Nightwing reports:
I entered St Johns, having never visited before and after meeting a friend from school outside with his family, and wandered a few lovely paths until arriving at the not so lovely Cripps Building. There, staircase E was not too hard to locate and although the stairs of much evil nearly caused me to fall to my death, I found number 19. Expecting the target to possibly be out (at least according to his IN/OUT thingy) I was surprised to see the door open. Sneaking in, I shot the poor man before he even turned to see me with the most deadly weapon, a rubber band (or to be more accurate two strung together). After some belaborment and general disinterest on his part, I returned to my abode.
Number 5 reports:
On receiving my first list of targets I was struck with dismay. "Girton,
no way! And it doesn't even give her year on Hermes!"
I decided on the only sensible option, letterbomb. But not just any
letterbomb may I add. This one was lovingly and painstakingly handcrafted
to a secret design I learned after many years apprenticeship to the monks
of Sarema (Sarema translates roughly as, blowing people up from a
distance), in a harsh mountainous country I cannot reveal to you the
location of due to the memory-wipe techniques they practice on their
adherents to keep their location secret.
Nevertheless, I didn't expect it to work. Still, I hope my next target is
closer, Peterhouse perhaps.
The Boy with the Thorn In His Side reports:
I, The Boy With the Thorn in His Side, dispatched Miss Diana O'Carroll. I had entered her building to visit some friends there, after a supervision. I noticed her name on a door as I passed: but of course could not act. As we left, I noticed that very same door to be open! I stepped in. "Hello, I've got this for you". Three shots to the chest ensued. "Am I dead, then?". On learning that she was, she asked to keep the rubber bands. I let her, because I'm nice like that. Extending my generosity even further, I gave her my tip that salt and sugar is the best way to remove bloodstains from clothing. Time of death: 1818.
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
Hmmm, on my out to find the cause of all my problems and kill it, I found a bad poison letter which stated "You're dead." However, using the cunning device they give you everytime you go and buy something in sainsburies (yes, a reciept!) I moved said poison letter and examined it carefully. It looks like the poison may well have dried, but I wasn't going to find out by testing. It was apparently left on the kitchen windowsill, and my housemate moved it. He doesn't look too good now, I hope he's feeling better tommorrow, otherwise there could be a mysterious death around these parts. However, my assassins shall soon meet their Dhhoooommmmm!
The Umpire reports:
Despite the letter having been left in a shared kitchen, it was marked clearly with "Private: [Target's Name]", and the assassin was not aware it was a shared kitchen.
Consequently, The Green Blade is not wanted, but I would ask him to be more careful in future.
Devil I reports:
I have assassinated Target 2: Ian Blaney. I knocked on his door he opend it and said "Are you the Housekeeper?" at which point he noticed I was holding something in my hand and as he was about to close the door I shot him in the chest (using a nerf gun) using a hand held manual revolvers.
Number 5 reports:
This evening after finishing work, yes we SPSers do get some, I checked my
target list and found an anomaly: Kelly Bond was not yet dead. I
immediately resolved to rectify this absurdity.
Luckily Selwyn is not as far from Queens as it is from, say, Fitz's, and so
it took me only 15 minutes to get there. Ok, ok, I got lost, so what? On
arrival at Cripp's Court I went through the first door I came to and
proved extremely lucky, no hunting for obscure locations here(Blue Boar O
staircase, *shudder*) I staircase was staring me in the face. Proceeding
upwards I paused to check the room number on the board. It informed me
that she was "out". Oh well, I'll find the room at least.
'pon reaching the correct floor however I discovered the foul deceit and
treachery this lady was capable of, her door was open (Do I see a pattern
emerging here?). Swiftly unholstering my sidearm I strode boldly forth.
Just inside I found a young lady reclining on a bean-bag chatting to a guy
in a chair. Hmmm, now which one could be Kelly. "Are you Kelly Bond?" I
enquired of the fair damsel. "Uh, wh-"
<Bang>
<Bang, Bang>
And so ended the career of a promising young contract-killer.
She was, however, by far the most hospitable of my targets. I had a superb
cup of tea and she introduced me to a large number of her friends, after
assuring me they weren't playing. Most of them took the news of her demise
rather demurely, with the exception of one poor chap who was quite
overcome. "How could you, you bastard!" he cried, leaping to his feet.
After a lengthy chat, I left. This was quite definately my most memorable
assassination so far.
Kumansu reports:
this is to inform you of some rather bizarre and violent events that took
place in my home tonight. After chatting to one of my friends I headed back
to my room when a large red thing on the floor attracted my attention. I
couldn't believe what I saw after I investigated the corpse further - it
wasn't a random criminal or alike, it was one of my housemates! Not only was
he a very nice chap, but also was he completely innocent, not knowing
anything of the assassins guild! After further investigation it turned out
that a ruthless assassin had exploited the hospitality of my home and shot
the next best person he met! This is absolutley unacceptable!
Very disturbed I headed back to my room and discovered that the rampant assassin had not learned from his mistake and aborted his mission after killing an innocent - he had planted a bomb outside my door! In a public place putting further innocent housemates at risk! To prevent any further deaths I immediately put on some gloves and removed the (poisoned) trigger thread from the doorhandle and made sure no others were around. Several attempts to detonate the bomb failed due to its miserable construction - the denotator proved rather stable and allowed for a complete disarming of the bomb. I sincerely hope that such inconsiderate and ruthlessly murdering fellow assassins will be willing to deal with the consequences of such irresponsible behaviour.
The Umpire reports:
It turns out Fly Boy, Alexander Instrell, had asked the neighbour "Are you [first name of target]?" The neighbour had the same first name, so answered "Yes" and got shot.
Due to the circumstances, Fly Boy will be redeemed for killing two criminals or incompetents. If he survives that long...
The Shaman reports:
It was a cold afternoon. The weather seemed to know something horrible
had to happen here today. Armed with only knives and accompanied by his
faithful companion, Louis the Monkey, he went to Trinity College. His
senses guided him to the floor of the one they called David Minch-Dixon.
Creeping, so as not to enrage his target, for only the Goddess knew the wrath of a man in danger, he sneaked into the corridor and found a door open. Embracing the powers of Mother Earth, he dived into the room and threw a knife at the presence. His victim tried to reach for his weapon, but the airborne knife dug deep into his throat. Thanking the Goddess for his true aim that day, the Shaman retired home for tea and biscuits.
Crud Puppy reports:
After finding my way to the target's staircase last night, i paid a visit to my target on my way back from a supervision. Upon arrival, I found out that my target had kindly left his door open, and was talking to a friend. I casually walked in and fired two shots from my RPG at my unprepared and unarmed victim, who responded with "That'll teach me to leave my door open then"
Fluffy Bunny reports:
How unwise it is to be an unknown face in a place where everybody knows each other. When, coming back from a supervision I noticed a suspiciously looking person in the stairs I immediately understood he was an assassin (especially since he had a hand covered with his jumper... What might have been hidden? A gun probably...). As I went up, he approached me, and when he was starting to ask me a question I shot at him. Very unwise. However, I have to compliment him for his dressing code. A piece of advice to all the assassins. When you are a group of more than two people dressed completely in black and knocking at random times on people's doors, only an idiot wouldn't understand that you are not assassins. In order to survive, black is definitely not the way forward.
The Minister of Foreboding reports:
There's really nothing like a fortunate, instinctive kill, depending on quick reactions and flexible, lateral thinking. Which is convenient, because this really was nothing like a fortunate, instinctive kill, depending on quick reactions and flexible, lateral thinking. I found out from my extensive information sources a rough description, and also that she had been known to attrend the Christian Union. Armed with this information, I pressed her buzer and waited. Nothing happened, but as we all know, nobody escapes the Minister of Foreboding. So I tried again. I heard some sounds behind the door, then the good old call of "Who is it?" So simple yet worthwhile. I nervously said I was from the Christian Union, the door opened a little. I fully opened it, she realised from the gun in my hand that I hadn't been honest with why I wanted to speak to her, and shot her. She didn't take it too well, she should have been more suspicious and opened with a weapon. She'll know for next time. Nicely done, though.
Malcolm Canmore reports:
AAAARRRRRGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! I knew I shouldn't go to the door without my dagger. Chalk one up to severe overwork.
The Milky Bar Goat reports:
Bored by my slow pace of life, I decided to find something for my goat
self to do. Since there are very few female goats in Cambridge, I
decided to sit in a lab full of computers for three hours.
During this time I becmae increasingly annoyed by a shady character
scratching away at a piece of paper. When he left, I shot him in the
heart. Easy. His last words were a description of his nightmares of a
death involving masks, knocks on doors, and the wee small hours of the
morning.
My business done, I ambled away into the fens to <a href=http://www.olympic-usa.org/athlete_tips/dragila.html>worry about goat things.
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
I decided to do something about the glut of wanted criminals we have in Cambridge and packed up my weapons and went to King's College. Having blagged a view at the matriculation photo, I knew what my target looked like. Finding his staircase, however, proved rather harder. Eventually I reached his door, but there was noone home.
Wandering down to the end of the corridor, pretending to be lost - I spied
none other than my target approaching. Unfortunately, I was accosted by
someone else who was in fact lost, and so I failed to get a clear shot at
him. Following him down the hall, I was just in time to see him vanish into
his room - but not quite close the door.
Having persuaded him to return to it, I proceeded to loose off several shots
with my pellet pistol - hitting him in the arms, possibly hitting his lady
friend [although he was cowering behind her at the time] and eventually
scoring a head-shot.
Thus he dies, and Cambridge's streets once again proceed slowly towards
being safe.
P.S. I also failed to shoot any innocents today! Is this a new trend for the Policeman that goes Ping! ? Definitely.
Zionist Rebel reports:
16.55 Enter Jesus College Cambridge
16.56 Enter Porter's Lodge, and gain access to the Matriculation
Photographs, I now have familiarity with the awful visage of the evil
criminal.
16.57 Start looking for V staircase in North Court. Judging by the angle of
the slowly sinking sun, I decide it must be in front of me. I wander to the
edge of the court with a large horse in the centre (Not real, I think it's
bronze). I can see a particularly lovely 60s era building. On closer
inspection, it has staircases labelled Q-W, so I am nearly there. Heading
swiftly to V staircase, I ascend the stairs until I find room 3. Further
scouting leads me to decide that the best vantage point is on the landing
above the target's room. I make sure my trusty (and brand new) rubber band
gun is easily accessible, and settle down to wait, reading a particularly
interesting treatise on the English Civil War.
17.01 A girl walks past. I don't shoot her, as my target this afternoon is
male.
17.15 The same girl walks past. She is curious, "What are you doing?" in a
loud voice. I tell her (quietly) that I am an assassin. She seems impressed.
I show her my gun, I realise that I am running the risk of getting
distracted, so I ask her if she knows my target. She does. She tells me
where he will be this evening (Formal Hall), what time he is going there and
where the Jesus hall actually is. I thank the girl, and then leave.
17.18 I begin scouting the Hall area. The room across from the entrance to
hall is the JCR. I hatch a cunning plan, commencing by leaving a bad
poisoned letter for Fly Boy. I then leave.
19.10 I return to Jesus JCR, ten minutes before my target is due in hall. I
pick up a copy of Varsity, and study the entrance to hall.
19.15 People start arriving. I check each of there faces against the mental
picture I have of the target (Not the girls though)
19.20 The target arrives. He stumbles, I'm not entirely sure why. I take two quick steps to the doorway, and draw my gun. Three quick shots to the back of the head, and he's very, very dead. He seems to have taken it fairly well though.
Elmo reports:
After a frustrating day the killing instinct had built to a crescendo as subtle as a hairy white cow. It was becoming apparent that NOW would be a good time to act.. several early attempts were foiled when people were not where i had foreseen they might be. Having not the patience to wait i took my shiny knife elsewhere... thus it was late in the day as i followed the hunched shoulders of my trusty accomplice deep into the contorted bowels of St. Cat's. Innocent smiles lubricated the deception as a delicate concerto of anticipation, desire and classical piano led us up to j15. A subtle knocking and a lucid eye appeared through a shallow crack. A pause.. a brief exchange. Realisation dawned as the knife slipped upwards through the door. Enemy Z. He was fast.. he just wasn't fast enough. Nice guy though. The adrenalin surge of a first kill coursed through my veins and i realised that one would never be enough...
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
Dear mr. Umpire, I must inform you that Dan Shouler has met his Dhoooommmmmmm! My plans for world domination were almost complete when I realized that I was about to go incompetent for failure to kill someone, so at 2100 hours (1 hour after the incomptence dead line!) I went to pay a visit on one of my targets in <college deleted to protect the corpse>, alas for him, for he had drunk 20 cocktails that night (apparently, he didn't look that drunk!) Anyhow, his door was open, but noone was home. A friendly neighbour said "he's in the Gyp room". Aha! My accomplice said, but upon bursting into said room, we found not one, but two people there. I said "Dan?" one guy said "thats him", the other said "yes" we shot him. Dead. Next we chatted, got offered food and left. All very nice. I hope I'm competent again, I don't want people killing me!
The Umpire reports:
Remember that the incompetence deadline is in fact NEXT Friday and not today.
Arrogant reports:
Hi, I got killed again and pigsty still hasn't seen any action, apart from lots of wandering aroung looking for people who weren't in. Incidentally no-one has killed pigsty yet.. Anyway, I got a knock on my door opened it and my friend was there, then a man with a gun popped his head round the corner and shot me! I was betrayed. Anyway, a very smooth kill on his part. It only took seconds, and I hope the rest of his night was also successful.
Minister of Moonwalking reports:
Half wasted from a birthday party and thirsty for blood we made our way to Newnham last night. Matric photos were
useful again and after numerous numbers of flights of stairs we arrived outside our targets door.
... a few embarassing moments later...
My accomplice, the unnamed member of the police force, knocked on the door.
'Who is it?'
'Hi it's (name deleted to avoid hate-mails)'
The door opens slightly and the target's face is in view.
'I'm a member of the police for the assassins......'
(Bang)
a scream...
'and You're dead!' I pronounced proudly, blowing gently across my smoking barrel.
She then happily congratulated us and I even got my pellet back!
The Umpire reports:
Remember that section 6 of the rules states that police mustn't act as accomplices except on attempts on wanted criminals. Any kill whose outcome is affected by the illegal presence of a police officer is likely to be annulled. In this case the kill could have been carried out in the same way without the accomplice, so it stands.
Prostetnic Vogon Cjeltz reports:
Horrible windy morning. The weather's so inconsiderate in this place. In
fact, it's almost always irritating. So I felt like killing someone. You
might think that I would do this in an elegant way. Well, forget it.
Vogons value efficiency above elgance. In fact, Vogons don't value
elegance at all, so why even bother thinking that, you
purposeless jelly-like carbon-based life form?
The human in question could be relied on to walk a certain way at a
certain time, so I just walked the other way at the certain time. No
bloody creativity, honestly, it's enough to man a man really bored. Then I
shot her. Ho-hum.
At last, having a captive if bleeding audience, I took the opportunity to
recite a recent verse composition of mine entitled "Ode to a Washing
Machine."
So rotates the bulbous drum
That colender carriage of the wash
Swooshes the clothes in Sodden Squash,
Accompanied by droning hum.
This interminable process goes
(As Xeno the philosopher said),
>From spin to spin, continues, fed
By men, but for how long who knows?
(at this point the recital was interrupted by the human's dying
screams of agony)
O haven of the cleanly dressed,
Half done, half more, you wash, but I
Must wait, thence put my load to dry
though socks are lost, I leave unstressed.
Sadly, the human died before I reached the end of the last stanza. Some people just don't appreciate poetry, humph.
Elmo reports:
Damn.
Well, I'm dead.. gunned down in the street by Prostetnic Vogon Cjeltz.
It wasnt too bad until he started with the poetry.
My god, the poetry...
*twitches*
arial68 reports:
I've just been killed by The Policeman who goes Ping, but doesnt!, by knife in my room, grr. There is nothing like being killed in the middle of an examples paper to screw up your weekend!
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
At approximately 11.00 today, I approached the known abode of Cambridge's
Most Wanted (well, Only Wanted) Criminal - Alastair Willoughby.
Having failed to be allowed in by tail-gating a fellow habitee, I was forced
to press a button at random on the wall.
Thankfully, this person proceeded to let me in - so I quickly made my way to room 401 (not the easiest to find). Whilst considering my options, a door opened further down the hall and a girl in a dressing gown came out. Seeing me in the corridor, she asked if I was looking for something in particular. Thinking that honesty was the better part of valour, I replied that I was looking for Alastair, but wasn't sure if he was in. She knocked on his door for me, and was told to "Come In!". Upon entering, she said "You have a visitor". As realization dawned I approached and stabbed him in the back - watching him crumple onto his supervision exercises was most satisfying - and informed him he was dead.
Mogwai reports:
It was a cool midday in Trinity Great Court as the sun created a shadow over the Great Gate side of the mediaeval structure. Having spent several occasions over the past week in search of Miss Munro (once even knocking on her door and inviting her to an electronica evening over at Kings - she declined - i didn't kill her) it was with great excitement that as a group huddled up, ready for the start of the Great Court Run (into which I snuck my way in, despite not being a Trinity fresher) I spotted my favourite target standing to my left. Having just handed over my bag and coat to a friend, together with my plastic, glow-in-the-dark, retractable knife, I quickly scrambled over to retrieve my implement of death. Walking over to her, I interrupted her conversation with the words "Sorry, are you Rachel Munro?" to which she replied "yes". With this answer it was all over as my blade entered her torso she did little to fight it. All she could come up with was a disappointed "Shit!" before her hopes of glory were dashed and mine were rejuvenated. Minutes later the bell tolled and we did run!
The Minister of Malice reports:
Bradley Kay had been my target all week, and I was told that he did the same subject as me. I was shown his matriculation photo, but I couldn't see him anywhere in my lectures. I eventually tried to beat him back to his room after our 11.00 lecture on Saturday, but I wasn't fast enough. I was scared about knocking on his door as I was on my own, and he looked tough on the photo I had seen, so I decided to hang around for a few minutes, and started to read the Varsity Newspaper, because I hadn't read it on Friday. After a few minutes, someone looking just like him came out of his corridor and up the stairs towards me. I called "Bradley" as he went past me, and he turned round. Although I fumbled with my gun, I managed to get him eventually. I was confused when he just walked off, but apparently it was him. That's a relief-I really wasn't sure. He didn't even talk to me.
Sapphire reports:
Upon the sixth-and-twentieth day of thif tenth month of thif Year of
Our Lord two thousand and two, thif, the chronicle of the Sapphire
herewidth:
The most dysturbing and yet unusual tyrn hath come to pass. The Sapphire
itself hath been assaulted. Upon a tranquyll postnoon of the syxth day,
two assailants knocked upon the door of the Sapphire. Thynking quickly,
the Sapphire called yts weapon to hand, and procyded to the door.
The dyscourse went thusly:
"Who is it?"
"It's Tim, from upstairs"
<Sapphire unlocks door, takes three steps back, points gun at door>
"Come in"
"It's locked"
<Sapphire swears, returns to door, unlocks it, takes 3 steps back etc.>
"It's open now"
The door opened slyghtly. The Sapphire fyred a trynity of bullets through
it. The door closed quickly, amydst a curse from the assassin. Repeat, with
a cry of pain as a bullet lances through the arm of the assassin.
Sapphire opens door, fyres a quartet, shreds former assassin.
Feeling generous, he allows the accomplice to escape.
The Brainwashed Pigeon of Doom reports:
A fatal lack of experience, planning and effort has taught me the (very fatal) lesson that a parsnip is no match for a multi-shot RBG. Oh well....
someone reports:
It was a cold evening of October in a peaceful rural area. On viewing the
climatic situation that evening, I dutifully followed all that mother had
taught and securely ensured insulated hand warmth by placing mittons upon my
elegant and much coveted digits.
on approaching my hole of p, i noticed an excitingly interestingly
suspicious looking envelope. i noted that the writing was that of a
scientist, perhaps someone wearing glasses with wild, wiry hair and
immediately presumed this to be an attempt on my life... carefully opening
the document, i rejoicingly noted the letter to be from Mr A. Sassin and it
seemed to be covered with some type of newly-developed highly scientificly
engineered and master-planned white substance which gave off a pleasant
odour to the unsuspecting victim.
unfortunately my mother having drummed into my head the importance of insulating the body, i have survived this attack and expectantly await more attacks, only to live another day.... better luck next time, Mr Sassin :)
Such a pity he shot the room's other occupant as well. Full report to follow.
The Shadow reports:
While sampling some fine college food, I spied my target entering to get his dinner too. Realising that for once I was unarmed and out of my room (unwise I know; I was foolish), I quickly headed back to my room to acquire my lightsabre. I hurried back to find my unsuspecting victim still consuming his fine college cuisine. I activated my lightsabre behind him and called his name. He looked around just in time to see my swing strike his back and cut him in half along the base of his rib cage. The only sight of me the victim caught, was his last, such are the ways of The Shadow.
Unipidity reports:
Pizza and chips; usually a winner when it comes to Upper Hall food, and so it was turning out. A low key conversation, some nice tomato and basil base, and decently melty cheese; just the ingerdients for a great, satisfying 15 minutes. Little did I know, however, doom awaited me... a shout of my name, heard, but barely reacted to, and I was brutally slain by bisection, the instrument of my demise being a strangly blue, glowing knife of some considerable length. Darn. I will have my revenge.. until next time... farewell cruel world.
Hercules Grytpype Thynne reports:
Twas late this evening, and I was sitting at my computer, minding my own
business, when I heard the door handle being turned... It was locked, of
course, but I became very suspicious when no knock was heard. So I looked
out of my handy spyhole, and beheld something distinctly Hogg-shaped, now
trying my neighbour's door. I watched as he departed, and called out,
"Nice try," as he left... If only I had known what he'd done, I would have
been more wary about him not turning around.
Thanks to a fellow resident cooking sausages in one of the kitchens, the
fire alarm sounded and the inhabitants of my block were forced to
evacuate, and stand around in the cold for a while. After a few minutes,
the noise ceased, and we all returned happily to our rooms...
...where I discovered that some bugger had put poison on my door handle. Curse you, Hogg! Curse you to the lowest pit of hell! Or possibly not.
Number 5 reports:
On returning to my room tonight I found a copious amount of green mint toothpaste on my door-handle. I know it was green and mint flavoured because a substantial amount ended up on my fingers. Since this was mis-use of contact poison then either someone new is wanted or, if Jonathon Hogg is attempting to redeem himself by slaughtering policemen may I suggest his conditions for redemption be made harder for further breaking the rules.
Scarlet reports:
It appears either the Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! is up to his tricks
again, or a truly remarkable coincidence is afoot...
As Saturday evenings go, it was a fairly quiet night last night (at least
in terms of murderous rampage) so this particular defender of truth and
justice was having a night off.
However, this morning, I was awakened by the fellow who lives opposite me,
complaining that someone had smeared toothpaste all over his doorhandle and
into the lock in the middle of the night. Myself being unaware of Minister
of Dhooommmmmmmm!'s wanted status, we dismissed it as the work of a well
known drunken prankster in the next staircase.
However, Your Honour, I put it to you that Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm slunk
up to my corridor last night, and in a fit of blindingly brilliant
incompetence, failed to differentiate between 11 and 9, and promptly
slaughtered my neighbour instead.
I vote we make him incompetent as well as wanted! Be warned Hogg, my
neighbour will be avenged...
Insert Name Here reports:
This morning, I found my contact poison on my doorhandle. However, through a combination of 1. extreme paranoia and 2. not being hungover after Matric Dinner like most people, I live. This is more than can be said for my would-be assassin if I find out who did it. Poison easily spotted and removed, but was it an already wanted criminal or a new one? We shall see.
The Umpire reports:
It was Jonathan Hogg. What a surprise.
The Peacemaker reports:
A terrible thing happened today.
I was walking down Trinity Lane, minding my own business, when I met the
Wanted (although I didn't know this at the time) Jonathan Hogg. I greeted
him, then he pulled out a gun and began shooting me. Somewhat taken aback,
I followed my first instinct, which was to run away, and somehow I evaded
the shower of bullets (a bit like in those Hollywood films where the good
guy is running up the stairs and all the bullets hit the railings).
I then hid in the marketplace, behind a stall, until I judged that the
danger had passed, whereupon I resumed my journey to Trinity computer
room, via Rose Crescent. But fugitives are desperate men who will not
easily be dissuaded from their purpose. This particular one found me on
the way back, followed me and shot me in the back, mere yards from the
place of our first encounter.
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
While wondering from Trinity Hall towards Games and puzzles I saw The Peacemaker wandering towards me. It appears he was unaware of my wanted status. Unfortunately I misjudged my timing and missed with my first shot due to the wind. This resulted in him evading my clutches. Having checked alternative routes for him, I headed back towards Games And Puzzles. At the end of Green Street I spotted a figure checking in all directions wearing the same kit as David - Hmmm....... Still unaware that Dhooooommmm! was closing in on him from behind, he walked down the little street between Trinity and Trinity Hall. Three shots later he was lying in a pool of blood on the floor. And hence, assassins should take note: a)Check the news page at least once a day b)Look over your shoulder if you think an assassin may still be after you.
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
At 1.40 today, I meandered down towards the abode of Jonathan Hogg. Having
found someone to let me in, I found myself outside his doorway.
Unfortunately, one of his neighbours insisted on opening the door before
me - and so I found myself in a firefight rather sooner than I would have
liked. After firing a couple of shots each we called a cease-fire and both
concluded we had missed the other.
I went on my way with a bottle of vodka for my troubles [hope it isn't
poisoned...] and battled against the strong winds back up the hill.
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
It was only a few minutes earlier that I had commented that "If you get past my front door I'm reasonably easy to kill" It would seem this statement isn't the truest thing in the world. My neighbours appear well trained. Perhaps an omen of his arrival was when my computer spontaneously switched itself off due to apower fluctation. Moments later: When Agent who goes "ping!" came around he got one of my neighbours doorbells by "mistake" so my neighbour said "Let me just see if hes in...." Having shot someone in this situation myself last night I opened the knock on my door with a RBG in my hand. "There's someone to see you..." Click-Click-Bang-Click. It appears our dodging skills are as good as Neo's, as we both managed to miss each other. After a friendly chat we went our separate ways.
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
I had to drop some CDs off for Steven Cooper, however he asked for them in #assassins. As I'm wanted this necessitated I leave him a present to go with them: so I set up the CDs wedged into the crack between the doors such that opening said door would detonate them. I also left some contact poison on the door. Oh well. I hope he gets Debian working, after surviving this lame attempt on his life.
Almost A Zombie reports:
I was killed during a family visit due to my father knocking on the door, *failing* to spot the bomb wired to the door and me letting him in. I knew it was him so I wasn't as careful as I should have been. The bomb killed myself and two innocents.
Jenny Chase reports:
I watched him through the window, I watched him leave the room, I followed him into the staircase. He was discussing whether or not I was threat with his neighbour when I shot him through the heart. Muwhahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!
Mogwai reports:
I am dead! Although, it's not like I'm dead after some exciting, action movie-worthy, shitty, choreographed, stunt doubled, cliche fight. What actually occured was much more disappointing, much more ... well ... SAD. OK, so I've been playing the game to a semi-giyasheet standard. I mean, I haven't been opening my door only from a distance by means of a string. It isn't like I've been sitting in the dark all day and night with the curtains closed (although there were rumours flying around stating that I had been doing just that), in fact I've just spent most of my time DOING STUFF which happened to involve not being in my room.
Ok, anyway, back to the actual event. Now, rather stupidly, before I went out yesterday I left my curtains open and my light on whilst I did some work. This might seem rather stupid, but I had motives outside of this game, I mean I don't want to just disappear and become a NIMIL - Not In MI Life (don't ask the derivation of this term, I don't know, a friend introduced the term to me, and I think it's quite cool) which basically makes reference to one of those mysterious people that you never see, either because they spend their lives in their room working or, assumedly, because they're playing assassins. I can't have spent that long with my light on either so I suppose my assassin was just lucky.
Anyway, this time I'm really going to keep on track. This evening, about 6:30pm in my reckoning, I'm walking across the hallway of our staircase having just set up a perfect trap in my room (shower left on, bedroom light on, study dark with music coming out, front door open, me just about to go and sit in the room opposite my door). I see through the door a seemingly genderless person, with a bright bomber jacket and (I think) a hat, standing on the grass outside, looking like your typical psycho. Now, obviously, I was extremely suspicious of this person, and as I moved into my friend's room I relayed my suspicion.
I mean, we are talking a seriously psycho-style person, who then proceeds to enter our door and then stealthily use our toilet facilities (I mean this is the ultimate indicator of a wandering psycho - it took us a while to work out we had shared toilet facilities in addition to our individual ensuite ones, I have no idea how someone could just randomly find them and then proceed to make use of them without thinking they would make themselves look rather suspicious). Anyway, the story continues. The psycho, who turned out to be female, then left the toilet and proceeded to walk towards my nextdoor neighbour's door.
Now, at this point, I have two choices, either assume they are a burglar (and therefore proceed in the manner advised by the police, ie. leave them alone and call 999 from afar) or I could suppose they're just some scummy assassin and therefore just watch as they then proceed to turn their head, see me watching them, come over, and then ask "Are you Matthew Jacobs?" to which I could then just reply "Oh" and wait for a few seconds before the fatal piece of plastic rebounded off my stomach and fell to the floor, without even attempting to make use of the plastic, glow-in-the-dark, retractable knife that lies in my hand at all times.
I chose the second option. Consequently I'm writing an email now to describe my death at the hands of a rather uninspiring assassin. As to her identity she did actually tell me her real name (apparently she has "uses for her aliases") but as it was all so uninspiring it kind of drifted out of my mind. But anyway, as I started, I am dead!
Jenny Chase reports:
*giggle*
Nightwing reports:
Strangely enough this target was familiar to me. I had met him at a cocktail party just a few days before - as my friend in Christ's lives just three doors down from him! Handy, so thought I. Thus an elaborate plan was hatched to stitch him up in an amusing way... and upon arrival I put it into action by borrowing the webcam (very poor quality I might add but it does add to the ambience) of a fellow assassin next door to my friend. Then, knocking on the victim's door with the premise that I still wanted a camera, I knocked him out flat with my trusty Times 2 cosh. Dragging the body into the other room, he was lain down and then just as he awoke, I used a high powered (and difficult to set up) laser beam to literally burn holes in his eyes and melt his brain (ok perhaps not literally). He was suitably in agony, look at the terror on his face! The photos cunningly do not reveal my identity, but note that I wear a black coat (oh that make's it easy I hear you say!). After his untimely death there was much watching of the Simpsons and general mocking of the camera-owning assassin's plastic sword.
The Umpire reports:
Pictures of this dastardly deed are are here and here.
somebody reports:
It looks like the beginning of Bad Poison Letter Season (BPLS). I have been reliably informed that BPLS starts a few days before the incompetent deadline, to ensure that many lazy people stay competent for the first week or so after the deadline. The hallmarks of a BPL are :
1.) Hand-written Envelope - Usually very untidy, I wish that they'd teach these mathematicians to write neatly. 2.) Only the target's name written on - This has very obviously been hand delivered, not sent through the post. 3.) Makes a rustling sound when it is shaken - sign of overly coarse powder. 4.) Selotaped closed - The assassin is worried that the poison may leak, hence the extra sealant is needed.
The BPL I received today displayed characteristics 1, 2 and 4. I dealt with it safely, including checking for detonators.
John Virgo reports:
Well count me out for incompetence, two hours, two kills and one very bloody lightsaber(well the handle is). First target, Stuart Fraser bit the dust after a broad stroke separating legs from torso,Obi-Wan vs. Darth Maul style. He will dispute the legality of the kill I must note,since he claims I was informed by the ghost of "brain-washed pigeon of doom" whom he killed on saturday. My informant was actually padawan learner Mr Flibble, who is still quite alive,and who was accomplice to the afore-mentioned "pigeon" that fateful night. That's one apprentice Mr Fraser will regret letting live, and vengeance for my former master.
John Virgo reports:
Second target, Jemma Ahmed, fell for a classic "Jemma, it's Andy can I come in?", and was swiftly eviscerated (Mel Gibson screaming "FREEDOM",you get the picture). Credit to "Dellboy" for helping me out there, his accent is much friendlier than mine.
Disappearing Girl reports:
Despite several helpful people directing me to the scene of the (proposed) crime, my target was nowhere to be found. I instead gatecrashed a party in my target's staircase before going to the bar to contemplate my next move. I there found a flyer for an exclusive-looking drinks party at Pembroke. Knowing that this would attract the attention of such a high-class member of the Assassins as Mister Flibble, I cunningly wrote a note on the back, smeared it with ash and stuck it in his door. The consequences of this action remain to be seen...
Mister Flibble reports:
I came back to my room at 0115 hours in the morning after a happy night of
assassination accomplicing around cambridge, to find a rather suspicious
looking card on my door advertising something at Pembrooke college...I
looked round other peoples doors, only to find that the mystery leaflet
leaver hadnt left any on their doors. How strange!!
I opened my door, and the leaflet fell onto the floor, revealing its
other side, which had been coated in some kind of contact poison...Well,
its good to see someone cares, even if the attempt was a little lame..!
The card was carefully removed with gloves and disposed of.
Mr Flibble stil lives!!!
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
Surprised that no-one made an attempt on me during lectures, I set about making them safer tommorrow, eliminating the last of the "Trinity three", Clay. Despite having recieved the following warning:
"I don't trust anyone from Trinity. If I see you I will shoot you. Muwhahahahahahaha!"
However she happily walked between lectures, and failed to notice me as I walked up to her from the side and shot her, before taking a slightly different route to the next place of lectures.
Quote, Clay : Click, thunk - "You *bleep*"
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
I was walking towards Magdalene Bridge thinking "What would I do if
I saw Jon Hogg?". Ironically, Cambridge's Criminal Mastermind® came over the
brow of the bridge, cycling towards me - apparently oblivious. Various
thoughts flitted through my mind including - "If I run away, he'll see me",
"If I keep walking he might see me", "If I shoot him he'll be dead". Fixing
this last thought, I pounced - leaping into the road and dealing death with
my pellet pistol. The Minister handed in his resignation and moved to the
great quango in the sky.
My work is done for the moment -> Number of Wanted Criminals = 0.
The Minister of Dhooommmmmmmm! reports:
Having survived lectures I went on to wait for Cripps at his house. 30 mins later I gave up as I had work to do. Cycling back into town to check on where Cripps was eating food, I discovered that Cripps had seen me first and hidden behind a white van. Of course I only realised this after the bullet, somewhat slowed by my cycle helmet of dhooommmm, splattered my brains across the pavement, nearly hitting another player who was coincidentally near by.
Having seen my life pass before my eyes, I am left pondering the "what ifs" of the void: What if my earlier bomb had actually had a working detonator?, What if I had taken the other route home, what if, what if, what if......
And so ends my wanted spree, oh well. I'll sign up with the police force on friday when I have thought of a suficently good pseudonym, and maybe even mastered the fine art of spelling.
The Flamingo reports:
I received in my pigeon hole this saturday a letter of dubious origins.
Just as I was about to open it thinking it to be from some friend enquiring
after me I noticed it had a cambridge postmark. I have no friends in this
cold city who would bother posting me stuff, so I took it to my room and
opened it with forceps(tweezers) and scissors. To think I was so close to
death by poison(shredded tissue- a lame-ass poison if you ask me).
Luckily I live on to fulfill my muderous ambitions.
Treguard reports:
Welcome watchers! I hope you've come prepared, as we will see the full horrors of the fortress of Newnham unfold. Our tale begins, as a brave dungeoneer dares to cross the precipice from the light into all manner of despair. His quest is to find the hoards of treasures hidden deep within the caverns and corridors, with danger lurking around every corner. Upon entering the dungeon, the advisors cry loudly through the magic mirror that there is only one true path to the treasure, and that the dungeoneer must follow their every command. He evades all manner of perils and porters, and the treasure grows ever nearer. After an advert break, the dungeoneer arrives on the very brink of success, but, alas, he lacks the necessary object to claim the prize the team so desperately seek after. He is forced to retreat, to explore new horizons, and seek alternative routes. But as his forlorn figure trudges back along familiar passages, the advisors cry "O Dungeoneer! That woman so fair and young. Surely she is the key to the mystery!" The dungeoneer, he turns, yes he turns, and follows the maid, once more he treads the path of doom. Her box of wares must hold the clue, but her feet fly so smoothly that our hero is left breathless in pursuit. His Life Force is dangerously low, he must take care, lest he come to a sticky end! At last, so close to the door of escape, she pauses, the dungeoneer approaches, and the mystery is complete. The door opens, the light enters in and the fortress is cleansed of the things of the night. The dungeoneer is transported back, and the whole team receive their medals. There is much rejoicing, yet I consider so many castles with secrets still to yield, and I know that there will be more dungeoneers in time. But for now, remember that nothing here is real, it is only an illusion, a game-isn't it?
Sue Danim reports:
Returning from a meeting with my DoS at about 6pm, I spotted two shifty characters exiting the gym at the bottom of my staircase. As this is an all-girls college and one of them was a man, I was a little suspicious, but passed by with no comment. As I reached the first landing I noticed that they had stopped and were whispering - unbeknownest to me this was a discussion along the lines of "is that her?", though I think the fact that I was carrying a box plainly labelled "human bones (misc)" blatantly gave away my status as an assassin - and then saw the man turn towards the staircase. A tense moment followed when I wondered whether beating him with a femur would be an acceptable form of slaughter, but when I didn't hear any footsteps behind me I foolishly though he had just gone back to the gym to pick up something he had forgotten and carried on up to my room. I was killed by a single rubber band to the heart whilst in the helpless position of box balanced on hip and attempting to unlock door. Impressed by the chivalry shown during assassination - he apologised before firing and then offered to carry the box - I invited him and his accomplice (who I later discovered was one of my targets, damn) in for tea and fruit.
Dim Of The Yard reports:
hat iniquitous times are these, that assassins have no respect for the Rule of Law. After a Mistress'es Supper Party and while enjoying a quiet pint or two with his friends, PC Dim was horribly knifed for no reason whatsoever at 10.00p.m. by fellow Girtonian, Jonathan Garson (an attention-seeking 1st year by the nickname of Yoni), in such a manner as to render the entire bar silent for all of two seconds. As I breathed my last words "You're SOOOOOOOOOOO wanted!" the miscreant seemed not to realise the full consequences of his actions. CALLING ALL POLICE AND GIRTON FAITHFUL to storm the fortress of F Corridor. Need backup... must....get... revenge.......
The Umpire reports:
He's right. Yoni Garson is indeed wanted and... er... dangerous? Possibly.
C Montgomery Burns reports:
After all these days, things are starting to go my way. I felt like
celebrating. Meeting up with fellow assassins at the Trinity Mafiamatical
Society, I came across a young chap calling himself "Edwin Deadman".
Somehow, my whereabouts this evening had been publicised, but who could
possibly have revealed such information? Making a hasty exit into the
eternal darkness, I was followed by an unidentified assailant. "I, oh
it's you. What are you so happy about? I see. I think you'd better drop
it. I said drop it! Get your hands off!"
I couldn't possibly solve this mystery. Can you?
The Shaman reports:
The Shaman felt another presence of the enemies of nature. And, yet
again, this came from Trinity.
(If I didn't know better, I'd think a pattern was forming...)
Having used the internet to discover that C Montgomery Burns was a committee
member of the Trinity Maths Society, and that there was a meeting
tonight, the Shaman headed over to Trinity, accompanied by Louis his
faithful companion, to deal with this abomination. Following him out of
the meeting, the Shaman and Louis chased after him, and Louis caught up
and went in for the kill.
Having cleaned Louis up afterwards, he returned to his occult research in the University Library...
The Umpire reports:
It was a poisoned letter and had nothing to do with him being wanted.
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
Having trekked all the way up to Girton through the wind and the rain, I
approached the great fortress and attempted to make my way inside.
Thankfully, Girton has very friendly porters and were immediately pointing
me towards my targets room.
Having lurked for a couple of minutes, I shot Marcus Mortimer as he came out of his
room, only to learn he had died approximately 3 and a half hours earlier.
Oh well.
Marcus Mortimer reports:
I was killed by a letter containing talcum powder. The Policeman that goes "Ping!" was waiting outside my room, and shot me when I came out. I said 'I'm already dead', and this was irritating to him because he had come all the way to Girton from Trinity Hall to kill me. I thought that was a bit sad, and that he was taking the whole thing a bit too seriously. I told him so. He shrugged.
Coconut reports:
I have been killed, twice no less, once by Minion with a poisoned letter and just now by someone who shot me. Didn't leave a name, I apologise.
A My Little Pony (TM) reports:
A new terror is abroad on the streets of the town: small plastic horses
with guns!
Spotting my intended victim chatting with his friends I shot him in the back. Have you any idea how difficult it is to fire a gun without hands? The recoil damn near knocked my teeth out!
Howard Ulikett reports:
The non-event of the social calendar. I was standing in The Undercroft at Caius having an animated discussion with some friends when I felt a pang in my back and realised that I had been shot by a now smug-looking assassin. I turned and glared at him before continuing my conversation. That's as exciting as it was, I'm afraid.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
Whaddaya mean, no evidence?! What about the goddamn shoehorns, ass wipe?"
I slammed my fist on the D.A.'s desk. "I get you Johnny the Hammer and you
let him walk? What kinda cop are you?". The DA just looked at me and
pointed to the door.
I strolled out into the rain and lit up a Lucky Strike. One thing I didn't
need was the pigs messing me around. What I did need was leads. And fast.
But all I had was a coat, a hat, a man, a plan, a canal, Panama, and
Prudence, my six-shooter. I'm Dick Bumston, P.I.
The rain was getting worse, so I hailed a passing cab and got in. The
cabbie was fat. Real fat. If he was the President, his name would be Fatty
Obesevelt. Good thing he wasn't President.
"31st and Quality. And step on it, chubby."
My office was in the seedy part of town, at the top of a rundown tenement
sandwiched between radiator repair shops and all-night liquor stores.
"That'll be five bucks, mac." I gave him ten, and told him to keep the
change. "Hey, thanks, buddy!" He flipped me the bird and drove off,
laughing. I stepped inside the building and took the elevator to the
seventy-eighth floor. What a day.
The letters on my door window said I was a private investigator for hire.
Or at least they used to. Some asshole had smashed my window while I was
at the police station. I pushed open the door and flicked the light
switch. Shit! The place was ransacked. Through the haze of cigarette smoke
I could see they'd done a pretty thorough job. The desk was overturned, my
files were everywhere, and they'd even found my illegal stash of 1920's
rolling pin erotica. I was dealing with a pro.
It figured. I poured myself a bourbon and collapsed into the easy chair.
What did those bastards want? I didn't come up with much before I heard a
knock on what was left of the door.
"Mr. Bumston?" It was a dame. A blonde. The kind of blonde that would make
the Pope crack one off. Me too, for that matter. And if I'd still had
those rolling pin mags, who knows?
"Yeah, that's me. But I'm closed, lady. I don't care if it's an
emergency."
"But it's an emergency! My shoes have been kidnapped!"
I froze. There was only one cat in town who'd do a low-down thing like
that, and he went by the name of Minister of Moonwalking. "An emergency?
Why didn't you say?"
"I was too scared to tell the Shoe Squad. You're the only person I can
trust." She was in tears. If I knew then what I know now, I never would've
taken the case. But like I said, my mags were gone, and this was my
one-way ticket to Shoesville.
Long story short, I plugged the Minister with some gun I found on the sidewalk. The dame turned out to be a hobo in disguise, and I never did make it into showbiz. But whattaya gonna do? Me, I just play the odds like any other sucker and keep hoping my number comes up.
I'm Dick Bumston, P.I.
Katamarino reports:
At about 8.00 tonight, give or take, i made my way to Christs. After cunningly cracking the combination lock, i ascended the stairs to my targets room. Knocking, i waited for a reply. Nothing. His neighbours door is open, so i
enquire as to his whereabouts, but no luck! Oh well.
Leaving, i pop into the bar, and who should i see but a friend from my old school. We get chatting and i ask, innocently, if he knows Luke.
He does! Does he know where Luke is? Yes, he's playing pool! Great, can i meet him? Umm sure, if you like.
We make our way to the snooker room, where ironically Luke has just died on the arcade machine. This is Luke, says my friend, and as we shake hands a gun appears in my left palm and i squeeze the trigger. Theres no round in the chamber. Uhoh! Squeeze again, BANG. Phew.
Recovering quickly, Luke challenged me to a game of pool, and being a sporting chap i let him beat me. Only fair, seeing as i'd killed him and that.
Produced at Mon Dec 2 13:03:03 2002
