Number 5 reports:
This morning at 8:40 I visited Heeran in her room. I tried to convince her to give herself up, but to no avail. So, at 10:00, I lay in wait for her on her path to lectures. She saw me, but croosing over to the other side of the road didn't help and she died from my second shot.
The Umpire reports:
Mark Newton died to a poisoned letter on Saturday, but I have no record of one having been sent to him. If it was you, could you report it as soon as possible please.
The Minister of Foreboding reports:
The people have spoken. And just as it is vital to encourage everyone to participate in our democracy, so it is important to understand and respect the result. It is important to be clear about the lessons for the Ministry. Some may be for debate in the future, others are already clear. The Single Serving Friend has won the victory and I have already congratulated them on doing so. But they have done so without great public enthusiasm. The electorate has given them the benefit of the doubt. It is therefore a vital task for the Ministry in the coming weeks to hold this person to account for the promises they have made and escaped without making, and the trust people have placed in them. I fully believe that The Single Serving Friend will indeed be made to account for his actions. The Ministry has been elected to do a job, and we must not flinch, but continue, and strive for success more and more. Second, the Ministry during the last weeks, but not in this situation, made significant advances, vastly extending its local knowledge and strategic know-how. We will start from a stronger base in Lent than for this term. The army of Ministers are stronger and at least better organised than they were at the start of the game. I believe that next term's contest will be a far closer contest than the one being held. It is the overriding duty of the Ministry to be not only effective in strategy and rigorous in campaigning, but to present a leadership with the strongest possible arsenal and kill rate. In achieving that objective no man or woman is indispensable and no individual is more important than the party. I've led the Ministry from its humble beginnings as a concept early last term, and have always considered it a great privilege and have actually enjoyed every single day. I believe strongly, passionately, in everything I've fought for, and in crushing everyone I've fought against. But it's also vital for leaders to listen and parties to change. I believe it is vital the party be given the chance to choose a leader who can build on my work, but also take new initiatives and hopefully command a greater sense of dread within Cambridge. I've therefore decided to step down as leader of the Ministry and a new leader will be selected from the cabinet shortly.. I'd like to express my heartfelt thanks for the untiring efforts of my colleagues across the party who made it possible to fight a lethal, vigorous, and united, albeit unsuccessful, campaign. I wish I could have led you to victory but now we must all work for our victories in the future. (Tear rolls down cheek) (Camera fades out)
The Minister of Malice reports:
Having been unsucessfully hunting incompetent police in the morning, I attended my Saturday lecture. On the way out, I failed to set up Agent Short, Blonde, and Demure to kill Constable sdnah sih no emit hcum oot. We followed him, then arranged a lunctime's worth of attacking. However, The Single Serving Friend was passing, and he stopped to talk. I asked for a no-kill agreement, and proposed conditions. However, he never formally accepted them, as I only realised too late. We had an interesting conversation over the river, as he explained that he was taking a circuitous route to the UL. Circuitous indeed... We decided to leave after a while, and with no change in expression, he announced he was feling bad. Generally concernd for this upstanding member fo the community, I asked him why this was. He said nothing, but I suddenly saw the gun concealed in his arm, and then I felt a sudden pain, and collapsed. I heard Agent Short Blonde and Demure screaming, then the pain faded, and my blood gradually trickled into the Cam. Nasty, some of the stuff in there can do horrible things to perfectly good blood......
The Minister of Gifts reports:
As I was walking along the river this morning, I was nearly driven to distraction by geese doing silly walks across the path, and I was struck by their power and agility for creatures so small. However, as I looked up, a strange figure appeared to be moonwalking towards me. "I mean you no offence." he cheerfully spoke, "but I have some gifts for you." "Well, I'll be damned" I thought, "a stranger with gifts for me!" I felt a strange sense of foreboding, but had no idea of the trouble that I was in. For as I waited to see what presents he had for me, he shot me, and the cobblestones turned pink as I met my dhooommmmmmm!
The Single Serving Friend reports:
This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time. But cheer up
because you've got me. I'm the most interesting single serving friend
you'll ever meet, the guy with whom you'll share your single serving of
life.
Did you know that if you mixed equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange
juice concentrate, you could make napalm? How's being clever working out
for you? Is it enough? We're all consumers. We're by-products of a
lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty - these things don't concern
me. What concerns me is celebrity magazines, television with five hundred
channels, some guy's name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra. Life
isn't about efficiency and wondering whether you can get an icon in
cornflower blue. If you could fight anyone, who would you fight?
The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes. Like the first monkeys
shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice we would have nothing.
Don't hide in your ice cave looking for your power animal. Don't deal with
this the way those dead people do. What you're feeling is premature
enlightenment. This is the greatest moment of your life, man, and you're
off somewhere... Our fathers were our models for God. And if our fathers
bailed, what does it tell you about God? You have to consider the
possibility that God doesn't like you, nice guy as you are. He never
wanted you. In all probability he hates you. This is not the worst thing
that can happen. We are God's unwanted children. So be it! First you have
to give up. First, you have to know, with no fear, that someday you are
going to die. Until you know that, you are useless. It's only after we've
lost everything that we are free to do anything.
On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.
sdnah no emit hcum oot saH reports:
I knocked on his door and tried to shoot him. We exchanged rubber bands.
He definitely hit me; I thought one of my shots hit him but he said he
got one flying over his shoulder and one hitting his arm. Examination of
the rubber bands verified this. Bugger, my gun's got curl...
Oh well, now I've got a bit more time on my hands it seems.
Bruce reports:
This is another chapter in the saga of Bruce that is called Bruce, and
his trusty RBG.
Bright was his heart and light were his spirits as he left his room, on
the quest for intelligent life, when he was ambushed on the staircase by
a minion of Darkness, named Blank.
Snake-fast he drew his RBG, and ensued thereafter a mighty battle. For
five minutes the titans duelled, ending in a standoff. Bruce could no
more descend the stairs than Blank could ascend.
But all was not lost. Thinking quickly, Bruce did assemble a fake Holy
Hand Grenade, which he lobbed towards his foe. This done, said foe did
come forward to examine the object, whereupon Bruce did shoot him.
Blank was no more, and Bruce was incompetent no more.
The events that I here relate occurred on the ninth of November in the year of our Lord two thousand and two, at a quarter to nine in the morning.
Owain Shave reports:
I Owain have killed the incredibly wanted and then incredibly
incompetent
plod Marcus Mortimer, a.k.a. Yoni
I taped a highly technical bomb of 2l of explosive and a detonator to his
door, set to go off if removed or the door opened. On top was a dummy
detonator, designed to fool those who looked closer but not close
enough.....
Any way, is attached it with my accomplice standing guard, knocked don the
door and then ran away.
Noting happened. On returning next morning, i found the bomb removed and
bloody burnt remains littering F corridor, but the pieces were so small
as to be unidentifiable. The smell of cooked meat made me hungry, so
i continued with my morning routine. On returning a second time, if found
some of Yoni's neighbours, who i questioned about the bomb, and i
discovered the foul fiend himself had detonated it . Huzzah! Strangely,
none of his neighbours seemed the slightest bit upset their neighbour had
been blown to smithereens in front of their very eyes. Funny that. And
some one had helpfully mopped down the bloodstains. I have not questioned Marcus
Motimer's ghost yet, apparently he's studying in the Library. Doubtless he
will report later.
The Magic Fez reports:
I saw Stitch on the way to hall this morning, and stabbed him with my classy Kife. Dead.
Zionist Rebel reports:
I was a little bored, the weather was depressing me, so this afternoon I decided to wander over to Jesus College, and deal with the incompetent policeman Aaron Callow. I wandered over to S staircase, and made the long trek to the second floor. Having recently received some useful information, I decided to knock for him, and not use the bomb I had with me. I knock, he opens the door, and I shoot. I hit the door as he is slamming it shut, the rubber band disappears into his room. I wait, his next door neighbour leaves his room, and departs noisily. The door to S10 opens once more, and I shoot him in the stomach. I noticed that he had a band stretched on his finger, and that it was my own. The cad, and possibly even a bounder, he deserved to die merely for that, how dare he try to kill me with my own ammo.
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
At 17:40 I was strolling around my college when I suddenly had the crazy
idea of paying a visit to an incompetent police officer. The Lady was
obviously smiling on me as he happened to be coming out of the shower as I
arrived. I pulled my gun and splattered his brains against the bathroom
wall.
Another one bites the dust.
Nightwing reports:
He was a very naughty man,
Leaving poison on some door he ran,
For this crime he would pay,
And I knew the hideout in which he lay.
Arriving in Christs I saw,
No light on, and a locked door,
So with lack of the criminal in person,
My diabolical poetry worsens.
I had on hand string and a rubber band,
And the ugly walls were more than I could stand,
So grabbing a tube with pins,
And water, paper clips and things,
A bomb was the only solution,
The victim(s) deserve retribution,
And a trap lay in wait,
Armed and hard to locate,
I left swiftly in hope,
That this guy was a dope,
And would open his door without thinking,
So that water he would not be drinking.
I hope this poem will do,
As a report (and some fun too),
Maybe next time I will try perchance,
A presentation by interpretive dance...
Hercule Poirot, Belgian Police reports:
Hercule Poirot, Belgian Police Reporting.
At 0800, Monday, I made an attempt on the traitor Belisarius of my college. He had made an attempt yesterday night, on
me, lowly mortal, in which he was obviously unsuccessful.
However my attempt was just about to succeed when he spotted me and ducked underneath as my bullets whizzed through to
hit the walls.
I will succeed soon. He will have to pay the price!
Bellisarius reports:
Hercule Poirot made an attempt against me this morning, shooting an RBG at me through my open kitchen window but missing before I got into cover. Little did he know that I was eating Grape Nuts (TM) Breakfast Cereal, fortified with all the vitamins necessary to make me fleet of foot and agile as a cat. For disturbing my breakfast, he will die. Oh, and the rest of the police too.
Number 5 reports:
On the morning of the 11th of November I was assigned to an undercover operation to remove the wanted criminal Ross Fenning. I woke early, donned my civies and left my humble abode for his foul lair. Upon arriving I found he was out,presumably at breakfast, and I resolved to await his return. At 8:50 I apprehended a man fitting his description entering his corridor, but, while attempting to verify his identity, another entered and he used the opportunity of this distraction to stab me in the heart.
Killer Queen reports:
They've Killed my mum!! It was about 10am this morning. The postman dropped our mail through the letterbox. My poor innocent mother picked the letters up and looked through them. There was one for me. But this was no ordinary letter, oh no. Some kind of slimy substance was seeping through the envelope which covered my mum's hands. When she told me, I realised it was a poison letter, but it was too late - she died in my arms!! I put on some rubber gloves and opened the letter to find it was from someone who called themselves the shipmarinor(or something to that effect-couldn't read their handwritting). I will have my revenge!
The Umpire reports:
Please, please be careful if you send a poisoned letter; make sure it isn't going to leak if you send it through the post. Zoeb Jiwaji is wanted for this misdeed, but killing two incompetents will redeem him.
The Policeman who goes "Eki! Eki! P'tang! Ni-wom!" reports:
Having cunningly gleaned intellegence about R.K.Dz's movement habits (I asked him) and discovered he was going home shortly, I spent some time covering my tracks, lest he suspect the evil plan I had in store (I said "See you in half an hour, then?"). I then rushed hot-footed back to my local communications nexus, and called in a veritable swarm of reinforcements (Actually, they couldn't be bothered. No-one came). I then armed myself with the heaviest weaponry possibly (A pellet pistol. Yes, I know thats not heavy weaponry, but I forgot the rest, alright?). Thus prepared, I began to stalk the target's known location. Right on time he emerged, and I stayed motionless in my inpenetrable hide. He waved at me. Damn. We retreated in opposite directions, eying each other warily.
The first plan having had minor set backs, I engaged plan B. Remote-control mini flying robots with rail guns not having been invented yet, I had to resort to plan C. This involved trailing him from a great distance on my bike and, when I had a clear run, accelerating past him. I had a clear shot - he had no idea I was there. A quick headshot later, I sped off into the distance. The others around were stunned by the audacious hit & run. erm... hit & cycle.
I was content, however, to add a second Chief of Police to my scalp-ring.
Five minutes later, Hannah Burton ran into him.
Sister of Darkness reports:
he was well peeved - he said some tit hall b*****d got him on a bike!
The Shipmanator reports:
Determined to penetrate The Minister of Pink's fortress of a house, my mercenary friend XXX and I strode all the way down to Selwyn carrying one of the large arm-chairs from my room. Knocking on the door, we managed to convince the house-mate who opened the door that we had brought The Minister of Pink's chair back, and whether he could kindly take us to their room. The plan was nearly a success; and we managed to push the bloody beast of a chair upstairs to her floor.. all that was needed was a final knock on the door and the kill would have been mine. Unfortunately, it was not to be. That pesky house-mate realised something was not quite right, refused to believe our pleas that "Gary" the porter had sent us, and demanded that we either accompany him to the porter's lodge or that he'd call the police. Desolate, depressed and miserable we were forced to return back, bearing not only the heavy physical burden of that stupid chair, but also the mental burden of failure...
Damn That Monkey of an Interfering House-mate!!!
The Minister of Pink reports:
Two gentleman rang our doorbell, and were welcomed in to our house by a
young man with whom I live. These two gentlemen were carrying a huge
armchair and claimed to have been sent by a 'friendly, short porter known as
Gary'. My housemate soon realised that these were imposters, intruders to
our home, claiming to be that which they were not, and claiming that our
porters are short and friendly.
When they refused to go with my housemate to the porters to verify the story
(what? afraid that it wouldn't stand up in the face of the porter
fraternity??) he asked them to leave, even threatening to make a citizen's
arrest to ensure the security of his household. These two cheeky imposters
stuck to their story, and when asked what weapons they were carrying and
whether they were assassins (as the housemate who opened the door had
realised the nature of their quest) one gent said to the other in a loud
voice, so as not to draw ANY suspicion to himself: 'dont tell him that we're
assassins and what weapons we're carrying.'
A bungled attempt perhaps? Good idea, good thinking, but foiled by the quick-thinking of my housemate. Compliments for the armchair idea - fantastic, although one does wonder how far through town the pranksters must have walked with such a ginormous armchair.
The Shadow reports:
Using friends and contacts, I was able to gain access to the corridor of the incompetent. One of my accomplices knocked on the door and the call "come in" was heard. Unable to believe how inviting the target was, I hesitated for a short while. Finally realising that the incompetent had actually invited me in, I simply opened the door and began to speak "Excuse me..." I fired a shot and hit him in the chest. As his body was falling limp in his chair, I fired a second shot to confirm the kill, at which point his body slumped onto the desk and blood stained his work, although he won't be needing it now...
Nightwing reports:
The last bomb alas,
Was easy to pass,
Explode it did not,
But the victim is not yet shot.
So again I set out,
Although with a slight pout,
Just a straw as my arm,
This should hopefully cause harm.
But again, he was not in,
And the last bomb was in the bin,
So with just tissue and string,
I plotted death to bring.
If this time he ain't wary,
Then my revenge will be scary,
Some sugar perhaps,
Will land in his lap.
The Shadow reports:
I returned to my room after a supervision and luckily noticed the trap hidden in the corner of my door. This appeared to be the work of the very police officer that set the trap earlier, but this time without technical hitches and was more discreet. Using similar techniques from this morning, I opened my door slightly, stood back and kicked the door from a distance. Jumping back, I observed a stream of poisoned powder falling from the ball of tissue stuffed in the upper corner of my door. The powder touched only the floor, and will merely be a simple clean-up job. I must however commend the officer on the quality of this particular trap, maybe better luck next time.
The Shadow reports:
It would appear that the mysterious bomber from today was none other than PC Chris Field. After talking to one of my neighbours about the traps, I grew suspicious that a conspiracy was afoot. I moved into my kitchen and could hear voices coming from the entrance to the staircase. I recognised the voices to be that of my neighbour and Chris. I watched my neighbour, from the darkness, enter the corridor and signal to the police officer. I then saw PC Field enter bearing a blowpipe and immediately stepped out to shoot him in the back. Such is the stealth of The Shadow.
Nightwing reports:
Ok after two bomb attempts, one foiled by my own inadequacy and the other by a wary criminal I announce my death, yes my contact betrayed me and led me straight into a trap, whereupon I was shot. Ouch.
The Shadow reports:
A suspicious figure sat outside, looking at my window for over an hour this
morning, much to the disturbance of a couple of my neighbours. Giving me
this information, I discreetly looked out to see what the figure looks like.
After he gave up and left, I went to my normal lecture at 9a.m., but noticed
the very man who sat outside come in to the same lecture and sit on the
other side of the room. At the end of the lecture, I went to see my loyal
neighbours who were also in the lecture and they confirmed the man in the
lecture to indeed be the man after me. I followed him out and questioned him
about his behaviour.
He pleaded, "I'm not your assassin."
"Who are you then?" I demanded.
"A policeman," came the reply.
Having no time for the police force or his pleas for mercy, I immediately
shot him. Thus removing yet another threat to the life of The Shadow.
Love Thy Neighbour reports:
Dear Mrs. Roses,
It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the death of your son for
the second time in little more than a week. Unfortunately, despite being a
much-loved member of the force, his second death was due purely to his own
foolishness.
Your son spent his last morning hunting a dangerous criminal by the name of
Ross Fenning. He had been waiting outside the door to his corridor since
approximately 8am in the belief that he would be able to recognise the
criminal, having been given an approximate description the previous day and
told that none of the other residents even remotely resembled him. At 8.50,
he encountered a suspicious individual leaving the corridor in question.
This individual was evasive when questioned, and so, believing him to be
the criminal in question, your son followed him at a safe distance to the
lecture he knew the criminal to be attending that morning.
Upon leaving the lecture, and now convinced of the suspect's identity, your
son attempted to confront the criminal. Unfortunately, he was interrupted
in this activity by the real Ross Fenning, who shot him dead.
Therefore, in summary, your son was killed largely as a result of his own
carelessness, and hence we are not overly concerned about the effect of his
loss on the Police Force.
With condolences,
Sam Maggott, Chief Mortician, Cambridge Police Force
Owain Shave reports:
Being in the vincinity of Girton college, i decide to meander round it's long and twisty corridors. Who should i espy, except that devious fiend i am sworn to kill, John Haigh. I attempted to sneak up behind him, but was heard and was forced to exchange fire at estreme (i.e. dodgable ) range. At this point he ran away. Following, i found himtaking cover in his doorway, and i was reluctant to approach closer. A brief exchange followed, with many hideous insults regarding the size of his mother's arse followed. Eventually he closed the door,a nd i went ppast on my way. Coming back an hour later, i crefully arranged a 2l bomb on his door, complete iwth fake detonatoe (a lighter this time). sure enough a quarter of an hour later, i hear a report from his neighbour that he was ripped to pieces by the gforce of the explosion. Another one bites the dust.
Anna Kournikova reports:
I opened my door very slightly to see if anyone was waiting for me in the
corridow when there was an almighty explosion. I can remember the remains of
my charred door flying through me at close to the speed of life. I dint move
which i found strange seen as my door had just been blown off its hinges.
then i looked up at a figure dressed all in black with sockets where the
eyes should have been.
MISS KOURNIKOVA?
The voice arrived in my head without bothering to go via my ears.
"yes" and then i looked down to see my body blown into about 6 different
parts.
"you're Death aren't you?"
YES, I AM. AND I AM AFRAID IT IS YOUR TIME. PLEASE COME WITH ME.
and I asked him what happened.
THERE IS AN ASSASSIN KNOWN AS OWAIN SHAVE...
I knew him he had made a couple of pathetic attempts on me before. one
ending in an injury to my tennis hand. perhaps i should have been more
careful but what is there to live for without my forehand? perhaps
moddeling...
HE HAS BEEN WATCHING YOUR ROOM FOR SOME TIME THIS AFTERNOON. HE PLANTED A
BOMB OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR.
I turned around to find the remains of a discarded Dr Pepper bottle with a
detenator which looked suprisingly like a zippo lighter.
IT WAS SET TO GO OFF WHEN YOU OPENED YOUR DOOR.
"but there is no justice, I only joined the game last week, i can't be dead
yet..."
THERE IS NO JUSTICE, THERE IS ONLY ME.
I asked him what happens to me now that i am a soul without a body he told
me that it was up to me SOME GO INTO HAUNTING. SOME GO TO ASSASSIN HELL,
SOME GOTO ASSASSIN HEAVEN. YOU CANNOT GO TO HEAVEN BUT YOU ARE NOT GOING TO
HELL EITHER.
I asked why I wasn't going to heaven. He told me. So I have decided to haunt
this Owain Shave so that he will not be able to bomb anyone else...
VERY WELL said Death BUT YOU MUST DO ONE THING FIRST. YOU MUST FIRST WRITE
YOUR REPORT.
So this is it my life was going so well. Goodbye cruel world!
Anna Kournikova
Tamlan Dipper reports:
As I was walking to my department this evening I was attacked from behind by a man riding a bicycle. He threw a handful of boiled sweets at me and then claimed that I had been assassinated in "a plague of boils". However, he had been near enough to shoot me had he chosen to, so I obligingly ate one of his sweets just to make sure. He said what his name was and that I had been his target, he only attacked me because he thought I would be going to the Spanish Inquisition meeting along that way and had been furnished with a "detailed description" matching me (a very good one if it got me from behind, wearing a deerstalker hat and with my head down!) - it appears it was my bad luck to have chosen to go back to work just as the meeting began. :-(
Lucifer reports:
The day started like any other I woke up at 6am and promptly wore my balaclava and black suit. My destination was a clear: a distant country called Girton. Anyway I got down there found where my target lived and placed a bomb outside the door. It used a simple spring loaded cap detonation device, attached to a bottle filled with a litre of explosive. The room did say Katie on it but I believe this was a trick, and I am positive that it was the same room as that given in my target list.
Jenny Chase reports:
Rainy morning, cloudy skies, what's to get a girl out of bed? Well, her neighbour informing her that there is a bomb on her door, for starters. Fortunately when I opened the door there was not so much as a click from the clever metal contraption, so I would assume I am still alive.
Mr Marmaduke reports:
Look children, it's Mr. Marmaduke. Hello Mr. Marmaduke!
Does anyone know what Mr. Marmaduke likes, children? Mr. Marmaduke likes
Bourbon biscuits. Mr. Marmaduke LOVES Bourbon biscuits! Mr. Marmaduke will
do anything for Bourbon biscuits. Sometimes he will even be nasty.
Someone has promised Mr. Marmaduke lots of Bourbon biscuits if he does
something for him. Do you know what it is, children? NO, not that George,
say that again and it is the quiet corner for you! Mr. Marmaduke is taking
a message to someone. Where is he going? Mr. Marmaduke is going into a
College now. Now he is putting a leaflet in a pigeonhole. Do you know what
leaflet it is, children? No, Nancy, it is not a Christian Union leaflet,
although that is where a lot of people like Mr. Marmaduke say they are
from. No, it is a map. Is that all, children? No, there is something
underneath. It is a bomb. Yes, George, I know it isn't big and black and
fizzing, but it is still a bomb. And what do bombs do, children? That's
right, altogether now...
BOOM!
Simon Ford reports:
Simon Ford BA MEng had had a busy morning planning, scheming and generally
doing things that weren't good. But his machinations had left him
drained, especially since he had contracted a strange case of sleeping
sickness by proxy. He was in a foul mood that hadn't been surpassed since
the Spice Girls were formed. Correction, since the Spice Girls split up
and inflicted even more cringeworthy 'popular' music upon the world.
Walking into college, a wry smile crossed his countenance as he saw
the Head Porter shooting ducks with his twelve bore shotgun. But wry
was all the smile was. Checking in the canteen he saw that the food was as
vile and as inedible as ever. The Master of Engineering found a moment's
pleasure watching the looks of disgust upon the faces of the pitiful
undergraduates as they chewed the gristle. Hall food had been one of his
greater successes in bringing misery to Cambridge. The city centre road
planning had been another, the Rondo a la Fifth Week Blues a third. What a
moment of inspiration that had been! It was in such musings that the
recent graduate of Emmanuel College entered the pigeonhole room to inspect
what manner of communications his evil minions had left. The standard was
poor to say the least, with little sign of any new plots on the horizon.
This displeased Ford enormously. What had he been paying these people to
do? Anger suffused with displeasure would have been clear to see had the
Porters been watching their CCTV monitors. But they were having lunch of
course, that three hour repast that sits between brunch and afternoon tea
in the daily calorie intake. So they also didn't see the slow emergence of
a smile on the Engineering Master's face. Because sitting in his
pigeonhole there was a bomb! A bomb, would you believe!? Could you learn
to love anything more? It was with regret that he had to leave it there,
for he had nothing to diffuse it with at the time. No fun and games this
lunchtime, but Simon Ford BA MEng decided that he should return that
evening to dispose of the wicked, enigmatic bomb that sat there
teasingly, urging him to set it off. But the temptation was refused, and
turning on his heel, he departed.
The smile that had appeared on the face of Simon Ford BA MEng following
the discovery of the bomb was quick to disappear. By evening he was
incredibly vexed with a particular conundrum that had presented itself
that afternoon. Ho hum, ho hum. What's a well groomed graduate to do when
he's been described in Fashion Killer's Weekly as "a lanky proto goth"?
That kind of talk is libelous, let alone the photos of "him" as "her" at a
recent graduate function. Simone Ford might not have a Master's degree in
Engineering, but she certainly knew how to carry off a low cut Evans
jumper and olive green mini-skirt! The digressive thoughts of Ford
returned to the matter that had caused a moments pleasure that lunchtime.
The lovely bomb that had evidently been crafted through hours of tender
loving care. Armed with the necessary equipment, those hours had all
amounted to nothing, such was the limited blast from the explosive.
Checking the remains he found nothing that would give an indication of
where it had been manufactured - no incriminating scent of Eau de Gonville
here. Leaving the mess to be cleaned up by some skivvy, he left the scene
at which a crime had been perpetrated, but in which no one had suffered.
The evening drew out long ahead of him, but Simon Ford BA MEng was not
perturbed. Instead a feeling of calm descended upon his shoulders, and
with a swish of his eight foot scarf he walked on.
The Umpire reports:
The Umpire would like to make it clear that there are no Bourbon biscuits offered as a price on Simon Ford's head. I don't know where Mr Marmaduke got that idea...
And I resent that Eau de Gonville comment. We're far more subtle.
The Illuminati reports:
The Illuminati have been destroyed in the world of the assassins, however the Illuminati lives on in the world of Novus Ordo Seclurum. Vanderro was the culprit, he did stab the illuminati outside their lectures: the knife was a simple one, but the kill was well engineered. Well done!
Vanderro reports:
Tips for potential assassins:
1) Know what your target looks like
2) Know what subject they do
3) Know where they have lectures
4) Know when they have lectures
5) Find the appropriate faculty
6) Find the appropriate lecture theatre
7) Don't be put off by the large numbers of possible exits, instead...
8) ...Be lucky enough to be waiting by the right one
9) Final step - stab target as he leaves his lecture
Simple as that!
Milady reports:
Your Eminence,
The plan continues apace, I have gained Dogtanian's confidence, I feel
that soon I will have proof of the Queen's plot with Buckingham. I have left
a note for Lucifer, a declaration of intent, with a nasty surprise
should he prove to be less competent that you believe.
I remain sir, your obedient servant
Milady
Lucifer reports:
I received today a bomb with apparently a negative blast radius. Anyway I knew it was a bomb but I detonated it anyway with a pen after I double checked the bomb rules. Nice detonation, did this assassin seriously think that they could beat me with something that only hurts me in an imaginary plane?
Bruce reports:
There was another bomb outside my door today. Disarmed it - then removed the detonator, which failed to go off. Even had I opened my door, the detonator would not have worked. Back to drawing board, Zionist Rebel...
Number 5 reports:
Today at 17:40 I knocked on Peers Davies' door. I had cunningly prepared a ruse to trick him into allowing me admittance. As it was he just said come in. <Walked into room.> "Bang....Bang..Bang". Unfortunately three shots were necessary as I missed the first two. We exchanged names and I left quickly.
The Shadow reports:
After faling to take out Agent Short, Blonde and Demure, I made my way to a nearby college and found the room of Incompetent Constable The Pigs. Getting the same friend to knock on the door with the story of looking for a friend in the same staircase, I strafed in and was glad to hit this target. At least I've now killed 4 police officers before my likely demise.
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
After The Shadow had made an attempt on Agent Short, Blonde and Demure earlier in the evening,
we assembled and went down to town to catch him. Having reached his
staircase, I went to hide in the toilet - whereupon I got shot!
Oh BUGGER! I thought. Followed by swiftly trying the light switch. It was
Constable Sister of Darkness! Yeep! Thankfully, this means the shot didn't wound me and so
Agent Short, Blonde and Demure and I left - walking back up the hill.
On the way, Agent Short, Blonde and Demure noticed that the two people standing opposite Magdalene college were the people who had visited her earlier in the evening. Quickly drawing her pellet pistol, I allowed my padawan learner to shoot the criminal. You only learn by doing, in my opinion.
Anyway - to cut a fairly short story down to almost nothing, The Shadow is dead.
The CoP That Goes Ping!
Short, Blonde and Demure reports:
Earlier today, I had a knock on my door. Looking out, I saw an innocent looking girl, who I suspected to be my long
lost college daughter. Filled with vague maternal guilt, I decided not to ask who she was (it might sound a bit
threatening), but simply to open my door cautiously. I did. A Nerf gun appeared round the door and shot into my room,
before I could shut it. We called a truce and I returned the ammo to it's owner before sending him on his merry way.
I then met up with The Policeman that goes "Ping" and we went into town after my attacker. We wandered around a bit,
before heading to Christ's, where a kindly neighbour let us in. After a brief drama in the toilets, we decided there
wasn't much doing there and started to walk back up the hill. Just outside Magdalane, I spotted a familiar pair. Sure
enough it was Ross, looking up target details on a piece of paper, so I walked up to him and, in the twinkling of an
eye (ooh shiny things!), shot him.
The Shadow reports:
I was walking past Magdalene college with and stopped to check whether there were any Magdalene incos or cops I could take out. I still had 2 or 3 other colleges I was intending to visit and take out more police. I was taken by surprise that Agent Short, Blonde and Demure would happen to be on her way back from looking for me as I was distracted for the 10 seconds I was looking at my list. Even though I was a little frustrated at being taken down while my attention was in the wrong place for merely a few seconds, I had to accept that 5 days was enough to be on the wanted list before someone eventually gets me. The Shadow is no more, but neither are the four police officers he took down with him...
The Minister of Pink reports:
Last night I discovered an exciting note in my pigeon hole which informed me
that the porters were taking care of a parcel for me. On claiming my
package, I noted that the wrapping (a tatty Waitrose bag) was seeming to try
to play down its contents. Returning to my home with the package, I found it
to contain an interesting puzzle but the dash of contact poison on it and
the cleverly hidden cap detonator inside the puzzle were nonetheless obvious
to the trained, expert eye. Under the watchful eye of a police man with
decades of experience, I used a writing implement to pull the puzzle apart,
doing it so gently that the cap even failed to detonate.
it was a fun puzzle, though, thank you, lovely lovely assassins, I had as much fun as i'm sure you did in making it. Good attempt - try again :)
Dr Slightly Malevolent reports:
I spotted Paganini in hall today and proceeded to strangle him with a violin string (E). He will not intefere with my schemes again.
Evil Capitalist reports:
They say that History repeats itself - first as a tragedy, second as a
comedy. Never was it more true than today. Cast your minds back several
weeks to the assassination of Mr Edward Levene of Fitzwilliam college.
There, as an old school friend, I blagged my way into his room, chatted
with him, then garotted him. This caused quite a stir among my Catabrian
old school friends, and probably a feud that will last until old age.
One of those old school friends was none other than our friend Mr Jiwaji,
aka the Shipmanator. I had explicitly said that "the second you go wanted,
I'm coming for you". Sure enough, he goes wanted, and I duly go for him.
Knowing he had no net connection in his room I wrote him an email saying "I
am going to kill you tomorrow morning, or, from your perspective, just
then." Planning an early morning ambush I waited outside his fortress in
Caius, expecting him to go to lectures. However, one step ahead of
Cambridge's finest he left ridiculously early and left me standing in the
freezing cold for no reason at all.
Plan B- having his lecture timetable I waited patiently for him to emerge.
He duly does, and exclaims in surprise, tries to back away. Fearing he had
read my email I went into a reassuring story about how I was incompetant
and couldn't kill him (he bought it, which was even more surprising). I
told him that I had come to reveal the Secret Ambush Plans of the Chief of
Police^Ù, how they were meant toi be waiting for him at home and at
lectures. Thanking me kindly, we proceded to walk back to Caius, on the way
providing the useful snippet of information that he was unarmed. As we
entered kings parade I reached into my bag, told him not to worry, pulled
out the same old school tie I had used two weeks ago and garotted him.
Now what I want to know is this- he knew perfectly well that I had lied my way into the confidence of an old school friend and garotted him. He, having gone wanted, lets me, claiming to have gone incompetant and thus blood-hungry, walk behind him, unarmed, when he knows I am armed, letting me open my bag, which was indeed full of weapons, and then kill him. Some people just don't learn.
Arvicola Terrestris reports:
Whiffling back from lectures this afternoon, I found a letter in my shrew-hole (pigeons are far too big!). Very official looking, oh yes. Almost too official looking. And oh dear, they've spelt my name incorrectly. Besides, I don't know anyone from Hopton Street, London. Oh yes, and the large bulge in the middle made me think something was odd as well. One careful extraction, remote opening and long-distance unfolding later, a small charred patch was left on my desk from the letter. My keen nostrils detected the scent of Killer Queen, who - given the name - really could have chosen better music. Besides, she was a little bit early.
Killer Queen reports:
Today, in the early hours of the morning, well at about 11am, I made my way to Emmanuel college with one purpose - to plant a bomb. The sun was shining on this windy November morn, as I walked through the gates of Emma and straight to the pidgeon holes. After about 5 mins of searching I found what I was looking for - the pidgeon hole of Arvicola Terrestris. With a smile on my face, I slipped the letter bomb in a walked out, safe in the knowledge that soon, Arvicola Terrestris will find that letter and hopeful set it off!!
Bruce reports:
This is another chapter in the story of Bruce that is called Bruce.
Upon learning that the noble knight Sir (Mr) Flibble had fallen into
disrepute and incompetence, Bruce became distraught. He resolved to
allow Mr. Flibble an honourable death. Walking up behind the fallen one,
he drew his RBG...
"I'm sorry it had to be this way" quoth he, and fired a single round. The incompetent one was no more.
Mister Flibble reports:
I came back today to find that another bomb had been placed on my door.
Throwing my bag at the bomb from a safe distance exposed it to being
faulty.
I then went to dinner, where I was shot in the back by my friend Bruce.
The backstabber...er shooter...whatever.
And here the saga ends.
Prostetnic Vogon Cjeltz reports:
A scholar meandered through the court,
Trilling a ditty and thinking of nought,
When a seated Young Lady, most imprudent,
Captured the gaze of our praiseworthy student.
You cannot imagine the trauma, the turmoil,
That raged in his heart like a cauldron of oil.
Bromide nor Prozac nor death could repress
His passionate pulsing desire for the Huntress.
Regarding the learnèd youth with surprise,
She turned and exclaimed that his flies
Were undone, and viewing the pustulent rift,
Her anger was roused, for indeed she was miffed.
"I care not for you, o vile Exhibitioner"
Cried she; he vowed to now decommission her.
His bullets they ripped through the bowels of Pru
Oozing and bubbling like overcooked stew.
Jenny Chase reports:
Firstly, I must declare my thanks to the Magdelene porters, who attempted to protect Big Daddy Gee from stalker-style psychopaths but failed to see the need to protect him from innocently dressed blonde young women who had "met him on the internet".
I asked for the matric photo, and was promptly required to give the name of who I was looking for. On giving it, they wished to know why. "I can't remember what he looks like, and I'm not sure I should carry on email flirting with him until I find out" I explained guilelessly. There followed an explanation of how attractive he was from the porters, who really do seem to care about their students. I looked at the photo, agreed as to his charms and was serenaded by more praise of Big Daddy Gee. This culminated in "Oh, look, that's him!" as an appropriate-looking guy came into the plodge. *BANG*.
The saga ends with the porters still trying to convince me that he was a good catch, but I'm not sure what Bjoern would say. :-). I must commiserate with Mr Gee, however, on his unfortunate luck.
Big Daddy G reports:
At 22.15, I left my college bar heading back to my room. I stopped off in the porters' lodge to check my pigeonhole. There was a vaguely familiar girl in there examining old matriculation photographs with the porters. As I walked in, one of the porters looked up and said "There he is now".
I paused for a second, not really knowing what was going on. The girl turned around and pulled a gun out of her bag. I realised with horror who it was and tried to make a break for the door but was shot twice in the back before I could get there.
The Brainwashed Pigeon of Doom reports:
Having witnessed my friend and partner in incompetance (Mr. Flibble) brutally murdered in full view by the villanous 'Bruce', I decided to confront him. Being unarmed, I was unable to act then, but I returned later with the weapon I lifted from my friend's lifeless body. Any, we weren't sure whether the kill would count if I shot him then and there, so we decided to fight to the death in a gentlemans's duel. At the stroke of midnight (five past actually, but midnight sounds better), we counted 10 paces (more or less) and turned. Having three bullets each, we both discharge two, but to no avail. With his third he shot me dead. So there. I'm out.
Bruce reports:
This is another chapter in the story of Bruce known as Bruce. As he drowned
his sorrows in the bar, having just consigned his friend Flibble to an
honourable grave, he was approached by the victim's fallen partner, the
fabled Brainwashed Pigeon of Doom. They agreed to a duel over the dead
man's honour. Midnight. The covered walkway. Lightning split the air as the
assassin faced the incompetent policemen down. Ten paces, then two shots
rang out. Two more. Still both men stood upon the unfeeling concrete. But
Bruce saw his moment. Darting close, he unleashed his third and last round
towards his foe. The band made a humming noise as it cut through the
rain-slicked air. The pigeon dodged, straight into the path of the ravening
rubber band.
Bruce closed his eyes and looked away. Two good men had died that night.
Daniel Nazarian reports:
Hi, I'm just an innocent, but Tim and Ian asked me (Daniel Nazarian) to officiate a duel between them, with the above result. I thought I'd write a report for you:
The dishonourable act of killing a fellow Churchill student had not gone
unnoticed. The Brainwashed Pigeon of Doom and Bruce felt it necessary to
settle this dispute in the time old fashion art of duelling. And when the
clock struck once, then twice, then thrice, then four times etc^Å then
twelve times, the duel did commence. Each armed with a RBG and four bands
each, they shook hands and there was a count to ten. Not eleven times, and
not nine times (unless of course ten were to follow immediately). Yes, ten
was the number that was counted to. They did turn around (180 degrees, not
360 degrees) and started firing. After three shots each there was still a
stalemate until Bruce fired his last shot. The crowd stood silent as they
watched the bullet fly towards The Brainwashed Pigeon Of Doom's head, where
upon contact there was a bloody mess. Pleased with the result Bruce turned
away.
On a lighter note it was Bruce's birthday. I ate some of his Stollen Cake
before the duel. Does this make me biased?
Thus endeth this chapter in the long history of late night shenanigans at Churchill"
Arvicola Terrestris reports:
I was wandering off to gather information on a target when the
dodgy-looking Eminem put paid to that in a farcical gunfight.
Apparently he spotted me as I passed the CUP, but didn't immediately recognise me. Sometime later, I heard a click behind me, and started to turn so his shot hit my right elbow. We stood looking at each other for a second or two, then I drew my gun and shot him. He complained, saying that he'd hit me in the back. I argued that it had definitely hit my elbow. After a while, I realised that I'd shot him with the out-of-commission hand, and unfortunately muttered so while I drew the left-hand weapon. Upshot is we both shot at the same time. He believes we shot the bullets out of the air, but actually he hit my hand, and as far as I can tell my shot was unaccoutned for. I don't believe it hit him although it hit something (landing quite close-by), possibly some outlying clothing or something similar. I therefore stopped shooting, having both arms dead, and he proceeded to perforate my chest. Most unfortunate.
Elderberry Bush Full Of Kippers reports:
I was standing talking with Eminem-23 and our esteemed Umpire outside the
University Press bookshop when Eminem-23 exclaimed, "There's one of the
Emmanuel players now."
"Was it? Who?"
"That was Christopher Howlett wasn't it?"
"I dunno, shall we have a look?"
So we followed him at a discreet distance down Senate House Passage, approaching him as we neared Trinity Hall. Eminem-23 identified him positively, then ran ahead and engaged him with his pistol.
I watched as Eminem-23's first shot caught Arvicola Terrestris in the right arm. Arvicola Terrestris responded by attempting to draw and fire the weapon in his right hand. He quickly realised that his right arm wasn't working and fired with his left hand gun.
At the very same moment, Eminem-23 realised he had missed on the first occasion and opened fire again.
Somehow, he shot Arvicola Terrestris's bullet out of the air; the bullets ricocheted
off away from both assassins.
Eminem-23 then quickly fired again, catching Chris square in the chest.
The latest from America's favorite son, Eminem-23:
This goes out to all my virgin whiteboyz in the hood
Yo deejay, kick in some phunky-assed beatz
Frock, yeah!
Prof Holzhauer on the tables pumpin' that bass
Eminem Twenty Three he's here in this place
Thats em to the en to em twenty three
With this MEng (Cantab) you don't disagree
Got an MA too, that's Master Assassin
So on yo' ass my judgement I be passin
Wiki Wiki Wiki What?
My name is... What?
My name is... What?
My name is... Shut that bot up!
Ah Yeah Prof, this is some stinky-assed choon
Let me rhapsodize over recent events...
I was cruising down the hood lookin for a fight
Got my Dick in my left hand, Tom in my right
Harry in the holster case I run out of rounds
Checkin the crowds for niggaz still in bounds
Then I see a gangsta from the East Cam massiv
Ain't gonna let him walk West Cam that passiv
Becos I'm em to the en to the em twenty three
And this intruder, he's a target for me.
Wiki Wiki Wiki What?
My tasche is... What?
My tasche is... What?
My tasche is... Black and shady!
So I follow him down where the cops dont go
An I pull out my sixes an I shoot like a ho
Damn! Target turns, the slugs get the arm
He draws, fires his gun but dont do no harm
Cos the hand with the gun is lyin on the street
Anna kill from there would be no mean feat
My misfirin Dick missed, I give Tom some fun
But Howlett got another hand an another gun
Niggaz both shoot and the pellets they hit
Other pellets in the air - that's crazy shit!
Wiki Wiki Wiki What?
How likely?... What?
How likely?... What?
How likely?... Not very!
Now I recock my magnum, squeeze off the lead
Perforate his gullet, this time he's dead
So dont mess with the tasche, cos it's pumpin
More lead than a four-star country bumpkin
Yeah, I got more kit than a Yemeni arms dealer
Yo, MC Holzhauer! Scratch that trash talk!
Will the real eminem-23 please stand up?
Love Thy Neighbour reports:
Dear mother,
Well, we live in interesting times. I have been Shot Dead twice in the past
week, but apparently this is not as fatal as it is back home. In the
meantime the Police Force appear to be doing Too Well For Their Own Good as
we have almost run out of Miscreants to Apprehend.
Today I did a Good Deed by warning an Upstanding Member Of The Community
about an attempt on his life and helping him to defuse a bomb using a Piece
Of String and some Cans Of Vegetable Soup. Unfortunately it later turned
out that he was an Assassin and the Chief Of Police nearly Had My Guts For
Garters for not letting him be blown up. Still, We Live And Learn as you
always said.
I hope father and the pigs are well.
Your loving son,
Police Doughnut-Boy Brendan Love-Thy-Neighbour Roses
Vassily Zaitsev reports:
Comrades,
Stoke your anger, for Vasiliy Zaitsev, Hero of the Soviet Union, has
been denied by the twin Nazi ploys of locked doors and suspicious owners of
the doors. Lucifer was the man, at just around 13.25 today. Our hero
knocks upon the door, selflessly exposing himself to harm, but nothing came
of it, as Lucifer was too experienced to open the door. Zaitsev hopes that
Lucifer finds the present that was left, and that he enjoys it.
Lonecat reports:
Outside the sun shone weekly through the clouds. The air was cold. As
the sun began to sink in the sky I ventured outside. For the first time
in a week I was sufficiently healthy for police work. Arming myself with
gun and knife I set out in search of those requiring police attention.
My first visit was to Gambit. Having succesfully located his hideout I
attempted to make an entry. Unfortunately I was not successful - the
person who answered the door was - or claimed to be - Gambit's housemate,
who refused me entry. Not wanting to risk killing an innocent civilian, I
left.
Not at all discouraged by this, I decided to make an attempt on Bellisarius. But he wasn't there. At this point two meaningless coincidences happened in a row, and I concluded my thirst for criminal blood would have to wait.
Minister reports:
Although no longer on the front bench, I can still deliver stinging attacks to the opposition, and this afternoon I teamed up with The Minister of Pink to attempt to remove the incompetent Tim Coughlan. We arrived on his staircase, and heard beautiful music from within. How kind, we were there to kill him,and he played for us to entertain us. That also meant he didn't notcie when The Minister of Pink dropped his gun loudly outside Tim's door. There was no light in the area outside his room, so we decided to abandon the cunning second detonator, as the risk of accidentally setting it off would have been too high, and with veteran skill, primed the bomb against his door. We then wandered past his window, to see what he looked like, while he was focused on his recital. What a dedicated young man. He'll need more than a cello to protect himself if he opens his door though.
Bruce reports:
This is another chapter in the story of Bruce known as Bruce.
Home did he tootle on a misty afternoon, only to discover a bar of Mars
sharing the roost of his pigeon.
"Hmm..." quoth he, "There be no such thing as a free snack." Therefore
did he remove said bar from his pigeonhole from a distance commensurate
with caution. And it did beep, and then it did explode, and Bruce was
rained with the feathers of his (second) dearly departed pigeon. The
bomb was one of surpassing cunning, and Bruce congratulates its maker.
But he lives to fight on in the cause of Right.
Bruce's heralds would like to thank the attacker for the free tin of
Vaseline which with the bomb did come.
(I would return the components, but they are covered in nougat and probably wouldn't work again.)
This is a general request:
Could people please return any pieces of bomb they have to my pigeonhole, clearly marked with who they are from, and preferably whom they are to be returned to.
Remember that they can't be used in anger for the rest of this game if they have been detonated.
The Policeman that goes "Ping!" reports:
Having gone to college to hold a computing group meeting, I returned to the
abode of Neill Smith to eat burgers and look at his computer. Having found
the Incompetents List, with his name on it, I terminated his petty existence
with excessive force. Ka-blam.
He might have a bit of trouble getting the blood stains off his monitor, but I think that's the last thing on his mind at the moment.
Catchable and Dispatchable reports:
Dear Umpirical Umpivorous Umpire,
This is a record of my attempt on the notorious slacker The Brainwashed Pigeon of Doom himself.
At the time, hereafter referred to as 'the time', aprox. 11:00 pm I arrived at the location of the abode of the subject
in question, hereafter referred to as 'the room at the college where the abode of the subject was located'. Finding
there was a bomb, hereafter referred to as 'bugger someone else got here first', already attached to the door,
hereafter referred to as 'that bloody obstacle blocking my way', I attached my bomb, hereafter referred to as 'the
deadly package' to the aforementioned other bugger someone else got here first. When I was doing this I noticed that
the room at the college where the abode of the subject was located was unoccupied, hereafter referred to as 'look there
was another bop on at that college'. Of course I also attached the deadly package to that bloody obstacle blocking my
way as well as to the bugger someone else got here first.
In case of danger I summoned (this may not be true) the now legendary (this also may not be true) 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 (this is almost certainly a pile of made up crap).
However the feind did not materialise from the festering socks I laid out as sacrifice.
I tried again, speaking the Magic Words Of Summoning.
"Come here you lazy bastard. Yes I am talking to youmister-your-name-is-extremely-long-and-silly-and-I-refuse-to-say-it-even-t
hough-at-this-rate-actually-saying-it-would-have-saxactly-why-the-hell-am-I-doing-so-anyway?"
My next action was to gasp.
Then once again I called out.
"Where the hell are you, you gimp?"
Still no answer.
But disaster!
My calls had awakened the most ancient, most evil, most dire, most <insert more adjectives here if you want>. The one
known as the bamboozling back-breaking ballistic butt-tonguer.
Hearing his aproach I unsheathed my Holy Avenger Vorpal Blade of Firey Death and Massacre ( +0.5).
"I know where you are, mortal", he slurped, "And I will lick your vital organs out of your rear before long!"
Fear in my backside, I readied my selection of weaponry. As he slithered round the corner I leaped into action with my
most potent assault.
"Take this!" I shouted.
"Aaaarrrgghhh not Take This, uhhhgggg their music is more evil than even me!" said the fiend.
"Huh?" I paused in my attack.
"Oh, I screwed up there, didn't I?" said the vile one. "I'll come in again."
"I know where you are, mortal", he slurped from back round the corner, "And I will lick your vital organs out of your
rear before long!"
Fear in my backside, I readied my selection of weaponry. As he slithered round the corner I leaped into action with my
most potent assault.
"Take this!" I shouted.
"No!!!! Please not Take This, I would rather die!"
"What?" I said.
"Damn." He said, "I'll come in again"
"No one expects the big slimy butt-tounguer!" He sluped, charging round the corner. "My main weapons are slurping,
sucking, licking......." He trailed off. "Oh." He said. "Sorry I don't know what came over me."
"I know where you are, mortal", he slurped from back round the corner, "And I will lick your vital organs out of your
rear before long!"
Fear in my backside, I readied my selection of weaponry. As he slithered round the corner I leaped into action with my
most potent assault.
"Take this!" I shouted.
"No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" he screamed.
"But I havent done anything yet" I said.
"Oh crap." said the diabloic creature. "I've screwed up again."
Seeing he was off guard, I unleashed my Ultimate Awsome Super Ultra Hyper Mega Final Attack.
"Hey, thats not fair!" he said, deflecting my attack with his little finger.
"How did you do that????" I said, in shock. "That was my most powerful attack."
"In that case, mortal prepare to Have Your Butt Toungued!" Shouted the mainic beast. "Mwhahahaahaha!"
So I ran him over in a tank.
That done I swiftly drove off into the night, covering my tracks with the remains of several collapsed buildings, two
crushed trees, and an overgrown wart. As I want I cursed 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 not being there, and
resolved to REMOVE THE BASTARD at the next opportunity.
As fate would have it I met him on the way back to my bomb factory. Sorry, did I say bomb factory? I meant room in my
college.
Ahem.
Anyway we saw each other coming. At 100 paces we stopped, facing each other.
"Oh SSsshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt............................." He cried
as the wind speed incresed.
"He's getting away!" I shouted, giving chase.
Mercifully the wind died down after 5 minutes or so, and I didn't need to run that far. Once again we faced each other.
"Take this!" I said, attacking with my Unbeliveable Wonderful Splendiferous Amazing Ultimate Awsome Super Ultra Hyper
Mega Final Attack.
"Ha!" he replyed, deflecting it with little toe.
"How did you do that????" I said, in shock. "That was my most powerful attack."
Then I had one of those deja-vu moments.
"In that case, mortal prepare to Have Your Butt Toungued!" Shouted the mainic beast. "Mwhahahaahaha!"
"Errrr, WHAT?" I replyed.
"You see, I am actually a clone! And you have killed my brother! This is the last time you and I will fight and I will
destroy you!"
"Yes, you are right, it is the last time you and I will fight." I said, running him over in a tank, then tearing his
body into pieces and spreading them across the universe, and running over each individual piece in a tank and jumping
up and down on the pieces just to make sure.
I then finished him off with the words, "What a complete gibbon."
On my way back I considered The River, but decided I would leave underwater matters to the erstwhile of Dhhhoooommm!.
Number 5 reports:
Today at about 14:10 I shot Leo Howell in his room. He then asked me if I was a wanted criminal. The nerve!!
Number 5 reports:
After leaving Laserquest, since JJ had been there and I assumed he would
either go straight home or be unfindable, I decided to check on Nicholas
Krempel instead. I approached his door and was about to knock when I heard
someone climbing the stairs behind me. Not wanting to be caught obviously
knocking on his door and having a fair idea of what Mr. Krempel looked
like, I turned and descended the stairs to identify the ascender. We
passed each other at a turn and so only got a half glance at each other.
it was not till I reached the floor below that his face clicked with his
name. JJ Wilks!
I stopped dead. So did he. We turned to face one another. We drew
simultaneously and in perfect concert shot and dodged. We ended up having
a prolonged firefight up and down the stairwell, sniping at each other
from different floors. At one point he hit my leg and, hopping to cover
and discovering myself almost out of ammo, I proposed a ceasefire.
We recovered our ammo and had a friendly chat. Being mortal enemies and all that, we decided on a duel to settle the issue. We strode away from each other till the count of ten, then turned and fired. Seeing as we ended up about 12m apart his first shot fell rather short. Mine however, hit him in the leg. With his disability and inferior range I was then able to pick him off at ease, showing once again that the Police Tea-Lady is an incompetant officers worst nightmare.
The Umpire reports:
After a democratic voting procedure, which was not l33tly hax0red by the Policeman that Goes Ping in any way, I was wanted for supersoaking some skaters who were being loud outside my window.
And those who are wanted pay the price...
The Policeman who goes "Eki! Eki! P'tang! Ni-wom!" reports:
It was a dreary morning late in November. Ice was forming on the lake,
and the birds were huddled together - too cold to sing. The sniper that
had been terrorising the center of the city was still on the loose,
despite the county-wide call to capture her. Every day another shot
would ring out - you could hear them from my office, another life
snuffed out, another dead child. The police were streched to their
limits. Everyday the death would be followed by a spate of reports of
sightings of the sniper. Descriptions would vary wildly. Apparrently the
sniper could be both getting onto a bus at the bottom of town - and
buying groceries at the top, within a scare five minutes of each other.
The situation was getting desperate - the Mayor had evevn appealed for
help.
This morning I woke up and knew something special was about. I had that
feeling. With the dismal failure of the police to apprehend this
criminal, I had been approached by lawyers representing the families. A
substantial amount had been offered for me to track down and kill -
before the sniper could strike again. As I sat there, and listened to
the stories from heart-broken mothers, and devestated wives and
girlfriends, I brushed the issue of money away. This lunatic had to be
stopped. It wouldn't be easy though - she was well armed - and by this
point expecting us. A police patrol had got close enough to see the shot
two days ago. Close enough to be spotted by the sniper as well. Another
funeral of colleagues. There had been far too many this month.
In the pre-dawn gloom I made my way out, wrapped up from the cold, and
also the better to conceal my neccessary protection, I made my grim way
into town. A pattern had been emerging from the shots, and I thought I
know where the sniper would strike next. Half a hour later, I had parked
my plain, unremarkable 5 year old ford escort 2 blocks from my
destination. A useful car to have, that. Hundreds of them on the road -
and this one no different from all the rest. I went the rest of the way
on foot.
As I approached the building I stopped to take stock of it. A tall,
forbidding place, but I was sure the sniper was holing up here - resting
before she pounced again. I slipped in through an open gate, nervously
watching the gaping, sightless windows for any sign of movement. I
started to mount the stairs in front of me - wincing at every squeak and
groan from the old staircase. 10 slow minutes later I reached the top,
and began to prepare my equipment - it was already getting light, I'd
have to hurry.
As hoped there was a niche overlooking a spot the sniper would have to
go through to get out. I moved excruciatingly slowly, so as not to be
heard, all metallic items muffled by old rags. My movments looked like a
slow, styleised dance as I lay down in the shadows to wait. Time passed
- it became a struggle to stay awake in my vigil, but whenever my eyes
started to drift close there would be a small noise, and I would start
into alert awakefulness. After an hour of waiting I started to doubt my
instinctws - what if I had been wrong about the location? or had I
already missed her?
As I was straining my eayes to detect noises from below, I suddenly
heard movement - only a very slight sound, but I was expecting it. hands
turned the door knob, slowly so as not to make noise to any who weren't
expecting it. The door creaked open a bare inch or so, and I held my
breath for what seemed like an eternity, wondering if I would be
spotted, but apparrently whoever was behind the door satisfied
themselves that it was safe. Noiselessly the door swung open - and at
that moment I knew I was right. No-one else would have oiled a door in
this god-forsaken place. I waited until she was fully through the door,
and instantly identified the long case that she was carryingly. She was
surprisinlgy ordinary. Someone you would pass unnoticingly in the
street, or happily give a cup of coffee to if she appeared at your door.
I realised this was how she disappeared so effectively, and so quickly.
Even so, I hesitated slightly, and she turned to look straight at my
hide, prompted by some sixth sense. She started, and reached to pull
something from he coat - but my rifle was already aimed, the double
trigger set to pull on only a hard wish. I made that wish.
The trigger broke cleanly, and the 9mm matched-hollow point bullet flew
from the barrel, suppressed to subsonic speeds, so it made only a faint
whisper, followed by the click of the bolt . At this range it was an
easy shot, and the few grams of steel impacted in her chest. Up until
now, the mechanism of the gun had been the loudest sound, but now the
bullet threw her backwards, landing noisily on the floor, her bag
clattering to one side, falling open to reveal a sniper rifle,
disassembled, but no less marked with the air of death.
I walked over to her body to inspect it. The hollowpoint bullet had left
a small hole in her front that was just oozing blood, but the red splash
on the wall behind her belied the apparent damage that it had done. I
had been right on target, the bullet had penetrated straight through her
heart - she must have barely heard the shot before the life was stripped
from her.
My deed done, I quickly collected my bag, stripping the rifle expertly, and collecting the brass from the floor. Having cleaned up, I left calmly through the main gate, walking slowly, and arousing no suspicion. It would be some time before her body would be found, and I would be well away. My car was a few short blocks away, and as I was pulling away, I noticed police cars in the distance converging on the site. I smiled to myself, now thinking of the cheque that was sitting in my desk drawer.
Evil Capitalist reports:
The two men locked gazes across the table. The seconds tried to squeeze
through the gap of the two titanic intellects, probing, questing, searching
for a weakness, a flaw in the other's composure. The metallic stare bounced
back and forth between the two, threatening to melt the steel rimmed
glasses of the younger man. The sound drained out of the room as the
tension grew.
"F"
"Ha! Wrong! For that, Mr stickman is going to hang!" With that the older
man gleeflly completed the little gibbet, as his adversary swore and
slammed the table.
Suddenly the hermetic seal on the room was broken, as the door flew wide
open. In strode an old man, white hair askance, like Q after an Edinburgh
Woolen Mill tweed sale. The two turned to face him with expectant eyes.
"Today is a great day for us!!" He exclaimed, the extra puncuation causing
the others to wince. He held a piece of paper aloft, like an academic
Neville Chaimberlain. "Look at this letter! It's from Bancroft out in the
field. He claims to have found a new species of ape!"
Both men jumped up, the shock of the news like an overextended metaphor
involving electricity.
"Think of the press! Think of the glory!" The old man's messianic zeal was
infectious.
"Sod that, think of the research grants!" exclaimed the man in glasses.
"Quite. The trouble is, we only have Bancroft's word for it. He could be
lying. We'll need proof. You, as combat biologists, will need to prove what
he said. You leave tomorrow." The other young man yelped in consternation.
"But what about the conference in Miami?"
"One of you will just have to miss it." You can sort it out among
yourselves. Wihout waiting for a word of question, he put the air ticket on
the desk and left.
The two men looked at the ticket with determination.
"Which one of us goes to Miami?" Asked the one with glasses, asking the
wall for advice.
"I'll play you at hangman for it."
"I'm going, I'm going."
JOURNAL OF BIOLOGIST WITH GLASSES
Sunday 11th I have arrived in the distant forests of Treenitee, in search
of this mystical race of apes. Locals in awe call them the Mathmos, some
strange tribal name dating back beyond the dawn of time no doubt. In
particular they speak of their leader, the mysterious 'Nick'. Myths and
legends about this 'Nick' abound. All superstitious nonsense of course.
Tuesday 12th I have trekked into the forest. My native guides have deserted
me, fleeing into deep pits full of spikes and poisonous snakes in order to
avoid carrying my luggage. I did catch my first, fleeting sights of a
mathmo, high in the trees trying to solve Fermat's last theorem. I tried to
approach, but it ran away into the canopy. I head south.
Wednesday 13th My dilligent search paid off, when I cunningly snuck into
the centre of the Mathmo village. They were much alarmed as I approached,
getting agitated and trying to use crude wooden protractors to fend me off.
It looked as if I was about to be swarmed, and in panic I cried out 'the
square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the square of the other two
sides', as I always do when threatened. Then, like an algebra-obsessed Red
Sea, they parted before me. What I screamed must have been some kind of
shiboleth, for they now seem to treat me as one of their own number.
Friday 15th I have been among the villagers now for almost two days, and
have discovered almost everything worth knowing about them. While their
eating, living and leisure habits are all perfectly fascinating if you're
into that sort of thing, and their home-created advanced calculus is
something never before encountered by man or beast, I really can't be
bothered to hang around to watch them in that much detail. What is most
interesting though is their rudimentary language. What at first I took to
be random grunts actually, on closer inspection, turns out to be a
rudimentary form of communication. While some of these have fairly simple
meanings (Proh-blum-sheat= work, See-Em-Ess= Heaven, etc.), other words can
send them into a fury, such as Piy-Thar-Goh-rus. A strange people indeed.
Saturday 16th Since I'm working weekends the univrsity better be paying
overtime. Anyway, I've been trying to learn more about the one they call
'Nick'. It seems I have been unfortunate- he has just finished his
migration to the dark, unholy forests of Ocsfjord, and is now in his
nocturnal phase. I state my sadness, and lament that I will not be able to
see this mythic being.
Monday 18th On hearing the call to the communal lunch, I headed to the
clearing they call Hawul. Above in the canopy, the ducks quacked loudly.
All seemed normal at first, but suddenly the crowd gasped in amazement. Who
should be standing there but Nick himself. The throng parted as he stepped
forward to the table. Clearly unsettled, he tried to eat as fast as
possible and get back to his darkened home. However, I could not let such a
chance slip. As he left, I mustered my knowledge of their primitive
language. "Are you trully the one they call Nick?" I asked. He grunted his
assent. Overawed I knew I would never forget this moment. Then I pulled out
my trusty revolver and shot him. Never go home from holiday without a
souvenier.
For doing nothing for a week while on the incompetent list, Alex Berkley is thunderbolted.
The Umpire reports:
Last year we had a player called Matt Lohse, who was an exchange student from the USA.
Just to make sure he hadn't completely forgotten us, we sent a lovely poisoned letter a couple of weeks ago. It was all glittery and shiny...
For He Is An Englishman in the 52nd State reports:
Ah, yes, now I get it. The added flexability of the 3-21G basis set as opposed to the STO-3G basis set means that
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. Oh great, 6:30, time to go take the dreaded Physical Chemistry test that has hung over my weekend like
a horrible hangover that refuses to go away after far too many bottles of wine chased by multiple quad-espressos and
some food from the local equivalent to the van. And thus goes another Monday in the semi-comical region that noone
really cares about that might just become the 52nd state if nobody cared about little details like the constitution of
the 25th State. The sort of day where you get up at 530 to go rowing on a lake that is freezing cold with a 25 year
old boat that has to be carried 200m through the woods to the lake only to have to cancel practice due to winds
stronger than the first day of Lents in 2002. Well, what should be in my mailbox as I am leaving the building than the
usual assorted junk mail that will be filled in the out "wastebin" and what's that???? A letter with a postmark from
the friendly and non-violent people of Gonville and Caius? It would seem that someone has followed the advice of the
Simple Minds, and they did not forget about me. Well, this is just a tad unexpected, now isn't it. Priorities being
what they are, if they are in fact anything, the letter had to be put in my backpack as I rushed off to take the exam
of pain and suffering. Besides, if the exam didn't go well the letter might prove useful afterwards.
For some reason, some of the people waiting to take the exam were not amused when I explained that I was waiting to
open the letter sitting on my desk until after the exam so I could assemble the proper equipment so that I was
not killed. Yes, Virginia, there are people out there in the world who might like to remove yours truly from the gene
pool. Oh and yes, sooner or later it comes down to fate. You want the truth? You can't handle the truth. No truth
handling, you! Some people just don't understand this other world in which you and I have lived. They live life
blissfully unaware, seeing what they want to see, never having a crisp with a heaping serving of XXX Habanero
Salsa. Other people, more cynical perhaps, considering the potential adjustments this might cause to the curve,
requested I open it right then. Alas, it being a time of relative peace and quiet here in the 52nd State I had
neglected to bring the trusty RBG along with me to the exam so I could not respond to these requests in a proper
fashion. For some reason, people seem to have a problem with people who walk around packing serious rubber band
firepower. Of course, these are the same people who think that lycra, Hawaiian shirt, and the standard issue
trenchcoat are not proper attire for a 930am class. The sort of people who don't understand the value of knowing how
to work the British Colonial system c.1725 in regard to violating or enforcing the Navigation Acts as shown by the Fame
case as well as understanding how to manipulate the Pennsylvania Assembly, again shown by the events surrounding the
Fame. Some skills are beyond value. Regardless, then came the exam, the details of which I will spare you. Not that
I really worry about sparing you, but perhaps to save myself from the Horror, the Horror that flowed from the two hour
exam.
Fast forward to 9:00. You have just finished an exam and have to figure out how to open a potentially poisoned letter in a manner safe to yourself. What do you do? Well, you remember that you are just a minute away from the research lab and that you need to run by the lab anyways and there just might be a pair of disposable gloves that you could use. You remember you have a nice letter opener in your room. You remember to remove the week old pizza from the freezer in your room. Following this, you return to Holcombe 248 where several of your neighbors gather to witness the fine art of operating on a letter. Just another boring evening in Holcombe but if all goes well the UAPD will not be paying a visit to remove your corpse. You realize that nobody does it better, that these are glory days, that some Novicane for the soul might not be good right now, that you are keeping the faith, that this is the heart of the matter, that Rock n Roll is King, that Monday is too early to be working for the weekend, that the sun is a mass of incandescent gas, that this letter is just what I needed to cure the hangover that was the exam, that if only she knew, that you need to take it easy, these are not the winds of change but they did keep you from rowing this morning, that Beethoven needs to roll over, that you should be true to your school unless it is Southside in which case lie, and that it's one of these nights. So you shift to a new paradigm, you become as cold as ice, you become all that, you spit into the wind, you seize the day, you live for the moment, you conform to independent thought, you take the red pill, you laugh at the absurd, you question everything, you vote absentee, you embrace the status quo, and you smile just to calm the gathering crowd. Gloves on, a small incision is made in the side of the envelope to allow much of the excess glitter to drain. The incision is then widened and the letters are carefully removed and more glitter drained into the trashcan. Hmm, I seem to have survived for now.
A Large-scale Digitigrade Morula reports:
Picture this. Ed standing in a doorway of a building in Pembroke
seemingly CPSless, rather confused as to what to do next. Two assassins
(XXX and YYY) out on the grass, one wearing a silly hat, actually
no, they both were wearing silly hats. Me and my pink vixen were
standing a little further away, looking fairly not assassin-like, but I
was able to keep one eye on the situation for most of the time.
Have you ever played that game where funny looking things with
moustaches pop up from different holes and you have to hit them with a
hammer? Well it was a bit like that, except with a RBG or two.
Anyway, eventually M&M seemed to be hovering just outside one particular
exit for quite a while. I was very naughty and went through the
Master's Garden in order to enter the building without being seen. I
wasn't sure at this point whether Ed knew there were four of us, but he
seemed to not be looking around for others so I assumed he only thought
there were two people. I then lost the shoes and left the building
through the other exit to be faced with the back of his black coat.
The other two seemed to be performing a cross between a raindance and
some form of yoga which was keeping Ed's attention quite successfully.
I then shot him and he said "well done" before falling to the ground.
A Large-scale Digitigrade Morula reports:
Two of the assassins decided to stay and talk with the dead M&M but I
decided we should leave having been in this situation before. So, the
two of us walked briskly towards the main entrance of Pembroke, only to
be passed by Ed Wallace, seemingly in a very big hurry. He didn't seem
notice my RBG, or the fact that we were talking about how we had just
killed Ed.
Anyway, we turned and followed him for a bit, and unsurprisingly he
headed straight for the little group in the middle of the grass. I
refrained from shouting out because I thought they must have seen him
and didn't want to reveal myself to Wally. But they only noticed him at
the last possible moment and XXX legged it. Ed chased at full speed.
Aha, a person with two RBGs drawn, that makes him a legal target.
Pinky and I used all of our combined engineering and compsci knowledge to quickly compute an optimal line of interception taking into account roughness of the grass and air resistance. I then legged it and mad contact with Wallace at an angle of approximately 58.2 degrees. Unfortunately after I'd shot him I was unable to stop and fell over some stupid pavement thing. Grrrrrr it was dark ok.
Simon Ford reports:
When the chips are down and you're lying face down on the mat with a foreboding of what will follow, there's only one thing you can do. React. A simple plan was called for - the use of the patented "focal point" system, a method with a 50% success rate so far. The pilot schemes were only test beds, this night would see whether it truly worked. And yes, I am glad to report, it did, although there were almost complications. A distraction was called for - a hat and beard, a rain dance to satisfy the Gods, a call for Dave (whoever he was) - this was enough. The Morula digitigradedly made it's large-scale assault on the 23rd Son of Eminem from behind. Success. But my dance had not appeased the Gods, for they were angry! I was almost brought down in a curious wrath of oddness, but fortunately I heard no poetry to disturb my soul. The morula once more was to my rescue. It's digitigradeness is underestimated and I owe it a pint or two of large. The timeline continues to degrade...
Milady reports:
Your Eminence,
The package has been delivered, it has been given to the King, it
details the full plan of the Queen and Buckingham, which I have uncovered
over the last few days.
I hope to see some explosive consequences in the near future.
Milady
Sphinx reports:
So... my pacing and sleepless nights, the screams from my targets'
ghosts..er no wait i didnt kill anyone....maybe they were my own screams on
waking from a terrible nightmare- well they have been silenced. i am no
more, as i hover over my sad and lonely corpse, no one is mourning, no one
is wailing, my boyfriend isnt even concerned, hes having a conversation
about work. In short no-one will miss me. Can the ghosts of tears fall? (cue
melancholy violin)
This is a case of curiosity killed the cat. I returned from my ramblings and
spied a bomb on my door, so i ducked into my neighbour's room and told him
about it, he went to investigate, while i intended to leave it till i had
finished some work.....but....
foolish fool i had a vague interest to see if it was more interesting than
the last bomb i got, and went to peek at it. Urg there goes the last wisps
of my life force. doom approaches. as did a shadowy figure from his hiding
place in the toilets, and shot me many times. Id like to say that my life
flashed before my eyes, but it didnt, i just disentangled a rubber band
from my hair. blasted useless neighbour didnt tell me that he'd heard the
bomb being set only minuites before.
damn. i must be brief for here comes someone rather boney, holding a
scythe...keep away from me you gimp!....running away is harder than usual
when youre a mere flux in the ether...i dont know who killed me, he wouldnt
tell me his name.
goodbye everybody, i hereby leave my starwars figures to my little brother.
Vassily Zaitsev reports:
Comrades,
Success, Vasiliy Zaitsev strikes again, putting fear into the heart of
the Nazi menace. A combination of cunning, subtly and decpetion allowed
Vasiliy to remove the incompetent (yet gracious) Lara Crow. A device was
planted on her door, and Vasiliy settled in to await her return, with his
customary patience. Good planning was rewarded when she returned a few short
minutes after he commenced his vigil. Foiled by her swift movement into a
neighbouring room, Zaitsev waited, for he had known she would have seen the
device. A few minutes later, activity, first from the room came an unfamilar
male, but then emerged the target. Swiftly striding down the corridor,
Zaitsev took aim, and despatched Lara with several shots to the back.
Danilov
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