levels for Wolfenstein. Slipping in through the basement, we wandered around vaguely until working out where the hell room c63 was. The door was unlocked; we burst in, and I bravely led the charge (the CoP evidently being more experienced in such matters and knowing that a commander should never put himself at risk).
As I stabbed my gun in the direction of the horrible lawbreaker, he spoke the words all dread to hear: "I'm already dead."
I would therefore demand that more of you spineless motherf**kers go hence and break the law, so that the police force can go forth and massacre you all.
As I was peacefully eating my dinner this evening, I happened to look up, and what did I see but a massive 'fro coming out of the serving line into the hall. Immediately my heart began to race... seeing my target there, strutting thru hall like he had every right to be there, with nary a care in the world... he was going down. I began to evaluate the methods I had at my disposal to bring about his end (and I had many indeed). I was particuarly noting the intricacies of approaching him surreptitiously in such an open arena when he caught my eye, nodded, and proceeded to sit right across from me. Oh, the naivete, the blind innocence... it's too easy. I fingered the derringer I had in my pocket as he initiated a pleasant conversation with me and those nearby. I must have hidden the glint in my eye, the clenching of my fist... or maybe his massive head of hair prevented him from seeing anything other than the tray in front of him. Anyway, as he happily chattered away, eating his hearty dinner, I decided I'd give him the luxury of his last 15 mins of life. No fame, but good eats and pleasant conversation whiled away his time until I saw the clock strike 1900 hrs. His number was up. I calmly excused myself, and walked around the table. I had by this point decided to use a length of piano wire i had appropriated for this express purpose. The pistol would have been too loud, too messy... I'd rather keep the other diners out of this. And poison I also ruled out... I'm a kind man, not unreasonable... it would have been ungentlemanly to befoul his last dinner with the exotic taste of the fine mustard it was dissolved in. I paused for a moment (under the questioning eye of a friend with whom I have shared many a previous adventure), considering the added complication of the significant diameter of his hair I had to get over to reach the neck. But this deterred me not, for I had chosen the low 'E' string. "Enter Sandman" will never again be heard from the piano room, but seriously, who wants to hear that on a piano anyway? I quickly and quietly threw the wire over and around his neck and pulled hard. With scarcely an 'urk', my late garrotted target fell forward onto his plate, his last bite remaining forever uneaten.
This incident was messy and not helped by a lack of reporting from one side. But the conclusion is that Perfect Dark stabbed Gbenga in Kings cafeteria.
Here are my verses to commemorate the death of Anna af Hallstrom who passed away this evening at 7:10 on her way to Pembroke Formal Hall.
I used to be a renegade,
I used to fool around,
But I couldn't take punishment,
I had to settle down.
Now I'm playing it real straight
And yes I cut my hair;
You might think I'm crazy,
But I don't even care
'Cause something terrible is going on;
It's hip to be square.
She was leaving for formal hall,
I wouldn't let her go;
I shot her in the head, she fell,
She's dead you now well know.
They tell me killing's good for me,
But I don't even care;
I know that it's crazy,
I know that it's nowhere,
There is no denying that
It's hip to be square.
Mr Hickford reports:
After surviving a record length of time (including stoppage time!) I have met my end.
As I sat hard at work (smirk) there was a tentative knock on my door. Said hello, in my usual cheery manner, knowing that the door was locked. There was no reply. This immediatly made me a tad suspicious. A check though my peep hole revealed a suspicious looking figure standing in the corridor. I flung the door open, band gun in hand with the intention of filling this filty creature full of rubber! Alas, there were two figures, neither of whom was openly bearing weapons. My instinct told me that one of these men was trying to kill me, but which! They tried to recruit me into medsoc, but i was watching their hands. Unfortunately they had more hands than I had eyes, so they were able to make a move.
I knew my quarry was eating in Hall, but as it was only 6.15 I had to
grit my teeth and wait patiently. But my quarry slipped past me somehow on
the way out of Hall and I ended up waiting outside the bar with three
syringes full of deadly poison and a Sith Lord for the game to start.
Which it did, with no sign of the target. Eventually I gave up to go talk
to people. On leaving to return to my room I espied a friend walking
towards me with someone I did not recognise:
Me: Hi, I don't think we've met
Him: I'm Chris, by the way
Me: Hmmm, Chris what? (suspicion is building)
Him: Chris Reynish
Friend: Don't tell her, she's an assass-
Ohe short fumble through my bag later, Chris died of an attack by the Sith Lord Darth Maul. I only wish I'd been able to poison his drink, but that will wait for another time.....
Strolling along the Cam after an intensive Ergs session at the boat house, I entered my home, only to discover that a man, known only by the name 'John', had been looking for me.
This being such an unusual name, i immediatly became suspicious. Then, while loitering in the corridor, I heard a footstep behind me. Luckily I was forewarned, and so bolted for the nearest open room, where I hid. Peeping through the spyhole I watched as he plotted his kill - he had a huge round nose, tiny eyes and a narrow forehead, or maybe that was just the fisheye lens. As soon as he left for reinforcements, I made a dash for the stairs, where I fled to another room. This time that of a big, hard bloke. Grrr!!!
After cowering behind a chair, I heard some people enter. They calmly asked where I was, seeing this, I quickly looked for a weapon. Quite conveniently, the room was strewn with hockey sticks, but, mercifully, I elected for a roll of brown paper. Leaping out, I bludgeoned my assailant and his accomplice unconscious, before stabbing him repeatedly with his own knife. Unfortunately for me, a bystander, and fellow assassin, saw me with the unconcealed weapon, whereupon he struck me down with a knife.
Potato Bread reports:
After hours of banging and clanging emanating from his room, Laughing Boy emerged. His face was black with oil and a smell of fertilizer filled balloons could be picked up. "My creation is finished" he shouted with a dastardly grin on his face.
His exclamation aroused the two other assassins - Potato Bread and Willy Wood. They had been preparing for this moment the entire day. The posse was assembled, and soon the bomb was being primed outside Eagle Eye's door. A neighbour emerged, alerted by the sound of welding gear attaching the bomb in place.
"She's not in her room-shes hiding downstairs." said the neighbour. "Bo**ocks, RUMBLED!!!" Cursed Laughing Boy. Fortunately, Potato Bread's keen senses picked up some commotion on the floor below. The trio of death-wielders edged cautiously down the stairs and progressed down the corridor, using all the shadows available for cover.
Then, like a screaming banshee, a figure appeared from a dark alcove. Before our heros could arm themselves for brutal hand-to-hand combat, a club was being swung dangerously close to their heads. Willie Wood was the first to be hit, a glancing blow across his forehead rendered him unconscious.
Even though his comrade had been dealt a cruel (but not fatal) blow, Laughing Boy still had the good sense to draw his concealed blade. As he made a desparate lunge at the club-bearer(who was by now identified as Eagle Eye), the club landed square on his jaw. He slumped back against the wall and his weapon fell from his grasp.
Alas for Laughing Boy, Eagle Eye had the presence of mind to pick up the gleaming blade and plunge it deep into Laughing Boy's heart. He would laugh no more.
Meanwhile, Potato Bread, who had managed to retreat to the safety of some deep shadows, looked in shock at the scene which was unfolding before him. Anger grew in his belly, caused by the sight of the deranged Eagle Eye cackling over the corpse of his assassin friend, bloodied knife in her hand. He snapped, and with the speed of a jaguar and agility of a chipmunk he did proceed to slice Eagle Eye from head to toe, with the help of a small dagger. Her beady little eagle eyes would no longer prey on the innocent and honourable.
Fearing reprisals, Potato Bread grabbed the limp body of his unconscious friend Willy Wood, swung him over his shoulder, and made a quick, and silent, exit.
We knocked on Mr Revill's door. He said he was naked. We waited. We waited some more. We went and looked through his window. We waited some more. At last, we waited some more. Then we knocked again. A man holding a gun opened the door. We engaged him in conversation. He waved his gun a bit and tried to tell us we were here to assassinate him. I saw my compatriot (with whom we eventually killed a deathTASTIC three that evening) was getting a bit jumpy so I began to empty my pockets, phone, wallet, bits of paper.... I shot from the hip and a dart embedded itself,... in him!!! What a shock! His lifeless body slumped to the ground.
Michael Richards, turned off his music so we knew he was in. We waited,
and waited..... well, same as before really, you get the picture. He
opened the door a crack when we knocked again (the FOOOOOOL!
Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!). And talked, and closed it. And opened it. He shot my
friend, and missed, being a good three metres from tip of gun to head, AND
pointing at the opposite door in any case. I dived for cover...
Then I dived out again and shot him with my gun, it's called Burning Trail by the way. I reckon I call the dart Radiant Arc. Anyway, now I am done. The Binford Massive have now killed a GoreRRIFIC seven. So be afraid. Or else.
In their infancy, Greed-E-Shoe and Nor-T-Hat had been told never to stay out past the Hour of Twelvety. The Master had said, with an cruel Gleame in his bemonocled eye, 'For if thou dost, thou shalt surely Trans-Forme into an hideous Pillar of Salt!'
But in the Master's absence, the unworthy McVestments grew bulbous in their naughty defiance. If one were to peep with'in the betentacled doors of Worr-Drobe at precisely Twelvety, one would find naught a-Stirring but an obedient Fine Tricorne and an certain Pair of Poulaines.
For with an hop and an skip, Nor-T-Hat and Greed-E-Shoe had put on their shoes and pounced through the back of Worr-Drobe - into the Wondrous Land of Narbumnia! As they peeped greedily about in wonder, an fellowe of cloven-hoofe did arrogantly Trot t'ward them through't'snowe. "Pray tell, abomination ye! Where is the Nuclear Wessell?", crowed yon Hat. "An stone wall shall stop an Blind Hagg as surely as one who sees!", exclamavit. "So say I, Ged Ridgway, and ne'er the twain shall meet!" This appalling impertinence filled Greed-E-Shoe with an Rage the likes of which he had never dream'd, e'en in his wildest dreams of Rage. subito, Greed-E-Shoe knavum superavit, et "FOR NARBUMNIA" ululavit. et Ged "pestis! furcifer!" cantavit. sed 'twas not over until multus sanguis fluit, et knavus "eheu!" sussuravit, et Greed-E-Shoe multes pisces in corpum nudum knavo diffundit. deinde, 'twas over.
But suddenly, an jolly rap scallion burst through the undergrowth. The Hat n' Shoe could only Tapp-dance in terror! Thinking it was the hideous Bumler, Greed-E-Shoe fled, tongue b'twixt an ill-fated Twix he had been nauseatingly gobbling. But, knowing it was Polly Meeks, Nor-T-Hat bravely faced the n'er do well. Using its own peristalsis against it, Nor-T-Hat gallantly dived into the gaping maw of the Beaste and bloodily munched his way through its very Soule! I have never seen such courage! But 'twas not over 'til Greed-E-Shoe danced an "DANCE OF MERRIMENT" the likes of which no man should ever see. Then, 'twas over.
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