Kumansu reports:
00:01am Planted 2l bomb on Deadly Lampshade's door. Good mo(u)rning ;-)
Brendan Roses reports:
Too trusting. Too damn trusting.
Hardly an inspired attempt, since it was exactly the same as the one
before. Again, I heard the scratchings at the door of the bomb being
planted. This time the assassin knocked afterwards, but getting no response
to my call of "hello? who's there?", I assumed that this was an attempt to
get me to open the door and get blown up. Fearing that the assassin might
still be lurking outside, I decided not to open it even from a safe
distance.
The knockings continued every minute or so for some while. Each time, I
called out "hello?", and received no answer. Then, unexpectedly, the next
knocking turned out to be my neighbour inviting me to lunch. At this point,
I made my fatal mistake.
I had *assumed* that, had there been a large device labelled "BOMB"
attached to the outside of my door, the neighbour might have remarked on
the fact. Accordingly, I assumed that while the previous knockings had been
the work of an assassin intent on killing me, I had been mistaken about
hearing the initial planting of the bomb. I *almost* opened the door with
the string that hangs from the inside handle at all times *anyway*, but at
the final moment inexplicably decided against it.
Well, I won't be making that mistake again in a hurry. My only consolation
is that the neighbour responsible would have been even more hideously
dismembered by the blast than me, not having the door to partially dampen
the effects of the blast.
Blank reports:
I left a bomb outside Adam Biltcliffe's room (again) at about 12:45- nothing special this time. i did however try to coax him out of his room for 15 mins by repeatedly knocking on his door. (Could you send him an apology from me 'cause it really pissed him off)
The Umpire reports:
Consider this an apology, then...
Crud Puppy reports:
After recieving a tip as to my Target's whereabouts, I walked up to him and shot him whilst he was he was eating, too easy (-:
Vassily Zaitsev reports:
I moved into Trinity, in search of Robin Macintosh. After wandering around for a while I found the room, and started setting up my bomb. I could hear music from inside, and considered trying the handle, but concluded the door was probably locked. I placed the bomb, knocked on the door, and retired to a safe distance. "Who's there?" came the cry. "Open the door" said I, not feeling very subtle. The door slowly opens, until a large explosion occured. He died, I went over for a quick chat, and then went to my supervision.
Zionist Rebel reports:
At around half past one this afternoon I entered XXX College, in search of the room of The Loom of Lost Souls. I found the staircase, and worked my way up to his room. I retired to the kitchen, and prepared my bomb. A fairly simple Mark I device, which I then placed against the door of The Loom of Lost Souls. I then swiftly made my exit. (A Mark I device consists of 2l worth of explosives with a single cap detonator, placed so the detonator is against the door.)
Orion reports:
Wandering round to my target's college, I decided to explore a little. Very quickly, I found the mail room with the door wide open. I found his pigeon-hole and put a poisoned note in it. The note had small amounts of very deadly contact poison which hopefully will have had a fatal effect.
A Random Mathmo reports:
I got back from Clare to find an envelope and a flyer in my pigeon-hole.
Hmm, address far too complete - I mean, who puts the room number on? No
stamp or other method of payment - not only is this letter from an
assassin, but also someone doing the Royal Mail out of money! Truly a
scoundrel if ever I heard of one.
Anyway, I used the flyer to poke the envelope, which rattled. I returned to my room for gloves, returned to my pigeon-hole for the letter, and returned to my room to open it over the bin. White powder spouted forth, in grossly small quantities, and I took out a letter which made the false assumption that I was a moron and currently dying from the contact poison.
The Amateur Professional reports:
Noting that I now had only two days in which to avoid incompetence, I decided to take action. Using my training to evade the porters at the college gates, I made my way to the pigeon hole room, and left an inconspicuous looking letter there, which will hopefully poison him. It may noy be overly professional, but it was the best I could do at the time. I may attempt something slightly more interesting next time.
Guy le Strange reports:
i make a kill last week/ very nice one too/ but it's not enough for the Family/ they say i got to go out and kill again/ i say "go to hell Family/ i aint doing all your dog work"/ they say "look wiseguy/ we got you in our pocket/ you'll do our bidding"/ "i aint taking any of that shit" I tell 'em/ "you'll be swimming with the fishes if you don't button it" says the Cap/ "not fore you do" is my answer before gettin outta there/ that's a week ago now/ a week without action/ i thought their words meant nothing/ that without a wiseguy like me they were nothing/ i was right/ seems they hire some Turk to leave some cheap dirty poison in my pigeons hole/ poor pigeon/ i look after it for three months and now somebody goes and does a thing like this/ i've got one thing to say to the Family/ you better watch out/ Guy le Strange won't sleep til his pigeon is avenged!
Zeussoid reports:
Halloween night - time for a truly sinister assassination.
I assemble a crowd of willing accomplices and descend upon Selwyn college.
The high fence is no problem for an assassin of my athletic talents. I open
the door for my partners in crime, and we locate the appropriate staircase.
Damn, she's out. A really obvious poisoned note is shoved under the door and the shady crew disappear into the night. I wonder if it'll work...
Sphinx reports:
Hi, i just want to let you know that I got a rather lovely poisoned letter shoved under my door last night by a very thoughtful assassin. I didnt touch it, but opened it by cunning use of spoons.
Jenny Chase reports:
Noticing before leaving Castle Wolfsonstein that someone had left a note
in my pigeonhole, "YOU KILLED MY FRIEND", I was extra careful to take my
gun to lectures. And what should I see, walking slowly along the other
side of the road towards me, but a young man in a black coat who kept
glancing over his shoulder. Suspicious, methought, but not quite so
suspicious as the bloodstained trident/spear thing in his hand.
I turned about and followed him down the road, getting steadily closer, and his furtive glances backwards revealed only an innocent female, rather than the badly-dressed wandering psycho that is my other persona. Close enough for the kill, I drew and fired, hitting him in the centre of the back. At which point he said he'd never heard of assassins and the weapon was for Halloween. Oh well.
The Green Blade reports:
Having hacked the codes to his domain, I quietly walked down the corridor
to his room. The place was empty except for the sound of 'The Phantom of
the Opera' comming from one room. Checking the number I found that my
target was eagily typing on the computer. Stealthily turning the door
handle and checking for a yale lock, I then procceded to burst in and stab
him in the chest before he could even turn around.
THE GREEN BLADE STRIKES
AGAIN!
The Green Blade reports:
Finding my target's door locked and the window dark from outside. I began to search for a weapon to kill him as he returned. Luckily, I located his private jar of red poison next door and primed his handle for contact death.
The Umpire reports:
Remember that rules sections 4 and 9 state quite clearly that use of contact poison in public places is liable to kill innocents and so makes the assassin responsible wanted, as in this case.
The Shipmanator reports:
This was the result of a rather elaborate plan; which many said would never work... but I proved them all wrong! I was helped greatly by a couple of non-assassin friends: XXXX and YYYY (you can use their names... its ok); and at around 7.00 pm, we all snuck into pembroke, armed to the teeth with the required equipment: namely a bath-rob, a towel and a small bottle of shower-gel.
Having located the bathroom adjacent to my target's bedroom, I silently crept in; locked the door, stripped, stood under the (rather feeble) shower for a few minutes, put on some underwear, wrapped myself in my towel and bath-robe and went and knocked on jeff's door and going through the whole "oh no, I've locked myself out of my room; can u help?..." routine. I don't think that he was initially convinced, but when he actually saw me in the corridor, shivering and dripping little puddles onto the floor, his paranoia subsided. As he came out, Bryani who was waiting inside the shower, saw her cue, and passed me my feather-duster: and I coshed (and tickled) Jeff to the ground!
As he lay on the ground, overcome by the giggle-inducing feathery goodness (and ofcourse the immense pain from the blow to his chest...), I explained to him that I was actually deep-down a really nice guy and that I really wanted to make the world a more peaceful place. Then Peter passed me the gun, and I shot him: first through his individual limb joints, and then a single bullet into his viscera... and as he lay there bleeding to death, we took some photos, I put my clothes back on, XXXX lit a candle as an offering for the lost life, and we returned to our rooms....
Chidder reports:
I regret to inform you of my untimely demise. At about 7.00 this evening (sorry, didn't notice exact time) I left my room, and noticed a blank piece of paper stuck to my neighbour's door. I peeled back the corner to see if there was anything on the other side, and then realised that it was stuck on with vaseline (or something similar). "How strange" I thought. A little later that evening I found out that the neighbour is in fact an assassin and the paper was a contact poison meant for her. It was about then that I realised I was dead. This made me annoyed. I spent ages making a bomb the other day and now I can't use it *sob*.
The Dark Badger Lord reports:
Armed with faithful RBG and more faithful gorilla (actual dagger, beware), I made my way towards King's. After
disposing of the gate guards (or 'porters' as they are sometimes known), I proceeded to track down my
target's room. Following initial observation, much strolling back and forth, spinning of RBG, and eventual
fleeing in terror as potential target approached, I began to hatch a plan. And so I later returned with authentic black
assassin's gloves and highly dangerous double-sided contact poison sheet, which I used to cover her, um, porthole
thing (you know). More dithering then occurred. On third visit, was sensible and took book to read. Perched on window
ledge opposite target's room, I read (so rested he by the Tumtum tree, and so on). Some time later, target
burbled, I mean arrived. Target seemed confused over presence of aforementioned sheet, and made out loud noises
indicating this. However, target was 'cunning', by removing sheet with key rather than hand. While this was
going on, I pulled out RBG from bag and shot her with 4 bands. Target then admitted of suspecting I was her assassin
due to fact I was standing behind her while lethal sheet fiasco occurred. We kissed and made up (oh, wait, we
didn't, I /wanted/ to), then went our separate ways. The End.
This week's assassination was brought to you by the letters D, E, A, T and H, and the number 114.
The Milky Bar Goat reports:
Goats don't tend to get much post, but a very old goat once told me that unless you give you are unlikely to receive. I hope Peter Smith likes getting post. I do hope he is very careful with his post, because otherwise he might get hurt.
Mr Smiley reports:
Mr Smiliey returned to the P'lodge, tired from an exhausting soc anth.
lecture.
He looked at his pigeon hole. Ah ha! A letter - it must be from home....
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Uhho, I am dead, thought Mr Smiley.
It was the Milky Bar Goat.
The Minister Of Trouble reports:
I tried to kill Hannah Burton with a gun. She was out at about 10.30 this morning.
Mister Flibble reports:
It was a great honour to be placed under the tutelage of the great jedi knight John Virgo, but, inexperienced and raw though I was, I swore to make him proud. It was a sunny day in the winter, when I received a message to terminate the potential Sith lord Sheep Grater. Having gained access to his abode, I proceeded to make my way to his room, under the pseudonym of "Steve"...Reaching his door, I saw his head poking out of it, and following a brief greeting, I foolishly unsheathed my weapon, but before I was able to get a clear shot, the door was closed, much to my frustration. The end of this saga has yet to be seen.
Arvicola Terrestris reports:
Time had passed. I had almost returned to my gently herbivorous way of
life, when suddenly, something within me stirred again. The bloodlust
was once more upon me, and a voice in my head was saying "Hannah Fogg".
While I found this mildly disturbing, I could not ignore its call. And
so it was that, newly armed with the secret of gunpowder and thus more
powerful weaponary than nature had supplied me with, I crept forth to XXX college.
At first, I thought my hunger would have to go unsatisfied, for a
cunning code-lock blocked my passage. But I whiffled at the keeper of
the door, and he gave me the code. How nice! Mounting to the appropriate
room, I found it locked and empty. But I am patient, and I resolved to
wait.
For an hour did I gently hibernate in a kitchen, ignoring all bedders
and sopranos. At around 12:30, I could feel the lust ebbing, and a more
natural hunger steal upon me - it was time for lunch. So I descended -
but at the very base of the stairs, I was passed by a girl heading
upwards. Instincts rose in me again, and I sensed that she might be the
one. So I followed. She failed to notice the small rodent creeping up
behind her - but as she unlocked her door, she became only too aware of
the bullet that penetrated her spine.
My unnatural hunger satiated, I had a pleasant chat with the corpse, before departing to sate the natural one.
Avenger of the Weasels reports:
I was coming home after a lecture today, full of the joys of spring (never mind about that) and as I arrived at my room I felt the icy hand of death close about me. A homicidal maniac who had been lurking in my kitchen for nigh on an hour came out with all guns blazing (literally). I didn't stand a chance.....
The Magic Fez reports:
My "friend", A Large-scale Digitigrade Morula has me as a target. He managed to betray me,
and a few certain others, in the May Week game, so I decided it was
payback time. Seeing him in hall today, I attempted to creep up on him
with my trusty RPG. Unfortunately, he saw me coming, and all I managed
was a shot to his arm before he ran away. Tragically, I couldn't run
fast enough to catch him, and a couple of further shots fell short.
Needless to say, I'm expecting some kind of retaliatory action soon.... <gulp>
A Large-scale Digitigrade Morula reports:
Oooh someone has tried to kill me.
They ran up behind me about 13:05 just as I was trying to get some lunch from a local eating place. I noticed this and managed to keep out the way, the attacker said he'd hit my arm, which I presume was my left arm. I didn't notice anything though.
The Minister of Silly Walks reports:
On my way back from lectures to Johns, I thought I'd drop into Trinity, it being on the way. I slowly creeped up to my target's room. I approached, knocked. Waited. Waited some more. Nearly had a heart attack when a neighbour turned up and said "Hi are you an assassin". Damn - so much for subtlety. I left hastily, but I'll be back!!
Love Thy Neighbour reports:
Dear mother,
Today I saw my first real police action! It was not at all as violent or
dangerous as I expected. It seems that criminals are not dangerous after
all like they told us in police training but are really rather inoffensive.
This morning I heard that someone had left poison on a door in my college.
I knew from my police lessons that doing that is a Danger To Innocents and
that the naughty man who did it had to be Brought To Justice.
I decided that Upholding The Law on my own could be dangerous, so first I
went to see the person whose door was poisoned. He was predictably
distraught at the thought of the Horrible Fate which could have befallen
his friends or bedders, but said that he could not help me as he had
supervision work to do.
Clare does not have much of a police force (in fact it only has me), so I
went to Trinity Hall to see if some of the police there wanted to come on
the raid. Constable Catchable-and-Dispatchable was in and after I convinced
him that I was a real policeman and that we would be back from Dispensing
Summary Justice in time for lunch he agreed to come with me.
I had scouted out the area earlier using my Police Reconnoitreing Skills
and knew that the criminal lived in one of those houses with buzzers for
everyone in it. Our plan was to ring the buzzers in turn asking to be let
in until we found an Upstanding Citizen willing to Assist Us In Our Duties,
but just as we were about to press the first button, a Member of the Public
who apparently was a Resident of the Abode In Question approached us and
asked who we were looking for. When we gave him the name of the Danger To
Society he expressed recognition, let us in and led us right to his door.
Constable Catchable-and-Dispatchable and I conspired for a bit on the best
Plan Of Attack, and decided to ask one of the Dangerous Criminal's
neighbours for help in distracting him. However, before we could do that,
the Helpful Passerby who had let us in returned and, apparently presuming
that we had found the target Not At Home, offered to leave a message for
him. He then commented that he knew the room's occupant to be a member of
the Assassins' Guild and asked us if we were assassins. I told him we were
Fine Upstanding Constables of the Police Force and that the target was
wanted for Misuse of Contact Poison, whereupon he went away again.
We conspired for a bit more, before the Respectable Citizen who had let us
in returned once again. He explained, somewhat apologetically, that he was
in fact the Dangerous Criminal in question, that he hadn't known that his
misdeed was indeed a Crime Against The Laws Of The Land, and that he
couldn't hide around the corner any longer as he had to get into his room.
Whereupon, equally apologetically, I drew my Standard-Issue Police Revolver
and shot him.
Anyway, I hope you and Father are both well and that Mr Crabapple's horse
is no longer sick. I will write again once I have had further Adventures
and let you know how I am getting on.
Your loving son,
Police Constable Brendan Love-Thy-Neighbour Roses
Catchable and Dispatchable reports:
It was, as these things are, at first sight, a simple affair, although vastly complicated. In concise terms it had simpicity elements and compexity elements. To elaborate it was, to be precise, an act which, following the act before it, lasted some time, though not nessessarilly a large ammount of time. It must be said, in order that the full account of the preceedings is known, that this time period was indeed that which it was. What happened was an event, of importance to some people, but not to others. It caused many new dimensions in the infinite multiverse. Prehaps what happened didn't happen in some of those dimensions, but in this one it did, so who cares about the rest? Anyway back to the retelling of the proceedings, although is is not really a retelling, more a translation from the medium of life via a keyboard, onto the electronic world. There were complications in this matter, however it could be said that they were minor, but prhaps they weren't, so I won't. The thing is what happened partially depended upon forces probably beyond my direct control, so what happened did, indeed, as it were, to be precise, happen. Also what didn't happen were, as is sometimes the case, events that didn't, as it were, happen. In other words there was a place at which an event occured at some particular time, involving some things, which interacted in some manner. After that there were more events in other places. To cut a long story short, the thing is, in other words, what occured was, the event was what happened.
Bruce reports:
In the spirit of staying sporting, my first kill attempt of the game is a simple one. I merely sent my target a little note, informing them that they were being hunted. The note was, of course, poisoned - a little concoction of my own devising. A complex sugar and a DMSO derivative, that upon contact with skin goes straight into the bloodstream, where it sabotages the target's central nervous system. Painless death occurs within thirty seconds.
The Unidentified Player reports:
Ah, BPL season is truly upon us. Scrawled note informing me that someone
is hunting me, full of brown powder that smells like bath salts. Luckily I
avoided getting any on my hands, wasn't it!
No, Bruce, I'm not dead. Why didn't you knock on my door?
Enjoy your competence.
The little voices reports:
'Another one bites the dust' as they say. I decided to pay a visit 2 candida caldicott-bull today at about 16:00-17:00 and leave her a present. Having negotiated the labyrinth that is St Johns college it took me another 15 minutes to find her room (why do they always have to make these places maze-like?). i snuck round a corner and set-up my device -any sounds i made being covered up by the classical music emanating from her room (there's a leson there). I placed my bomb on her door & proceeded to cover it in contact poison. i then knocked on her door and statrted to peg it out of there when she said hello. i got about 10 meters away when the door was opened and the bomb went off. i came back to the door to finish her off if it was her. but it turned out to be someone else (I assume her boyfriend) who had been in the room with her, unbeknowst to me. however the door was wide open & she was standing nearby, so i proceeded to empty my newly aquired RBG on her before realising that she had already been blown into small quivering chunks of flesh (d'oh). For someone who had just been blown into itty bits, she was all smiles, so i left her and her friend with a free bottle of 15p lemonade.
Nightwing reports:
A certain Jashrad Jones has attempted to kill me with a very poor bomb:
I was mingling with companions in a nearby room, when my neighbour popped along the balcony and informed me that two people (that she had not seen before) had been looking for me but had since left. I asked for some details, and when told that they had been wearing black polo-necks I was hardly surprised to find a note under my door when I got back to my room. Being very careful to pick it up with two pairs of tweezers from some trusty penknives I keep at hand, I proceeded to place it on the balcony where the breeze blew and waiting a while, separated the two pieces of paper (not to mention the rain making them very soggy). No-one was hurt in the ensuing (and very small) blast, and after the puff of smoke cleared the rather useless assassin's name was revealed to me. I suggest that next time they try letter bombing by not putting my surname on the note, and if it was a normal bomb, then with the mass of paper I think that ants crawling along it would have survived. Never mind... Would like to know how they got into the building though, I will be more careful in future when walking the corridors...
From the intended victim:
Some buttmunch sent me a poisoned letter but I wasn't fooled. The fact that it rattled was kind of a giveaway. Better luck next time. Oh - and tell them that the tea was nice.
From the intended victim:
Also someone put a poisoned letter in mine that I found yesterday. Was full of fair-trade tea. Cunningly I tipped the tea in the bin and didn't die.
I would like to thank my assassin for the fair-trade branded contact poison they sent to me. It warms my heart to know that no one was exploited in this attempt on my life.
A player reports:
Happily walking out of my room on the way to the medical bay for a check
up, I was surprised to find a message waiting for me, especially after the
post shuttle had come and gone at 1000 at the latest. Even more
suspicious was the absence of a stamp, handwriting I didn't recognise, and
the lack of a proper address.
Donning my AntyTox(TM) gloves(free with every 2500Cr lightsabre), I carefully opened the letter, noticing, that even as a padawan learner, I could see the poison on the letter before it was opened. The letter was disposed of, but Mr "I just dont want to be incompetent so I'll make a lame attempt" assassin didnt leave his name.
Doctor Death reports:
Hi,
Dr. Death reporting.. The patient, Andreaa Vasiu was to be the
victim.... The only and only, Dr. Death was going to have his first
kill, but unfortunately, he missed her. She'd just gone out, he found
out from a person in the corridor.
Date: 01/11/02
Time: 18 : 26 : 45
Place: Room XX, XXX College...
Grr........ the adrenaline is rising.. But I will strike, and I will do
that soon!!!!
Signing off,
Dr Death.
Killjoy reports:
Delivered envelope containing contact poison to someone at 6.30 but have been utterly incompetent about finding a computer...
Someone whose pseudonym I'm not giving out reports:
Yes, it's that time of the game again: dodgy poisoned letters. This one was so bad that I could tell before I even got near the pidgeonhole. It had someone else's name and address written on the envelope and crossed out and it rattled entertainingly when picked up. Needless to say, I'm still alive and well.
Minion reports:
Someone made a piss poor attempt at killing me yesterday by sending a CU brown envelope by UMS. They had sealed the opened end with chewing gum (contact poison I suspect) but had forgotten that the envelope could be opened from the other end (err - clever?).
The Minister of Pink reports:
Just to inform you that I, the Minister of Pink, have placed a contact poison letter in the pigeon hole of one of my targets, Alexander Corbishley... I'm awaiting the results.....
The Illuminati reports:
I'm sending a poisoned letter to each of my targets tomorrow. I don't expect to kill anyone unless my targets are really incompetent, but I don't want to be incompetent myself... well at least until I have loaded my gun...
Catchable and Dispatchable reports:
In ancient times things were different, for everyone was ancient then, with long grey beards. This meant that they kept tripping over and breaking their noses, so they attacked giant blobs of foam to their faces. There were some such ancient of ancients, the ancientest ancienty ancients anciently around. They was known to have made little attempt in life so it was decided by the council of two, ie myself and my imaginary friend, that having done nothing he was just wasting resources, like brain power. I proposed the motion that he be transfered to the suck-o-matic brain power transmogrifier. At this point the helpful Special Agent Dr Reverend Lord Rear Admiral Field Marshal Sir Wibblesby Wibblesbourgh, MA, PhD, OBE, MSci, MEng, MBE, LED, KGB, RPG, OBE, OBO, SUB, ADD, NOB, who was the friend in question, seconded the motion and lo! there was a raiding party gathered. Myself, Number 5 and avatar of Evil Capitalists every where, the Evil Capitalist himself. "WHERE SHALL WE GO?" Said the Evil Capitalist, capitalising as usual. "We shall hunt the anchient lazy buggers", proclaimed Number 5. Thus the event was confirmed and we stepped outside. "AAArrrrrrrgggghhhh......" screamed Special Agent Dr Reverend Lord Rear Admiral Field Marshal Sir Wibblesby Wibblesbourgh, MA, PhD, OBE, MSci, MEng, MBE, LED, KGB, RPG, OBE, OBO, SUB, ADD, NOB, as he was blown away by a gust of wind. Not very substantial these imaginary friends. We contempated on the fate of Special Agent Dr Reverend Lord Rear Admiral Field Marshal Sir Wibblesby Wibblesbourgh, MA, PhD, OBE, MSci, MEng, MBE, LED, KGB, RPG, OBE, OBO, SUB, ADD, NOB for a while. Then as one we proclaimed "We do not give a toss." And thus we set out into the night. Many doors were knocked on and not answered on that night, and many places escaped our findation because of their cloak of locked gates ( + 5 )technology. But then..... We beheld another such non answer and decided to stop wasting our valuble time. But lo! On our way back no one tried even to attack us, and this pissed us off further. "Where is everyone?" I said, "Do they not want their lives transformed to usefulness by the suck-o-matic brain power transmogrifier?" "YES! WHY IS NO ONE AROUND?" asked the all-capitalising-one. "Gestriculating Gibbons!" I exclaimed, summing up the experience.
Zionist Rebel reports:
I went to the pubmeet this evening, and met a lot of fellow assassins. When
we were finally presented with the inco list, I went out bashing with a
small select group.
Many miles were walked, and many doors were knocked on, but only these
noteworthy events occurred.
9.05 Jesus College: Entered Edmond Chun Ying U's staircase, found the room, tried the doorhandle, it turned. I push the door open, and fire three quick shots to his chest. We told him to keep his door locked next time, and then left.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
Just now I saw three or four people go into N Blue Boar. When they came out I shot two of them (they weren't holding weapons, so it was illegal). Another one then pointed a gun at me and clicked. He was about a metre and a half away.
I didn't see anything leave the gun, and I didn't feel anything hit me. But I was out of ammo, so instead of calling a cease-fire I panicked and ran away.
When James Wright went back to the scene of the crime, he found that one of the people I shot claimed to be Evil Capitalist, aka Michael Dnes. The other was Richard Bullock.
The Umpire reports:
So calm, so cool, so collected. So wanted...
Evil Capitalist reports:
I'd like to report my own ignominious death at the hands of an RBG. That's what you get from not rubbing out everyone of the requisite sex when entering the building.
The Minister of Malice reports:
I decided that a little incompetent killing was in order. So I made the long trek from Selwyn to Churchill, and was wandering through the college when we were passed by a girl who looked just like the incompetent Ji Hwang. I called as she passed "Ji?" She turned round, and I shot her. So simple, with just a sinlge bullet required. One fewer incompetent in town.
The Umpire reports:
I'd been missing the bloodshed, so I went along to watch. It was lovely; we were serenaded by the corpse, who is rather talented on the guitar.
Stitch the Diseased reports:
Three hours into my vigil to remove myself from the incompetence list, the target (Nicky Olle) wandered foolishly into the cunningly laid trap. Nicky guessed what was afoot as soon as she entered the room. Maybe it was the feeling of anticipation in the air. Maybe it was the tension drawn on my face. However, I suspect it was because I was holding an RPG. "Oh" she said, "Bugger." Two shots later, and she fell bleeding to the floor. I never liked her really. The Amateur Professional was also present, just in case extra fire power was required though, as you see, it was not. Nicky was not obviously carrying a weapon, and on later questioning of the corpse, it was discovered that it had, in fact, not owned a weapon for the entire game. This was severe incompetence. She deserved to die. I was only too willing to oblige. Stitch the Diseased will strike again!!!
The Amateur Professional reports:
Stitch the Disease was incompetent, and wanted a kill to remove himself from the list. Biscuit lived pretty close, and was also incompetent, so he went to await her return from dancing. I went along to provide fire support, should the Biscuit turn out to be less than thrilled with her impending doom. After a long wait in the corridor next to her room, we were rewarded with her presence. She looked suitably shocked as she sighted us, and our weaponry. The Diseased showed no mercy, and gunned her down. A shame really, her helpless and unarmed and all that. But remaining competent at this stage isn't overly tricky. She should have tried harder.
The Umpire reports:
See report below by Sister of Darkness...
Catchable and Dispatchable reports:
Here is the report of the adventures that night:
It has, or more unlikely hasn't, been, at some point, suggessted that,
my previous report was, even though it probaly wasn't, missing some
details. Do you expect me to tell you the colour of everyone's T-shirts?
In an epic such as that it would be unfeasable. However in this report I
will endeavour to do so....
Let me first start, at the start, in a starting manner. With me on this
mission to DESTROY were three other hardened killers. I was wearing a
grey T-shirt. Also amongst our T-shirts were such diverse elements as
black, blue and green. It has to be said that of the blues there where
lighter ones and darker ones. However the full nature of out T-Shirts
were concealed by the protectorate of jumpers and coats, until the time
was right to OBLITERATE.
As we were on our way to SCOUR we passed people it became obvious that
these people were slighly unhinged. Some of them even had their T-Shirts
EMPHATICALLY in plain view. The were of all different shades, even
including CYAN. REALLY! I thought, something must be done about this.
They should be put under survelliance by EVIL governement agencies.
Then we even saw some people who weren't wearing T-Shirts, proper shirts
instead. As we aproached their position and passed it it was clear to us
that there was a large amount of dangerous people who need TORCHING.
Once we were MOTIVATED once more we met up with some other people and a
while afer that we split up again. The time of ELIMINATION was nigh.
This was at some point after the deadline for SURVIVING. We took the
task of cleaning up some of the people who, it seens weren't really
playing anyway. And lo there was SYZYGY. ACCORDINGLY there was nearly
none in at this time of week. Although we did manage some GUTTING. The
first was one who, when confonted in his fortress was wearing just a
T-Shirt on his top half!! ERADICATE! SLAY!
GALVANISED into more EVISCERATION by this sucess we moved to another
location. This time though, our victim cleverly disguised his T-Shirt
using the archane device of Pull-Over. THINKING that we may've yet got
time to spare we set off once again after the diguised one's demise.
RETRIBUTION say we. great fans of EXPUNGING that we are. AAAARRGGGHHH
say he. DEATH was the result.
Having reallised our potentials, or more likely realised sone of them,
and forgotten the rest, or left them at home or something, it was
decided that the the public was, it could be said, and indeed it was,
almost cretainly, to be precise, in one way or another, better off than
before possibly, although not definitelly, because of, what could be
described as, and prehaps it will, athough it might not, an event that
occured. *Blah*. To sum up the whole of the proceedings, altogether it
was, in some ways, and not in others, in my view, what I would say was,
what others might call, without warning, at length, a successful night
.Introconversably there were at leat one thing that went according to a
plan, not necessarally mine, someone elses or even the great big hamster
in the sky's. *Jabber*. It may be known to some poeple that the thing
which occurred, did, in fact, cover some, or prehaps one, locale.ANISED into more EVICERATION by this sucess we moved to another
location. This time though, our victim cleverly disguised his T-Shirt
using the archane device of Pull-Over. THINKING that we may've yet got
time to spare we set off once again after the diguised one's demise.
RETRIBUTION say we. great fans of EXPUNGING that we are. AAAARRGGGHHH
say he. DEATH was the result.
Having reallised our potentials, or more likely realised sone of them,
and forgotten the rest, or left them at home or something, it was
decided that the the public was, it could be said, and indeed it was,
almost cretainly, to be precise, in one way or another, better off than
before possibly, although not definitelly, because of, what could be
described as, and prehaps it will, athough it might not, an event that
occured. *Blah*. To sum up the whole of the proceedings, altogether it
was, in some ways, and not in others, in my view, what I would say was,
what others might call, without warning, at length, a successful night
.Introconversably there were at leat one thing that went according to a
plan, not necessarally mine, someone elses or even the great big hamster
in the sky's. *Jabber*. It may be known to some poeple that the thing
which occurred, did, in fact, cover some, or prehaps one, locale.
Sister of Darkness reports:
After the pubmeet we (names deleted) went to Robinson. We knocked on 4 doors but nobody was in. Next, we visited Downing where I shot Coconut (Chris Ninan) in his room. After XXX had called it a night we continued on to Emma where we found Ed Clayton in the bar, and I took it upon myself to stab him repeatedly - just to make sure. :) We then bumped into the Noakesian and gatecrashed the umpires room and raided it for cookies.
The Umpire reports:
It wasn't quite like that. I did offer them the cookies...
Dim Of The Yard reports:
As the dying PC Dim typed his last request, that his death be avenged, his exhausted shell of a body slumped over the
keyboard and gave up his soul. His life force was wrenched from his earthly body and hurled across the infinite void of
space to bring back knowledge and set the walls on fire. He looked through the pretty colours and saw a BLUE MOON made
of Stilton. And it started raining on him - raining marshmallows - hundreds of them. But these were not marshmallows of
doom, these were marshmallows of moon, and so he ate gratefully. Then a gleaming spoon came from the MOON and chased
him away. So he ran past the elephant and the bottle for his dog, and escaped the clutches of the enormous paper
widget. Then he looked and saw a horrible square YELLOW MOON the size of a biscuit, which he ate. Upon opening his
hand, he discovered a terrible triangular GREEN MOON strangely reminiscent of the little chocolates one finds in
Quality street, and it was delicious.
Are you hungry yet?
After chewing on a pumpkin shoe and listening to the sweet song of an aadrvark with ninety-nine legs, PC Dim was
suddenly splatted by a giant flyswatter made of green lime jelly. And thus the LORD spake to him:
"My son, I have seen the iniquity of thy death, and so have poured out vengeance on thy murderer. But I see thou art a
righteous man, and I am not yet done with thee. I will send thee back as a medium of My wrath upon all those who
disobey My will. Go in peace, and redeem thy nation."
Whereupon PC Dim felt himself flying through a sea of jelly and sticky jam. He was COVERED IN BEES. And a blinding
black light seared his eyes. He felt terra firma beneath his toes, but knew not where he was, for his eyes were covered
by scales and BEES. But guided by the LORD he reached for his RBG and fired. Then the scales fell from his eyes and the
bees departed, so allowing him to see the freshly deceased corpse of the incompetent Black Squirrel, his life essence
of ruby red oozing into a pool of serendipity from a hole in his chest. The time was 22.43; the place was just outside
Girton Bar.
Henceforth I shall be known as the RIGHTEOUS BLUE MOON. But my quest was not yet over....
Zionist Rebel reports:
10.45 Near Robinson : On my way home I spotted several people in a group. I thought I recognised them, but I wasn't sure. I fell into step behind the group, and one of them started twirling a weapon on his finger, so naturally I shot him. It turns out it was a player, and he had been at the pub meet, and inco bashing.
The Dark Badger Lord reports:
I'm afraid the reign of terror that was the Dark Badger Lord has come to a premature end.
A certain savvy constable from Jesus spotted me with my gun somewhat out during some inco-bashing (although it must have been from my shadow or something, because I was in front of him). I promptly received a couple of holes in my back. Kudos to him.
Love Thy Neighbour reports:
Dear mother,
This evening there was further Police Action. It is reinforcing my
impression that Life In The Force is much less interesting than I imagined.
We were supposed to be Apprehending a number of Miscreants who were Wanted
For The Crime Of Incompetence. The Members Of The Police Force assembled in
a Public Ale House (I remembered what you said about Such Places, but I
thought that if the Chief Of Police thought it was Acceptable for Officers
Of The Law to be seen there then Who Am I To Argue). I set off with the
Chief Of Police, another Officer Of The Law (Constable Insert Name Here)
and a member of the Assassins' Guild, with whom we are apparently permitted
to Associate when it is for the purpose of Upholding The Law.
We had a list of the Wrongdoers we were supposed to be Sorting Out, but
none of them were At Home To Callers. The only unusual thing that happened
was that our Assassin Companion was Observed by another passing member of
the Police Force to be Brandishing A Deadly Weapon In Public and was
Summarily Brought To Justice with several shots in the back. Later on
Constable Insert Name Here accidentally shot an Innocent Civilian, but it
turned out that in fact it was an Innocent Civilian's Corpse, another Agent
Of The Police having made the same mistake earlier in the evening.
In other news, the weather continues fine. I hope you and father are well.
Your ever-faithful son,
Police Constable Brendan Love-Thy-Neighbour Roses
Dim Of The Yard reports:
After apologising to the soul of Alex Anderson for not letting him kill other incompetents and thus save himself, I moved on to one part of the Girton Halloween Ent that was taking place in the bar. I was nearly distracted by the pleasures of the flesh, but the LORD guided me to my next lethargic target - Mmad, who was unarmed by virtue of having a pint in his right hand. The action was by now familiar: I reached into my pocket, drew my RBG and fired a single deady shot, blowing out his heart and leaving him dying in a puddle of alcohol. Two down and two to go....
The Boy with the Thorn In His Side reports:
Oops.
A combination of two factors, one being the guilt of killing a friend
(legally) with FAR to much ease (sorry!); and the fact thet he'd been REALLY
pis.ing me off, lead me to shoot a gentleman whose soul is a white as a
sheet and who had not avenged me, at 23.31 last night. Not one of my best
ideas, but it sounded good at the time.
Awake readers may notice this is one minute after the bar closed. Although
we had been in there, I can assure you that there was NO THIRD FACTOR in
this crime. Honest (hic).
The Boy with the Thorn in His Side has been very naughty.
The Umpire reports:
He has indeed been very naughty, and got himself wanted for it. Killing three incompetents will get him redeemed.
Dim Of The Yard reports:
My final target was very inconspicuous, judging by her appearance on the Matric photo. Ventures to her room yielded no
luck, except that her friends said she was at the Ent. Vainly I searched for her, and even had time to buy a pint for
myself in the meantime. Eventually her whereabouts were betrayed by the JCR Welfare Officer, and upon entering the room
where he and she both were, the following conversation ensued:
"Hi! Is this Cathy?"
"Erm, erm, erm."
*Draws RBG* "Are you Cathy?"
"No! Well, you're going to kill me anyway and I've had enough, so yes I am."
BANG
The young lady was kind enough to retrieve my rubber band from a rather intimate place near the top of her low-cut
dress, before collapsing onto the blood-sodden sheets of the random's bed.
Mach 3 reports:
I have sucsessfully assinated an incompetent in Girton. Better yet, i've
got it on camera.
I had already been round the doors of the incompetents in Girton but they
were either out or hiding. Having chatted in the basement of inequity (or
is that iniquity) that is the Girton Bar, I learned that one of my targets
had gone tohis room to change into fancy dress. I quickly donned my
disguise and headed up the stairs..... I greeted my victim with a cheery
*Suprise Sydney* and invited him to accompany me to my room to get a
polaroid camers. Little did he know it was to record his (almost) final
demise. We talked about all thinks assassiny, as he slowly let me into his
trust (heh heh heh). Hacing shown him my now much improved arsenal, We
meandered back to the bar, in full costume, scaring as we went. Then in
the bar,I got my friend pete to act as photographer, and innocently as
possible, asked James:
"Can i ask a favour mate?"
"What's that?"
"Drop to your knees and make dramatic gurgling noises"
"Why?"
"Because I'm about to stab you"
"Oh O.K."
I then proceeded to Thrust my knife deep into his pleural cavity(i think
that's how you spell it anyway), or chest as its more commonly known. I
then felt it necessary to tell him of his unfortunate demise.
"James"
"Yes Mach 3?"
I've got some bad news I'm afraid"
"What's that"
" You're on the incompetents list, and you're dead."
I then drew my knife across his stomach, just to illustrate the point,
although i had already pierced his heart and so I'm fairly sure he was
dead. As it was he was a little dissapointed,
but said he looked forward to killing me if he becomes a policeman. We
then had many drinks and danced to Hip-hop and cheese in Girton Old Hall.
All in all, a most successful encounter.
Dim Of The Yard reports:
Upon exiting the bar in search of others, I bumped into a tall man who was talking to a first year lawyer. A voice in
my mind told me it was the one I was after, and I asked him "Do you do law?" From behind his grotesque Halloween mask
he answered "Why yes..... How could you tell?" and then revealed a cap gun in his hand. I jumped back and in a single
movement drew my blood-hungry RBG and fired a round into his chest, before he lunged at me and fired.
Turned out he had already been killed and was just playing silly buggers. Oh youngsters today!
Sister of Darkness reports:
Just to inform you that Toxic Waist (Chris Taylor) has been
'wemoved'. Thus there are three less incompetants sharing our lovely
ickle planet due to my intervention, and I do believe that this makes
me a non-cowwupt (and still, surprisingly, live) police officer! :)
Wuv, PC Sister Of Darkness
The Umpire reports:
PC Sister of Darkness is indeed redeemed.
The Huntress reports:
I would like to inform you of today's events in regards to the Assassin's guild. At approximately nine this morning I received a mysterious knock on my door. Whilst cautiously asking "Who is it?", I opened the door to be faced with an instant, though rather ambitious, shot from an assassin dressed in a dark navy trench coat. I seem to remember him having long hair and a moustache as well, though my sleepy eyes may have been deceiving me.
Since the shot missed my person however I am hoping that I am still in the game.
Number 5 reports:
Today at 11:10 I executed Katherine Turner in her room in Christ's. Her
door was open. This is definately a recurring theme.
Have a nice day.
The great saga continues...
eee-em-en-twenty-three stars in Alfred Hitchcock's
Scene 2
Soundtrack: loud footfalls. Camera looks down from head-height for shot of
Man walking along wooden flooring. The Man's shoes are brightly polished, but
very black. View gradually shifts upwards as Man walks, to show where he
is going. The sound of Man's boots becomes louder and louder. The scene is
heavily shadowed; there is a grim institutional look to the place.
Fluorescent strip lights on the ceiling shadow the Man in bands of light
and dark as he moves. The camera now fixates upon a door, just as the Man
stops in front of it. All is quiet. The Man reaches out a hand, to tap
once, twice on the door. The lights flicker briefly, and the knocks echo
for several seconds. Wisps of smoke drift away from the points of contact
as the hand is withdrawn. The camera now focuses on scorch-marks where
the Man touched door.
After a few seconds, the door drifts slowly inwards, to reveal an innocent looking young person, face set with a confused smile. There is a faint sheen to him: the haze of a bright light set behind him. He opens his mouth, attempts to speak, but the words die away, unintelligible, unsaid. Once again, all is absolutely silent. The face suddenly changes, is frozen in a moment of shocked recall. Once again, the Man soundlessly raises his hands: slowly and confidently. The camera dips down to follow their progress.
The victim is unseen as he chokes out his last words "You? No!". The last syllable hangs on the air as the Man's hands finally touch his Victim. A momentary corona of purple-edged sparks surrounds the Victim as it jerks back at the touch. The Man steps forwards, following. Camera swings around to focus on the door slamming shut behind the Man, and then on the Man himself. He stands beside a table on which is a glowing lamp. For a moment, the Man's face can be seen, then he gestures towards the light source. It explodes in a searing flash of amber: all that the viewer can see in the darkness is a glaring afterimage of the Man's face, straddled by a fearsome Moustache. As the last echos of the Victim's last words fade, the screaming begins.
Now, for the first time...
...It's very existence disputed...
...Buried for two days and five hundred years...
...Recently rediscovered fragments of the novellisation of the film...
eee-em-en-twenty-three's monumental magnum opus:
(...The manuscript they tried to suppress...)
Chapter 3
As he pulled the door shut behind him, he let out the breath that he had held — that he always held — whilst in the Room. It was not something he did consciously, but whenever in the Room, his instinctive reflexes always came to the fore. Perhaps his body recognised the utter alienness of that steaming atmosphere, even as his mind dedicated it to the tasks that were its duty, his duty. He shrugged. Such reactions would dissipate in time, and meanwhile, there was much for him to do. He locked the door, tested it: it held. The door and lock appeared nothing out of the ordinary for this place, labelled as they were "boiler room #47", but he had been forced to replace them twice already. These latest, reinforced items had lasted an entire week: a pleasant surprise. He grinned. Things were proceeding as planned.
Always meticulous, he bent down to check his shoes: black leather, polished to a deep shine. A few small droplets glistened wetly upon the toes. He frowned. Left alone, they would soon render his foot ware useless, one further piece of incriminating evidence for those who might seek to track him. Removing a silk handkerchief, he spat discretely to dilute the fluid, and in one careful but quick movement, wiped it away, making a mental note to dispose quickly of the blackened and brittle silk square.
As he arose, a movement caught his eye. A figure on the other side of the court, small and female. She seemed mildly familiar; had she noticed anything? If she had, she hid it well, walking nonchalantly away from him. Still, if she were the one he must soon seek out... he decided quickly to bring forward the Plan. This could be a major optimisation, if handled correctly.
Unobtrusively, he slipped away, towards where he though his mark might go. The place was mazelike, though he knew it well. He could make his way there whilst remaining hidden, but time was a factor: she had quite a start on him. It would be best to move as quickly as he could without drawing suspicion. Thankfully, the way was clear. Reaching the staircase without difficulty, he paused to listen: a door, inside, closed with a faint thud. To proceed? He still needed positive identification, and there was a danger of ambush. A chance worth taking.
In he slid through the door, soundlessly up the stairs. He could hear another door upstairs creak as it was used. She must have made it to her room, but perhaps there was still a chance, perhaps that barrier could be made to yield to him. He crept up to the landing, peered through its glassy apertures. Her room was thoroughly barred: she had reached safety, or had not been whom he had hoped. Failure settled upon his shoulders, and he slid down to sit upon the ground, pondering consequences.
Further sound lifted him out of his contemplation: another door, at the other end of this floor. Secrecy was imperative, he must not be seen yet. The corner of the landing seemed a suitable place to hide. Footsteps marched past his station. He allowed himself a small moment of hope. Yes! It was she! As he launched himself through the door and into the corridor, she attempted to flee, but it wasn't enough to save her — flight was never enough once he had them in his reach. As harvested his third, and then began to drag her back to the Room, he pondered her fate. He had come to serve willingly... none of that unpleasantness had been necessary for him.
Vassily Zaitsev reports:
It is I, Comrade Danilov, writing to tell of the exploits of the master sniper Vasiliy Zaitsev. Two targets were presented to him this fine day, but due to the machinations of the evil Nazi, our hero was foiled at every turn. At 12.30 hours, in the college of Emma, the dread Stitch the Diseased passed before the sights of the legendary Vasiliy. Once our valiant hero shot, then again, but it all came to naught, for Vasiliy was not fully prepared when the opportunity presented itself, and his weapon was not that of choice for this situation. Be warned Stitch, for you will fall to Vasiliy.
Vassily Zaitsev reports:
Comrades,
Let me tell you of the second target, for it is truly upsetting that
Vasiliy was denied in this manner. He penetrated far into the evil Christ's
college, past the headquarters of the Military Police, past the arms dump,
and into the urban hell at the rear of the college. By 12.45 Vasily had
found staircase XXX, and discovered a place to observe. But no, the NKVD had
beaten him to it, and K was already dead. Vasiliy slunk off into the shadows,
ready to kill another day.
The Minister of Silly Walks reports:
Having noted that there were targets available near wheres I was to be this morning, I ventured to dine in their hall. Waiting patiently, I eventually spotted one Gordon Shannon - a man fated to die. Slowly, and carefully I approached, drew my kife, stepped up behind him, and plunged it into what turned out to be the corpse of the late Gordon Shannon. Damn you eee-em-en-twenty-three! You got there first!
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
Jack "The Stool" Vickeridge looked a lot worse than when I last saw him.
Slumped over the bar, unwashed hair in a tangle, he could hardly move his
engorged tonsils to swear when I prodded him with a pool stick. It was all
I could do to stop myself ramming the stick into the treacherous lowlife's
eye.
"Vickeridge? You're under arrest, for the flushing of Dr Xavier Browne." He ignored me, so I pumped him full of lead. It was only then that I realised I'd made the whole thing up and he wasn't playing at all.
Burns reports:
After being shot by "The Shaman", I was rushed to a nearby hospital where I was pronounced dead. After being transferred to a better hospital, doctors upgraded my condition to "alive". Excellent. I'd just discovered that The Loom of Lost Souls had decimated the Trinity assassins the previous evening, so I decided to set out to remove him. Pish, posh, it would be like taking candy from a baby. Say, that sounds like a laugh. Let's try it right now. As I was leaving, a criminal attacked me. Stricken, I lurched forth in search of aid, but finding only slack-jawed gawkers, I gave up and collapsed on the Great Court sundial.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
"Results? What kind of results do you call this?" The D.A. was bright red
with fury. He held up a crime scene photo with a dead police officer and
his manlover. "You've killed your last cop, Bumston. Now because I'm such
a nice guy, I'm giving you five seconds to get outta here before I blow
your motherfuckin head off. One. Two."
I skedaddled out into the rain and lit up a Lucky Strike. My methods
might've been tough, but I got results, dammit! The D.A. and his cronies
were more concerned with bullshit like "following the law" and "not
killing cops for no reason" than they were with the safety of this town.
Well, not me. It was time to dish out justice the only way I knew how -
putting a slug through the head of David "Overused Pseudonym" Chow.
Good thing I knew his favorite haunt. "The Filthy Handbasket" was a
rundown hellhole of a bar, full of the dirtiest, sleaziest
mitten-snatchers this side of Westbury, and if I wasn't mistaken, that
included Chow on a Saturday afternoon. I stepped through the saloon doors
and checked out the patrons. Sure enough, there he was, bulging gut barely
fitting into his sweat-stained blue shirt, drinking oil from a beaker. A
hideously obese man in a tuxedo was playing Scott Joplin on a honky-tonk
piano in the corner.
I might have plugged him then, but the music was giving me a headache, so
I ordered a Gruesome Equation to go and waited outside. Then he came
outside, and I plugged him. Then I went back home, and had an inconclusive
shootout with some guy.
Happy Badger Constable reports:
Constable Happy Badger Constable reporting in,
After overcoming initial difficulties (RBG actually exploded into wee little pieces this morning), I was out on the
hunt.
First target of the day was Catherine Crimp of King's. She received death via brand new replaced RBG.
That's the badger.
Happy Badger Constable reports:
Constable Happy Badger Constable reporting in,
Second target of the day was Honey "Thunderthighs" Duan. During a pleasant conversation with her I discovered she was a rower and was out coxing this morning. I felt sorry for her and promptly stabbed her in the back with shiny new dagger. That's the badger.
The Minister of Foreboding reports:
I was informed that some local officials were not living up to the standards of their office, and were seen as incompetent by the electorate. However I had little real information that I could pin down on Clementine. So I approached my informant in her department, upon which I was handed a dossier of classified information, and I was told that she was having lunch with her parents, and would not be back till 4p.m. Oh no!! thought I, for surely she does not think that she can esacape from The Minister of Foreboding? I decided to approach her office directly, and as her door was wide open, her resignation immediately followed. She enjoyed playing with my gun though, as did her neighbour.
Happy Badger Constable reports:
Constable Happy Badger Constable reporting in,
Third target of the day was Alexander "Minion" Corbishley of Robinson. After a good 5 minutes of convincing
him I wasn't out to get him, I was finally let in and, after the usual small talk to establish his identity, put
a hole through his chest with a light sabre.
He claims that a previous attempt had been made on him, but that it was not successful, despite what the assassins
claimed.
Either way, he rests in pieces now.
That's the badger.
Happy Badger Constable reports:
An exciting attempt on The Loom of Lost Souls ended in an RBG fight outside his room in which noone was injured. Awwww. But he will die soon.
Crud Puppy reports:
'twas evening of saturday november the second, i was sitting in the comfort of
my room, sheltered form the howling winds and pouring rain that beat down
around emmanuel, and my thirst for blood had become unbearably strong, for it
had been three days, three hours, and thirty-nine minutes since my last kill.
I readied my arsenal, set off down the road for the dark realm known as
christ's college. I battled my way through the storm, until i reached the
door of one peter davidson. But i would be a fool would knock on it and alert
him to my presence. Instead, i concealed myself in an elevated hiding spot,
out of sight from anyone in the coridoor below. There i crouched, silently
waiting, listening, for the eternity that was twenty-four minutes. my
bloodlust had been growing stronger since i set out, so it was to my relief
when i heard someone waliking down the corridoor below my hiding spot at
17:53. When his shadow stopped by the door of my target, and i heard the
sound of keys, the stranger's identity was revealed to me, and then i knew
that Sdavros had but seconds to live...
I lept out from my hiding spot, and fired several rubber bands from my pistol
in the general direction of my target as a decended to the corridoor below.
Wounded, he staggered a few back around the corner from which he had turned
moments earlier, and inquired as to wether my shots had hit him. Evidently
the situation needed some clarification, so i promptly removed the dragoon i
had concealed in my coat, turned the corner and exposed him to a second
shower of rubber bands, until my target was clearly dead. I took a final look
at the corpse, turned, and left the murder scene.
Lord Hong reports:
Lord Hong has been at first amazed, and then intrigued, and finally lost in admiration for what he saw on his first visit to Ank-ambridge. Then he had been offered the opportunity to dine in the ancient college of Caius. How could such a bright and cunning people allow into their kitchens such depravity as that to which he had been subjected? He had been forced to behead two of the serving staff for poor deportment, and three more for misplacing the condiments. As in all things, he had done this perfectly: it would not do to violate the delicate etiquette of murdering servants. The food itself had been unpalatable; Lord Hong had immediately known not to trust the glistening sauce. He suspected that the Chef was capable of preparing nothing other than lumps of meat.
At least his time had not been wasted: he had read the Varsity newsrag (such freedom of information, so ill-used!). Once finished with each page, he had carefully folded it into a neatly creased origami figure whilst reading the next: the Chef was now is possession of a perfectly crafted set of designs illustrating the twelve most harmonious ways of preparing a Pufferfish meal. The last figure was a meticulous rendering of the Chef himself, so perfectly proportioned that it took the observer some moments to notice that Lord Hong had unaccountably run out of paper before being able to complete the head.
On his way down into the undercroft, Lord Hong had been moved to compose verse in the traditional from on the Seventeen Benevolent Steps in the Arrangement of the Celestial Chrysanthemums. The work had, of course, attained perfection by the time Lord Hong had reached the foot of the stairs, at which point his scribes were still blowing on the ink to dry the first ideogram. Once again, he considered the crude artisan's script of these lands: ugly and simple in comparison with the beautifully painted pictures of his own language, but blessed with a certain practicality. Long Hong sighed.
As he paused momentarily, awaiting his bevy of clerks, the Master of the college collared a nearby scholar, attempting unsuccessfully to slip past. "Our foremost scholar of the Agatean empire," he declaimed. Lord Hong raised one perfectly trimmed eyebrow; he doubted that these invisible bloodsucking vampire ghosts could claim any such title. Still, perhaps he might be surprised. Long Hong had not been surprised in twenty-seven years, but he lived in hope.
"Perhaps, then, this erudite scribe might wish to see my recent work?" With perfect timing, Lord Hong reached out for the transcript moments after the blotting of the thirteenth ideogram ("Loom Wafts Gently in a Sea of Flatulence", or "Angled Cutting of Stems", depending on intonation and context) and passed it towards the furtive scholar. Several moments of umming and arring followed, before the scholar felt able to offer a rendering into the local tongue:
First take a bunch
Of flowers!
Putting down here tulips,
Chrysantheums-ding-ding...munum!
Them... arrange
Them in a vase! Ah..
Ah get in.
Being sure to partake of the angled cutting of stems.
Lord Hong was vexed at this butchering of his work: the thirteenth ideogram has been mistranslated! Never-the-less, Lord Hong was a kindly man: drawing the scholar's sword, he carefully inscribed upon his chest perfect renditions of the ideograms corresponding to the true and the false readings. The lucky scholar would live the rest of his life in a state of blessed, albeit brief, enlightenment.
Prostetnic Vogon Cjeltz reports:
Lumbering up to the dinner queue, my reluctant attention came to rest
upon the back of that figure known as Comb. Mustering a little motivation
from my vast reservoir of self-important indifference, I raised my
corpulent arm and plunged a sharp
needle into his back several times, and declaimed a recent
little epigram
of mine entitled "Thoughts on Hall".
I wandered lonely as a carrot,
That floats on tray or barrage soup,
When all at once I saw a pot,
And lost myself in minging gloop.
My literary ambitions briefly sated, I turned the corpse over to observe
the mask of poetic terror which would surely have formed on its pathetic
human features.
Bah! Only then did I realise that Comb's front was previously perforated.
how inconsiderate of someone.
Bloody stupid planet anyway.
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