doodlebug reports:
Have dropped a very official looking envelope full of contact poison into Lu Tze's pigeon hole 9am this morning.
Lu Tze reports:
Lu-Tze Diaries, (excerpt)
Having spent a week on this strange planet with no further incident I was starting to feel that I had indeed escaped notice. However, a man was missing thanks to me, so I took every precaution. One morning I recieved a very odd envelope. Odd because it was old and appeared reused, odd because it contained a printed sticker that appeared to have been cut out by hand, and odd because I never get any mail. upon lifting it out of my pidgeon hole, I noticed that it made a sound when tilted, as if it contained a powder substance. Storing this safely in a carrying device known as a "packback" by people here, I returned to my abode where the mail was opened in safety using a very sharp knife and a pair of scissors, taking care not to touch anything.
Once opened flat, a note was revealed, which was removed with tweezers and read. The contents were the following:
"Awfully Sorry,
but you are
now dead through
posion
Tata
doodlebug"
The envelope seemed to contain very little poison, in fact, even looking closely it was hard to see anything, so I guessed it must be invisible. I could hear it rustle accross the pages, so taking great care, I disposed of the envelope and letter, and wiped down everything it had come in contact with.
Evidently, I had not gone as unnoticed as I'd hoped. Theese people are obviously upset at the loss of one of their members. I fear I must take more direct measures to accomplish my goals. However, I learn, and this idea could come in useful in the future.
The Baroque Manpower Policies of Tsarist Russia reports:
Roger was confused. Noone was there. He knocked. Still noone. Roger went away.
slimjim reports:
OK, I guess I'd better start by saying who I killed, which is JALH
I reckon he had it coming though, 'cause his hair was really obvious. Something like that is just a taunt to the rest of us, you know. Well, as for the report I don't have lots to say. I follwed his hair through a crowd, sneaked up behind him and killed him. That's it. Sorry. Maybe I'll have more time if I kill anyone else to tell it a bit better.
slimjim
Lady Penelope reports:
I was quietly working in my room when a dark shadowy figure appeared at the door, i grabbed my gun and took aim. The figure looked surprised but accepted my paranoia and contiued to explain that his gran knew my gran coz they play whist together. I was highly suspisious but as my gran plays whist i didnt have enough evidence to asign a man to his fate. Luckily my assistant Parker had made a move to the opposite room and contacted me via a phone link. With my gun mantaining its aim i answered the phone to hear Parker in the opposite room. Apparently she had meet this man before, he was none other than the illusive assassin Peter Dunn who had recently been looking for me. With that i let the conversation dry up, let the man move to leave and shot him twice in the back of his head.
After which we discussed weaponry.
Lady P lives to fight another day!!!
PS Cheers Parker
Peter Dunn reports:
I was on my way out to get some lunch when, on an impulse, I decided to make a second attempt on Lady Penelope. My original plan was to knock on his door, gain entry through some sort of excuse, and then shoot him. Unfortunately as I entered the building his door was wide open, he could see me, and immediately trained a gun at me. Damn.
Undeterred, I brazenly walked in and on impulse spun a highly improbable story about how my gran had met his gran and how I had been asked to say hello to him. The conversation got increasingly difficult (and long) as I desperately tried not to contradict what I'd said 30 seconds beforehand and to remember everything that I'd found out about him., while simultaneously trying to figure out the best moment to strike. Eventually, I was saved- the phone rang, and his brother told him that he was coming over in a few minutes. Deciding to cut my losses and just leave him confused and suspicious instead of dead, I decided it was a good opportunity to make my leave.
I quickly made an excuse about having to go to a supervision, and was slightly non-plussed when on shaking his hand to say goodbye he shot me repeatedly in the head. Apparently the phone call was actually his friend (who recognised me from the last time I tried to kill him) warning him of my true identity. Bugger. And it was all going so well...
Edward Allcutt reports:
I set forth fwom the gweat vastness of Twinity this morning and wesolved to find my new target Debonair Chap. The matwic photo in mem court p'lodge was most helpfuw as I met him arriving just as I was giving up and about to leave.
Debonair Chap reports:
The debonair chap is no more.
Returning from a light luncheon, I hastened to my palatial abode, only to be confronted before it by a man not-so-subtley asking me, "Are you Debonair Chap?" while holding what was clearly the butt of a rubber band gun sticking out of his jacket.
I recoiled, "Am I a what?" He repeated, "Are you Debonair Chap?"
I extended my right hand, "Terry- pleased to meet you." The extravagance of my right-handed shaking masking the stealthy movement of mt left hand towards the gun deeply lodged in my left pocket.
Before I could draw, the suspicious rubber band gun was out. "Bang!" he declared. "You're dead- I saw your matriculation photo."
I damned the efficient work of the college's photographer in developing the photograph so rapidly, and prepared my way towards the gates of St Peter. For anyone who's interested, they're painted in a rather tacky shade of pink and yellow.
Debonair Chap
You've just lost reports:
In a rather cunning attempt to become wanted I have placed a small quantity of a devastatingly effective contact poison on the door handle of Dardanian Paris's set. With a bit of luck it might actually kill him too. Who knows?
Dardanian Paris reports:
The folly of Paris is my theme, that fateful folly which, in accordance
with the will of Zeus, has sent my gallant soul to Hades.
The Fates have decreed that my time in the world of mortals has ended. I
have been cowardly slain than one more traitorous than Pandarus.
After feasting in the great hall of our college I returned to my
lodgings, my limbs heavy with food and drink. Dionysius had been kind to me
that night. With light heart and head I approached my door, oblivious to
the peril that awaited. Evil Eris had set into my rival's head the thought
to destroy me. Ans so it proved.
Expecting little, I opened the well-wrought door to my corridor. As I unlocked the door to my chamber, and felt a peculiar sensation. I looked down at my hands, wielder of so many weapons, and saw them disfigured beyond recognition. A vile and vicious poison had coated my corridor's doorhandle, and, my wits dulled by the gift of Bacchus, I had not noticed. So it was that I left this mortal realm; Atropos the unyielding has declared it. My body fell to the floor, and my soul fled screaming to Hades.
My friends and kin have given my corpse a right and proper funeral: they
annointed the carcass, and burned it on a pyre of oaken boughs. A foot-race
was run, and a chariot race was held, as Boreas scattered my ashes over the
wine-dark sea. Such were the funeral rights of Paris, tamer of gerbils.
Yours sincerely,
Dardanian Paris (deceased)
PS I hope you remember that
poisoning my doorhandle is ILLEGAL and that you will make You've just lost
pay for this heinous crime. Also, I haven't seen my neighbour this evening:
she might have died too.
Lemming reports:
Quite frankly, being not-corrupt is a bit dull, and You've just lost's just gone and contact-poisoned a doorhandle ... he basically wants to kill someone who's not his target. So I guess we're both wanted, and I'm corrupt.
I guess you could say I'm after the Brutus award. Besides, being wanted looks more fun. Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse.
As both You've just lost and Dardanian Paris request, You've just lost is made wanted, as is Stuart Gooch for accomplicing on not only an attempt against a non-wanted player, but an illegal attempt!
Lemming reports:
Damnit.
I made an attempt to get rid of that blasted You've just lost. Having sat next to him in the TMS talk this evening ... I waited for my chance afterwards. We ambled back to his rooms, discussing vector spaces and the like, when I seized my chance, as he went off into his room. Quickly I drew my RBG, and fired, but he'd shut the door in time. Arses. And now he knows I'm on to him.
What a pity. I'll have to be more careful next time.
Fraggin' Aardvark reports:
Out on the windy corridors
We'd traipse and fall in line
You had a hairdo, like modern art
Too red, too crazy
How could you leave me
When I needed to kill you?
I hated you, and loathed you too
Bad dreams in the night
They told me I was going to win the fight
Leave behind your bleeding, bleeding
bleeding corpse
Sharp knife, it's me, oh Cathy, I have come
You're so cold, stabbed far from home
Sharp knife, it's me, oh Cathy, I have come
You're so cold, stabbed a-far from home
The Duke reports:
Wandering into Trinity this afternoon at about 15.00 on the way back from the library, I recalled that there were two unscrupulous individuals within in need of a good killing. Once I had located their residences (that place is huge!) I made my way up to the room of the first target, the corrupt policeman Constable Lemming, only to be confronted with a large sign on the door saying "I'm dead and asleep". Resisting the temptation to shoot him just to be sure, I decided to let him rest in peace and went after the second criminal, "You've just lost" who proved to be out. Again, I made an executive decision to cut my losses and leave rather than lurk suspiciously around his door.
Anonymous Coward reports:
Slipping through the gathering darkness of anarchy and destruction Anonymous Coward went out again in search of his quarry. Stealing through the stone monolith he sought out the room of Lu Tze and laid in wait outside it. As he heard the door creak from inside he gripped his gun tighter. But out of the door came not Lu Tze but Lu Tze's roommate, who was very possibly innocent. Said roommate however allowed Anonymous Coward to enter the room whereupon a chaotic firefight broke out. Levelling his gun he fired it at Lu Tze, watching in slow motion the trails of the bullets as they struck true. But luck was not entirely with the away team this day, for in the moment of his victory he looked down and saw his own blood also falling on the ground. The glow of victory died as he struggled away, afraid that he would too succumb to the duel. But fate smiled upon him and he did not. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away into the darkness. Another good man had died this day. One had gone on to fight and die another day. Ah, sweet mystery of life...
Lu Tze reports:
Lut-ze diaries.
An Anonymous Coward broke into my room thanks to the not so paranoid actions of a roommate today, and shot me dead while I was reaching for a means to defend myself. The abbott says that I'm not allowed to use my shield on earth, so I left it behind. Such a device would have kept me alive.
Ah well, I proceeded to perform the trick I learned from the yetis (see volume 3 biography of Lu-Tze - "Thief of time") and I think it spooked him a little. Whatever, the course of history seems to have changed in my time here (butterflies and hurricaines and such like.) - so my task is over.
smae reports:
The unscrupulous and unworthy JJ Wilks has had has life terminated. The owls screeched at five minutes to eight on a dark and wet night as out of the shadows stepped I, the true assassin of Trinity College. The slow-witted Peyman Owladi had no knowledge of my presence up to and beyond his subsequent removal from this plane of existence. My dagger sank deep into his flesh and drank its fill... for the night at least. JJ Wilks has moved on to a worse place and deservedly so.
smae
Long shall he live.
JJ Wilks reports:
Bugger.
Triple-A reports:
oooooooh the pretty colours.....pretty deadly that is, or not, as the case may be. *mwah ha ha* attempted glittering of: Malcolm McNeill
the great big shower of bastards reports:
Hey, I got blown up by a glitter letter bomb yesterday so I guess Im out. Thanks for organising all of this,its been fun but brief.
Oliver McGoo reports:
Look children, it's Oliver McGoo. Hello Oliver McGoo!
Does anyone know what Oliver McGoo likes, children? Oliver McGoo likes Bourbon biscuits. Oliver McGoo LOVES Bourbon biscuits! Oliver McGoo will do anything for Bourbon biscuits. Sometimes he will even be nasty.
Someone has promised Oliver McGoo 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! Oliver McGoo is taking a message to someone. Where is he going? Oliver McGoo is going into a College now. Now he is putting something in a pigeonhole. Do you know what it is, children? No, Nancy, it is not a Christian Union leaflet, although that is where a lot of people like Oliver McGoo say they are from. No, it is a cruchie bar. 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!
Lemming Hunter reports:
Upon being bombarded by many knocks on the door at around 22:15 i felt compelled to accompany my friends on their mission to the unknown. This turned out to be a large brown dorr with the sign "R.I.P - Im Dead - Go Away" on it. However, this fooled us not. This happened to be the abode of a certain You've just lost, whom upon seeing the gathering outside his door, decided it only friendly to open and share jubilations at his own death to come which resulted in five rubber bands to the head of a man in his pyjamas. Well he did have style at least.
JJ Wilkes reports:
Both "You've just lost" and Lemming Hunter were in a certain non-existent
organisation of which i am a member. Internal kills are strictly
forbidden. So I had to enforce some retribution.
JJ Wilkes
Lemming Hunter reports:
seconds later my vision blurred and no more i could see, but as hearing is th elast sense to be cut off I was able to determine the sound of another assassin saying...and now you are dead too - At least i died honourably in action. Farewell good soldiers of the police.
Lemming Hunter is posthumously promoted to Agent, for having the bravery to kill the wanted criminal despite knowing he was risking being shot in the process for bearing weapons. Which he was.
Triple-A reports:
oooooooh the pretty colours.....pretty deadly that is, or not, as the case may be. *mwah ha ha* attempted glittering of: The Fairy Godfather
The Fairy Godfather reports:
Letter in pigeonhole. Square envelope, girlish handwriting. All caps. My name, my college. Return address: "THE COMPUTER SERVICE". Shake. Contains small parts and is probably not suitable for those under 3 years of age.
Take back to room. Slit open with knife. Glitter. Hmm. Carefully remove letter, using Jaffa Cake packet as improvised safety glove. Three colours of ink. Oh dear.
--
you have been "glitter bombed"
Have a nice Day!
lots of love, Triple-A
Disclaimer: This is part of Assassins Guild _game_ The glitter is harmless Any queries should be addressed to Ric Brackenbury RB259@cam.ac.uk
--
RB259? Who is this masked man? Some quick research reveals the evil mastermind behind this plot on my life. None other than my old nemesis, Dr R. Brais of the Department of Clinical Pathology. I swear vengeance.
My email address is indeed rab71@cam.cam.uk, please do not send any reports to rb259!
man who eats aborted foetuses reports:
Sometime on Wednesday I thought I'd try and hit all my targets. I had my whole assassins kit prepared - dental floss, plastic knife, flannel, RBG, etc. I kept my composure, pulled up my trousers so they covered my nipples, and moved on. This time I was tracking The King of Wrong's scent, and I found his habitat quite easily. I carefully retreated to the kitchen and unfolded my package of contrabands, only to be frightened by the sound of someone coming up the stairs so I quickly bundled everything back together, gave the passing man a shrewd smile, as went upstairs, and then proceeded to unpack the parcel again, only to have the man return form upstairs almost immediately, so I repackaged everything again, gave him another smile (which was most difficult - I barely muster one smile a day, usually in the morning so it gotten over with) and then unpackaged everything. By this time I had lost my ambition and just knocked on the door with a knife at hand, only to have no reply.
man who eats aborted foetuses reports:
The real adventure though was hunting down The Black Panter. I ventured to his college, this vast penitentury that resembled a huge brick kiln (the ugiliest and most heinous thing I have ever looked at - think the bastard child of the Kelsey Kerriage sports center), noticing the fact that there were no clouds in the sky and all the birds were dead (coincidence?) and worked my way though the conduits to find his room, which was more like the pocket of a hive. Now, I had a dilemma. I had construed this ingeneous plan in reaction to the tired techniques of "there's a party downstairs", etc. It first started with the idea to smoke the fiend out, but setting up a bonfire outside his room would not be advisible. So then I thought I could take my smoke alarm with me and set it off outside his door by holding a lighter next to it, however, I didn't know how to switch the bloody thing off so the test trails caused me nothing but fruitless hassle. I then had my eureka moment - I would record a strange array of alarming noises into my dictaphone and play then outside his room. Any sane person could not help but be curious about what on earth these noises were, and easily enticed into open fire. So I programmed my keyboard and made a repatoire of sound effects. My favorites included a police siren, an annoying telephone, some women screaming hysterically, the Battle of the Somme, and what can only be described as a pack of feral dogs barking reggae. THe problem arised when I discovered that he shared a door with another resident in a different room. There was a chance I would disturb the innocent, and not knowing what he looked like, I didn't want to risk stabbing him and being wanted. But then fate reared his ugly head! The door handle I was poised outside began to turn. My little black heart raced, and I rushed onto the balcony. He then went downstairs and I began to shadow him. He got suspicous and kept on looking behind at the strange man in the long black cloak (subtlety is not my forte). I really wanted to slit his throat, but my intellect constrained me. The mind went "patience...truth prevails under reason, young apprentice" while my heart was saying "kill the pig! drink his blood!". He then stopped to talk to a friend and took this opportunity to advance past him to the porter's lodge and consult the fresher's photo to confirm or deny whether this was my man, then proceed as usual. However, I was losing sight of him as I was doing so, until eventully, I found out it was not the man I was looking for, depsite the fact he had eluded me. I was greatly relieved. I scuttled back to the hit point and now had full permission to belt out strange noises without the risk of disturbing the neighbour because he had defected. On maximum volume, I filled the entire halls with the clangorous sounds of screaming, anguished women. It sounded like a mighty harem being raped by an incursion of particully ugly Welsh fusilliers. I managed to provoke almost everyone in the building out of their rooms, except the man who I wanted. Once again, the bugger simply wasn't in. And my cover was blown - they'll all recognise me as the weirdo with the dictaphone.
Very tired and defeated, I went back home, and contemplated suicide until I raitonalised that that's only giving my enemies what they want, not to mention my mother. I shall triumph one day, I can assure you.
Hum-de-ho.
J J Wilks reports:
Today I place a letter containing poisoned pink glitter in Matthew Johnson's pigeonhole. What a pretty way to die.
Matthew Johnson reports:
Awww, how sweeeet someone sent me a Bad Poisoned Letter – my first ever one! sniffle I felt all left out when Locky didn't send me one too.
Thanks, J J Wilks.
Triple-A reports:
oooooooh the pretty colours.....pretty deadly that is, or not, as the case may be. *mwah ha ha* attempted glittering of: Stuart Moore
Stuart Moore reports:
I just recieved a letter informing me that I had been glitter bombed, and that I should have a nice day.
Thank you for the sentiment Triple-A, I shall do my best to have a nice day. However I had already noticed that I'd been glitter bombed. Something about the way the letter said "Accomodations Office" in the corner. Picking it up between a couple of fliers (finally, CICCU is useful for something) I noticed it seemed to make a noise when shook. That's odd, the accomodations office doesn't usually send musical letters (although that would go some way towards justifying the extortionate rent), I opened it carefully over the bin. And luckily I had; the (would be) assassin clearly was aware of my resistance to red glitter poison, having taken small portions of it all my life to build up a tollerance. The fiend had put in a leathal cocktail of red, green, blue and silver glitter. Not even a seasoned veteran of boat club squashes could withstand such a cocktail (well, not unless armed with lime, which I'm not).
So, in summary for those like me who don't read every report, nothing happened. Sorry. I'll try harder next time.
The Baroque Manpower Policies of Tsarist Russia reports:
Roger examined his list, and quietly strode towards the door. It looked locked from the distance, but as he put his hand against it it swung open silently, and he entered like an explorer treading foot in an tomb that hadn't seen a man for over a thousand years. However, tombs don't generally have toilets or kitchens. Roger secreted himself in a dark corner to watch the door to his target, and had only seconds to wait before deveraux came up the stairs. Roger pounced - following him into the room and shooting him from point-blank range. The body slumped onto the bed with a single hole through the middle of its head, and Roger shuffled out, leaving the mess for the bedmaker in the morning.
deveraux reports:
I appologise for not writing in sooner but I've been very busy lately. I'm just writing to confirm that I've been killed by The Baroque Manpower Policies of Tsarist Russia. I can't remember their name but I'm sure that person has already emailed you.
The Gostak reports:
The gostak distims the doshes.
As gostaks frob I'd been a squingely priny one for the gram rell, but with the skordillery rompom slarching quobber I forlorked it was dren for me to stim a zarfing. I stimmed a yemmerant-poxing umbroke, jerfed some distimmant skor it and encraked it spur the frimblehoom of the dosh Triple-A jarool. If they're not becoxingly frempish, they'll be distimmed.
Triple-A reports:
What can i say? well a lot, i suppose, since i am still alive despite "Michael P. Corman's" attempt.
Necessary precautions were employed by my manservant, Archibauld. Surgical gloves, Snorkel and dental floss used deftly and efficiently.
Decontaminated Letter has been laminated and placed on my mantlepiece in the billiard room next miss Scarlet's candelstick.
Pokey the Penguin reports:
Mr Nutty in:
Mr Nutty And The Devil
* Mr Nutty is standing around in the arctic circle
*The Devil 'poof's into sight in a cloud of smoke near Mr Nutty
Mr Nutty: I am Mr Nutty!
The Devil: Indeed
Mr Nutty: Let's play a game!
The Devil: My game is Blackjack!
Mr Nutty: Blackjack - the gentleman's game!!
The Devil: You flatter me, Mr Nutty!!!
*Mr Nutty and The Devil play Blackjack
Mr Nutty: Another card?
The Devil: Yes hit me
Mr Nutty: I am afraid that makes twenty two!!
Mr Nutty: Pay up!!! Tee hee!!!
The Devil: This is not the last you will see of me!!!
*The Devil 'poof's out of vision in a cloud of smoke
*Mr Nutty flies around in his newly acquired giant flying boxing glove
Mr Nutty: Smashing!!
Worstwart Wigwam Where Are So Noodle Cooped In? reports:
Just barely survived -- devious cunt-tooth exploited the emptiness in my heart & my pigeon hole, put a pack of cards in there with a little bomb inside that didn't go off. Denotated by bomb disposal squad in hall, over croissant and pear halves. Delightful.
FreeTibet reports:
I, FreeTibet, sent on the 30th October a poison letter to Barnacle. May it kill him well. The poison is honey, and will be delivered through the intercollegiate mail service.
Barnacle reports:
I will give this attempt on my life all the wordage that it deserves:
Checked pigeonhole. Found suspect envelope. Retreated to (empty (no innocents endangered here)) kitchen. Borrowed sandwich bags. Opened letter. Bagged and binned letter. Lived on. FIN
The King of Wrong reports:
More poison letters! Glitter for everybody!
doodlebug reports:
Received a letter with a Cambridge postmark today and suspicious bumpy feel, so opened with knife it in kitchen wearing marigolds (gloves that is). Says I was poisoned, hope that the gloves (following your advice) means I am okay. Binned it afterwards and washed gloves etc.
Shot down in flames reports:
Whilst meandering down an alleyway I came upon a den of compsci's, locked in their rooms with their curtains closed. One of their number was chosen, to be introduced to the light. A very bright, white light, with tunnel-like associations... After a pleasant alleyway sunshine breakfast it seemed the Chosen One was not about to emerge, although the Oracle had predicted it. I wondered off to find a sundial, then saw the Chosen one approaching fast on two wheels. Bad Chosen One! An oversize MTU was going to be late for lectures.. a single head shot put him out of his misery. His soul free from the dead flesh floated upwards, to the great mainframe in the sky, where apparently Logic and Proof was waiting..
The King of Wrong reports:
I sent a poisoned letter to Joe The Yellow Dart this morning but a couple of hours later an opportunity presented itself... I therefore shot him at 14:08 this afternoon.
The Yellow Dart reports:
It's all over for The Yellow Dart.
At 14:07.5 today, I emerged from the Cockroft elevator, swipe-card in hand, preoccupied with work to be done. A sharp crack resonated about me, as I looked up to see The King of Wrong pointing a smoking pistol at my chest.
As my vision faded, I pondered as to how my freshers' anonymity had been permeated. Choking on blood, I remembered standing up and introducing myself to the entire IA CST class in a lecture earlier that day.
Oops.
It could Be Bunnies! reports:
In dead of afternoon, as the clock struck 3:27 we entered the concrete palace. The plans had been hours in the making, an entire arsenal gathered, game theory studied, omens taken, shoelaces tied. Seconds from culmination, phase 5c began and the door was knocked and ... The Soul Dealer was out.
Jenny Chase reports:
I quote from The Gentleman Assassin's report for his last encounter with me:
"but I wanted her to know I was after her. I wanted her to know she was hunted, to suffer, as she'd made Tracy suffer those few years ago. I don't know if the bomb would work or not, but after leaving my Universal Export Card I felt that she would know enough about me.. Anyway, let her come after me."
Indeed I did.
The suffering is yet to come.
It should perhaps be noted that when you are targetting a psycho with a reputation for hunting down threats to her life, you should not report failed attempts in a distinctive style. Particularly with a taunt.
The details: I correctly estimated the time The Gentleman Assassin was likely to finish rowing. I watched his boat putting in across the river. I stood behind a corner on his most likely route home, and cap-gunned him in the back as he walked past.
He was very nice about it, and a worthy 100th kill.
The Gentleman Assassin reports:
Well, I suppose it had to come to a head sooner or later.. I'd always known that provoking that woman would be dangerous, but since the loss of Tracy, danger just didnt seem to matter any more. The Boss had me working out in the new Gymnasium in the basement of the Universal Export building and I was returning from that when I heard footsteps behind me. I hesitated. I guess I'll never know why but hesitate I did. Maybe age and grief had got to me at last. Maybe I just wanted it to be over. The last thing I saw was that pretty face looking down at me as my life faded out with every beat of my failing heart. Tracy! Together at last... We have all the time in the world...
steve-recede reports:
i'm dead. some cow walked into my room and popped a cap in my chest. my mate who was with me was shocked and ran after Frenzii as he feared Frenzii could kill again in his beloved college. then all was still.
Frenzii reports:
After hours walking, Homerton turned out to be exactly as far as it had looked on the map. The building was locked but I followed someone in using my sneaky assassin ways, and walked to the door of my first target. The door was closed, but several people waited in the corridoor outside. Were they his bodyguard? I asked, smiling, "Do you know if steve-recede's in?" "steve-recede? Yeah, but he lives in that room there, OI! steve-recede THERES SOMEONE TO SEE YOU!" I couldn't believe my luck as his door magically opened and the bodyguard ushered me in. The face I had seen in the matriculation photo, the eyes that had haunted my nightmares stared out at me aimiably. I shot him in the chest, and left his corpse dangling from the swivel chair. My first kill, but I washed my mind clean of the blood. The bodyguard walked me out and I left Homerton behind me, the first stage was complete. Maybe now I would be able to sleep...
Mowgli reports:
I am making a special letter attempt on FreeTibet in one second. We'll see what happens...
FreeTibet reports:
Just to let you know that I received two attempts - one failed, the other succeded. The unsuccessful one was a greasy letter from Mowgli
The King of Wrong reports:
One of my friends grabbed my RBG. He pointed it at me, squeezed the trigger and I shot him. Never carry just one gun. Lucky he's a non-player as it'd be a double kill otherwise..
Whoops reports:
Whilst it may be true that "The best laid plans of mice and men aft gang agley", it is predominately more so that any assassin who sets out on the journey to a target's doorstep with no discernable idea of what they are actually going to do when they get there are destined to find themselve right up the Rabbie. Thus it was that, at 12:00 this evening, "Whoops" set off in both the pouring rain and a leather jacket, only to return at 12:10 with wet feet and a soggy ego.
A knock on the door. Elastic band at the ready.
"Adam?"
No answer.
"Adam?"
"What?" - cunning.
"I need to talk to you."
It is perhaps appropriate to point out at this juncture that I was, by this point in the evening, somewhat lubricated. They do say that Guinness tastes better the closer you get to Dublin, or indeed, to the skirting board. All of which is to say that I wouldn't normally have initiated an assassination attempt with a line that wouldn't sound out of place if slithered through AQI on an episode of "Neighbours", but I digress.
"Adam, I need to talk to you."
"Who is it?"
Oooh. Clever bugger.
"Steve"
I don't know why. Something about the name Steve is unnervingly appealing to me. Perhaps it's cheaper to run. I don't know. I sometimes wish that I was called Steve...
"Steve who?"
He wants a surname as well???! What do these people want from me - a marginally convincing cover story? Ah! The notice board! If it worked in "The Usual Suspects"
"Steve Skerrit"
"Oh. From next door?"
Skerrit lives next door. He likes to shamelessly promote himself on the notice board in his corridor. And he can't even lay claim to the redemption of being called Steve.
"Yeah. Well, actually, it's his brother, but..."
An eruption of incompetence. Truly I am the Frank Spencer of the termination industry.
"Oh. cool."
An odd response - suddenly his door becomes for a moment as transparent as my deception, and I can actually see him reaching for the garden hose, his 50 pack of elastic bands and a small greyhound named Lawrence.
Time to turn tail - till next time.
Adam Biltcliffe reports:
Someone knocked on my door while I was playing computer games. Numerous voices outside, one of whom claimed to be my next-door-neighbour's brother. The conversation had got about as far as "ok, so you're my next-door-neighbour's brother, why are you knocking on my door?" when there was a sudden commotion and the sound of multiple assassins beating a hasty retreat.
Apparently this was because my roommate had just returned and disturbed the attackers. He reported seeing no less than four assassins clustered around my door with rubber band guns and a further two providing fire support from a backup position. I wonder what I did to deserve so much attention all of a sudden?
one of Ric's minions reports:
Extract from the book of Ric, chapter 3.
17 And so it was that Ric became grand arbiter of the land, and all the peoples of Cambridge rejoiced and sucked-up to him lots. 18 And Ric sent forth an e-mail saying "Kill people or I shall be angry, yarr". 19 And one of Ric's minions received this mail and thought "Verily I shall kill these people, as I shall then have plenty of opportunities for necrophilia." And this thought made him glad. 20 But one of Ric's minions decided to have dinner instead, and then consumed intoxicating beverages in a manner that displeased Ric. And Ric did say "Minion, if you do not kill people I shall strike you down, yarr" but the minion merely hiccoughed. 21 So Ric sent an angel to the minion's door to make him repent. And the angel appeared to the minion as a vision of loveliness and the minion was taken aback for a moment. 22 And the minion drew his mighty weapon from its pocket holster and fired it at the angel. And the angel said "Shit" and fled. 23 So the minion was happy and didn't die to a poisoned post-it note and got to sleep off his intoxicating beverages. And Ric saw that this was as good as it was going to get.
Madame Dark reports:
It was last night. I, Madame Dark, slinked up the stairs head to toe in black leather. There was some confusion as the co-habitants of the man in question kept appearing and reappearing to go to the shared loo. Hmm, I thought. Suspicious. Distraction techniques! However, after a wait of several minutes all was quiet - I deposited the poison on the door of my target, in the form of a post-it note smeared with poison.
Alas, upon descending and meeting my accomplices it was pointed out to me the name of a room-mate written on the wall. Shit, I thought. I decided it was better not to risk the life of the innocent and re-approached the room. Upon nearing the set door I heard a creak and a key in the lock. I reached into my pocket for a secondary weapon and pushed through. Face to face with him I stood. He swayed slightly. I realised I'd left my gun downstairs. A foolish mistake. Time seemed to freeze for a moment - there was eye contact and I saw the panic and the greed in his eye. "Shit," I squeaked in a girlish tone of voice, which later on reflection caused me to feel ashamed, a woman of my status and maturity. I turned and fled. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him draw his weapon and take aim, but it was too late. I ran into the night.
Beware, one of Ric's minions. I now know who you are.
The Fairy Godfather reports:
Hmm. So it seems the "lazy" deadline approaches. What's a man to do? I've got far too many pressures on my time to be gallavanting about with this murdering lark.
Luckily, browsing through last year's assassins' archives, I had an idea. Rampant Plagiarism! Of course! I quickly penned a letter in the style of one of the great heroes of intellectual property theft, and deposited it in Guthrie's pigeonhole, while going about my business in town this morning.
And so the war against laziness rages on.
Guthrie reports:
The Fairy Godfather sent me a letter bomb. The problem was, it was full of cocoa powder. It was an unmarked letter, which aroused my suspicions at first, and so I opened it carefully, within a bomb disposal (=sainsbury's) bag, and thus averted the catastrophy. thar you go.
Fluffy Bunny Killer reports:
At 13:15 this afternoon I left an incendiary device in the pigeon hole of one innocent bystander. Hopefully he will blow his hands off...
A Long Grey Coat reports:
It was a door; that much was obvious. It had the right number but I was not completely certain it was the target's door as this college was so paranoid its assassins could be relaxed and it didn't have labels with victim's names above their doors. Dispelling doubts I tried to remove the door from its location between Tweedle Dee and I. It refused all the legal pressure I could exert. Ducking back I waited to see if a response would be forth coming and contemplated different ways of proceeding. Deciding that illegal force would be a bad idea as I have no wish to be eliminated by a vicious bolt of lightening (which may well be attached to itself) I resolved to ask the door nicely. I did so but still it refused to open and no sound came from behind it suggesting that my operation may well in vain.
Any way it was a busy day with minimal time for rest or play (as being incompetent can be so distracting staying competent is work) so I retreated hurriedly after dropping my RBG while trying to reholster it. Fortunately no one saw me.
The Baroque Manpower Policies of Tsarist Russia reports:
A newspaper headline caught Roger's eye as he exited the building, proclaiming the corruptness of police in the city. Anger welled up inside Roger at this flagrant violation of trust. Spying the nearest police officer he pulled out his 6-shot and blew the side of his face off. No passerbys seemed to notice, so he quickly pocketed the gun and marched off to the subway station.
Lemming reports:
Well, it's finally come to pass. I'd let my guard down, my proceedures were lax, gone were the days of forgetting my own name, doubling back on myself, always looking over my shoulder.
I'm reminded of Tim Collins's speech in the Second Gulf War ...
"Remember, for when your enemy woke this morning, he did not plan to die this day",
but the words rang hollow, for call it what you will -- intuition, deja vu -- I knew, I knew this cold and wintery morning that it would be the last day I saw.
And so, half-relieved, I heard my name called ... the face of retribution masked only by the feeling of destiny, the two shots to the chest, my life ebbing away ... It had to happen, but so slowly...
(And about bloody time to. I was getting bored.)
The Duke reports:
At 17.40 this evening I made an attempt on the life of Lemming only to be foiled, once again, by his death earlier in the day. I had arranged a meeting with Lestrade at 17.15, but a family member rang me and I missed the rendezvous. Deciding not to let the evening go entirely to waste, I proceeded alone and approached the target's room with gun out and knife in hand. A brief verbal exchange was sufficient to persuade the sharply dressed individual to open his door, whereupon I shot him once through the chest. Only then did he reveal that he was dead. Dammit.
The Minion of Myxomatosis reports:
"Come and ask me for a Jammy Dodger" reads the 'introduce yourself' list on the kitchen door.
Thus, on this dark and spooky Haloween (this has no relevance, save that I was passing anyway), I found myself knocking on the door of this rather unfortunate individual.
Fortunatly, I stood well back, because he opened the door. This caused a small KABOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!1one!one! because I'd rather carelessly left a bomb in front of it.
At this point, I stopped for a chat and a biscuit with the corpse. Such friendly people, assassins.
1/10 for paranoia. 8/10 for biscuits.
Minion
Crayola reports:
I have been assassinated. Unfortunately I opened my door to a face full of boom! The spirits inform me the perpetrator was known as The Minion of Myxomatosis
The space aliens Oglethorpe and Emory reports:
(The Space Phone rings/screams)
Oglethorpe: Vot is zis gross discordancy?
Emory: Dude, it's just the Space Phone. It's probably just another badger
salesman.
(Oglethorpe shuffles over to the Space Phone, picks it up and rips its
receiver arms off)
Oglethorpe: Do ve know an Emperor Cambridge?
Oglethorpe: (angry) Vhy is zis despot in ze badger business?
(Oglethorpe throws the Space Phone on the floor and leaves to find petrol
and matches)
Emory: Man, you'd think that he has, like, the ability to swim or s-, you
know, something, with the way he acts.
(Emory picks up the whimpering Space Phone and presses a few of its buttons.
The main screen in the spaceship lights up with the word 'INCOMPETENT'
written in huge flashing neon-green text. After a short time, the C and one
of the Ts fizzle out. Oglethorpe then returns, holding a blazing tree
branch)
Emory: That Cambridge guy just totally called us incompetent.
Oglethorpe: Inompeent?
(The P on the display fizzles out)
Oglethorpe: (angry) INOMEENT?!
Oglethorpe: (angry) Emory! Set a course for zis despot. Ve vill show him
just who ze inomeent one is!
Emory: All- all right, man, if you think it'll help.
Emory: (under breath) Or help you swim.
(The display on the screen changes to a view of Emperor Cambridge's
fortress. It is heavily protected by guard towers/turrets, a SWAT team,
several noticable layers of forcefield, a moat, a troll living under the
bridge, a dragon living with the troll, and low flying satellites with laser
cannons strapped to them)
Oglethorpe: Oh.
Oglethorpe: Zat guy.
Oglethorpe: Vell...
Oglethorpe: Quatsch mit Soße! Let's just go invite someone.
(Later)
Oglethorpe: Vell zat voz easy.
Emory: Yeah, looks like we're back to being, you know, omeent, or something
like that.
(The screen has reverted to the previous screen, but only the second N
remains. Smoke has started to rise from the top of the screen, encouraged by
the smouldering remains of a tree branch, which has been lodged in it
crudely)
Oglethorpe: Ve made a new efficient invitation!
Emory: Instead of like, wasting bullets writing the mes- message, we
imprinted like the entire message on to one bullet.
Oglethorpe: Ve vere hoping to try zis from a distance, but Worstwart Wigwam Where Are So Noodle Cooped In?
had deactivated his forcefield and voz sleeping within.
Oglethorpe: (mildly irritated) Vay to spoil ze fun!
Emory: But like, implanting the invitation straight into his brain, that'll
help him remember where to go, right?
Oglethorpe: Vot, his brain is all the vay up zere? How inconvenient.
Tweedle Dee reports:
hi, I have just posted a poison letter to one of my victims - Stuart Moore in the UMS today.
Stuart Moore reports:
Another BPL. Wow, 2 this game. Dammit.
Schwartzencatter The Magnificent reports:
In a blatently weak attack designed only to allow him to stay competent, the lazy feline Schwartzenkatter The Magnificent delivered a poison letter full of a banned flea-powder fatal to humans to Maratheoir's pigeon hole. If this actually worked, he'd eat a rat in celebration. His work done, he curled up and went to sleep again.
Maratheoir reports:
On returning from lectures at 12:05 this afternoon, I was greeted by a very kind free sample of flea powder waiting in my pidgeonhole from a certain Schwartzencatter The Magnificent; however, subtlety does not appear to be one of this person's virtues as it was delivered in a poorly-sealed, obviously re-used, tattered Barclays envelope which reeked of suspicion. Needless to say I took all the necessary precautions and have filed the letter in a sealed plastic bag. It seems that Schwartzencatter The Magnificent is far from Purr-fect...
Lars Busshom reports:
At approximately 12 o'clock this afternoon, I popped over to Catz to pay a little visit to one of my clients. As director of communications for the Swedish Transport Authority, I felt emburdened to slip a note under Bryn Griffiths's door, introducing myself. Sadly, for him, our contract was short-lived, since I had poisoned the note - oops!
When will the British Government realise that the best way to solve transport problems is not to introduce congestion charging, but to assassinate people? They should probably start with traffic wardens...
Lars Busshom
Director of Communications, Swedish Transport Authority
Bryn Griffiths reports:
A letter was pushed under my door while the perpetrator fled... I opened it cautiously but overconfidently; it exploded in a gust of poisoned talk. Thus I am now dead. I was lucky not to have been garrotted or something, the door was unlocked and I was sitting with my back to it with loud music on.
Buffalo Gill reports:
Ok, finally got my arse into gear and actually did something, attempted
assassinations on all 3 of my targets, smae and 2 others. All letters containing sparkly sparkly contact poison sent
through the internal mail system. Shouldn't leak or anything, glitter is
good like that :-)
Woohahahaha.
Buffalo Gill
smae reports:
A pathetic poisoned letter was sent to me today... The letter was sooooo obvious, glitter here, glitter there, glitter almost everywhere. However being curious, obviously with the precaution of putting on Industrial 100% posion proof Power-hands 3000, I opened the letter. I almost succumbed -- panic reignes as a few sprinkles fell out, there was suddenly a spurt of house-cleaning with meths, dettol, bleach and high-strength antibiotic spray. Phew, I wont be opening letters again.
Close but still living, Smae
Buffalo Gill reports:
Ok, finally got my arse into gear and actually did something, attempted
assassinations on all 3 of my targets, 2 others and
Mopoby. All letters containing sparkly sparkly contact poison sent
through the internal mail system. Shouldn't leak or anything, glitter is
good like that :-)
Woohahahaha.
Buffalo Gill
Mopoby reports:
on returing from the UL...how diligent of me..i discovered an envelope in my pigeon hole....quite obviously fullof red glitter...unsure if this was indeed contact poison or something else i took the envelope to my room, put on my mitten + opened the suspiscious envelope with my forcepts - i kne they'd come in ahndy...and indeed yes Buffalo Gill had attempted to assasinate me- in a rather snazzy fashion!! Now i just have to work out how to get all this glitter off my floor!!!!!!
Buffalo Gill reports:
Ok, finally got my arse into gear and actually did something, attempted
assassinations on all 3 of my targets, someone, $\int_{-\pi}^{+\pi}{e^{-3x^2}dx}$ and
someone else. All letters containing sparkly sparkly contact poison sent
through the internal mail system. Shouldn't leak or anything, glitter is
good like that :-)
Woohahahaha.
Buffalo Gill
$\int_{-\pi}^{+\pi}{e^{-3x^2}dx}$ reports:
\documentclass[a4paper,12pt]{article}
\usepackage{helvet}
\title{Report of attempt on my life}
\author{$\int_{-\pi}^{+\pi}{e^{-3x^2}dx}$}
\begin{document}
\setcounter{secnumdepth}{-1}
\maketitle
\pagebreak
\section{Report}
\par
I have today recieved a poisoned letter from {\bf Buffalo Gill}. I knew it was a
poisoned letter because it was a very {\em bad} poisoned letter. While
it is indeed a {\Large good} idea to use a window---ed envelope, if your
``poison'' is a series of:
\begin{itemize}
\item pink glitter
\item large sparkly stars and...
\item seasonal christmas shapes
\end{itemize}
all of which are clearly visible through said window{\footnote and on
the top of my mail too, which was useful}, and it rattles, then I'm
unlikely to fall for it.
That said, there was a {\sc lot} of glitter in there.
\section{Collory to report}
That said, I did appreciate the poisoned letter, since it allowed me to
simply re-label it and pass it onto my target instead. Maybe they will
find better use of it, and wonder at its {\em Sparkliness}.
\end{document}
Bryn Griffiths reports:
I was just leaving my room for an afternoon stroll. No sooner had I steped out of the door, in fact before I'd even managed to get out of the door, I was set upon by a mad gun wielding assailant. I took several rubber bands to the chest from point blank range before the crazed attack finally subsided.
M3g4-|>3tH-As5ASs1N-K1lLa reports:
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Schwartzencatter The Magnificent reports:
"They say curiosity killed the cat, but while Schwartzenkatter the Magnificent was certainly curious about what was in the oddly-addressed envelope, he wasn't stupid. Wrapping his paws in poison-proof plastic he carefully opened it with a knife, but as he removed the letter his powerful sense of smell told him it contained a deadly poison fatal to felines. With lightning relexes he had the letter in the bin. But this wasn't the end, not by a long shot. He'd find whoever sent it and hunt M3g4-|>3tH-As5ASs1N-K1lLa down like the mouse he was."
hunny bunney reports:
i made an atempt on It could Be Bunnies!'s life. i sent a very posionous letter containing posin pepper. this will have the affect of at frist a sneezeing fit, but also a slow and painful death. however being the lovly assassin i am i offerd a life line. all It could Be Bunnies! has to do is kill an extra person, what will one more death make on his mind!!! he has to kill one of my other targets. i love haveing the power to chose who to kill and who to spaire. It could Be Bunnies! has one week in which to kill the target if not he will suffer a massive myocardial infunction. where his heart will litrally be sneezed out of his chest. he will attually still be alive for a split second and will be able to whatch his beating heart on the floor, and see the huge amounts of projectial blood comeing from his body. hear is a copy of the letter.
Dear It could Be Bunnies!
This letter contains pepper poison, it is very deadly to anyone who comes into contact with it. The poison will cause all your blood to turn green and skin to turn purple over time. If left untreated it will cause your blood to thicken, and eventually you to suffer a serious myocardial infunction resulting in your death. However there is an antidote. I am willing to share this cure with you if you kill successfully one of my targets. The poison takes a week to take effect and will be a very slow and painful death, so you eswill have one week precisely to kill your target starting on Sunday November 2nd 2003. The target that you have to kill is:
***CENSORED****
I would like to state that this method of black mail is perfectly legal in the rules and you must
report my assignation attempt and the previsions, and also if it results in your death or any others
death.
Yours truly
hunny bunney
(Written in blood)
It could Be Bunnies! reports:
Upon peering into my pigeon hole I was most surprised to see a crumpled letter surrounded by a very neat pile of spores. After donning a my nuclear and biohazard suit (don't you carry one with you?), further investigation revealed a poison most foul with the offer of an antidote within a week for services to be rendered. Needless to say that this was safely contained but the feeble attempt will not go unpunished... hunny bunney
As It could Be Bunnies! did not touch the poison, he is under no compulsion to make any attempt on the life of the name he was given.
Pink Panther reports:
I was killed. - it would have been a couple of Saturdays ago. I figured i couldn't make an attempt if i was dead. Please correct me if I am wrong. I was killed by a poisoned National blood service letter- very cunning i did not suspect the blood service were blood thirsty in the killing people kind of way! Hope to hear from u soon- I get awfully lonely, what with being dead and all,
Jenny Chase reports:
Hmm. I had suspected...
Being dead, long-buried and corrupting, it means not a lot to me, but I find it very amusing anyway.
I'd like to dedicate this kill to Catherine Zentile, best of neighbours. Her l33t printing sk1llz should take the credit.
*gets on with being dead*
Samba reports:
"Tequila! Tequila! Cha, cha, cha!" or so the saying goes I believe. I approached my target's lair, using skills of stealth that would have impressed the Monkey King himself, armed only with an RPG and a bottle of tequila. However cunning my initial approach was nonetheless, when I arrived I found my new friend nowhere to be seen. So I turned to my old friend instead - the bottle of tequila. I waited and drank, drank and waited for what seemed like an eternity until I entered a state known to mortal man only as "Monkey Meditation". I was at one with the universe (or at least the bottle of tequila). Suddenly I sensed a presence, scampered up the wall and pressed myself against the ceiling, waiting for the moment to strike. He passed underneath me and I fell on top of him, aiming for the jugular. He put up some mild resistance, but it wasn't long before there was just blood, Blood, BLOOD!. At that point my monkey senses returned to earth and I was left wondering whether I had experienced something that had occurred on some higher plane of reality, or whether it was just a tequila-fuelled nightmare. Either way, for the moment the body of The Soul Dealer still stalks this mortal coil. But not for long!
The Soul Dealer reports:
The Soul Dealer presents his top three tips on assassination attempts:
If you can do this, you'll make a better assassin than yours truly, who practically surrendered himself to Whoops, first by giving away his real name and college, then by unwittingly allowing him to follow me to a dark place outside his college, where I was duly punished for my shortcomings with a quick shot to the back, just as I was thinking "I've seen that guy before somewhere!" So congratulations to my assassin for taking advantage of my many mistakes- but he's still a bastard for killing me.
The Soul Dealer
Whoops reports:
There I was - ploughing the furrow of individual academic endeavour - burrowing into the metamorphic chasms of scholarly elucidation - nursing the taper of personal erudition - and generaly conducting myself in other verbose and prolix periphrases for 'doing the bare minimum to avoid getting sent down', when suddenly, my mental abberations were punctuated by a familiar percussion.
"Who's that knocking at my door?" - goodness, but what solace is to be taken from convention...
"The Soul Dealer"
Interesting. Through a short inquisitive caress, I was able to massage further information from the teat of his diffidence. Ben Greenhalgh, from Churchill. Carelessness, thy name is exposition, and you stagger upon the crutch of an incredibly unconvincing cover story.
Had I the felicity to survive this encounter, I would naturally ensure that The Soul Dealer would relinquish his tenancy of Churchill College in order to take up residence in far more balmy climes...
Little did I know that my opportunity was far more eager in presenting itself than I was at the prospect of opening my door. The next voice to dampen through my door was that of a trusty accomplice. After ascertaining that no bribes or false information where involved, I opened my door. My target. An ample armory...
My accomplice completed a brief reconnaissance of the base of our staircase. Upon his return, I descended and alighted to the lucid concrete of the corridor below. I cruised past my would-be assailant as if I had not expected to see him and walked off into the distance.
When shadowing a departing opponent, a little knowledge of the collegial layout goes a long way - unlike the elastic band, which cannoned into the spine of foe from a reassuringly pithy summon of one and a half feet.
The Soul Dealer will trade no more.
The Elephant of Surprise reports:
I lurked Jezsie's corridor for a while, it was a bit dull, so after a while I decamped to the bar, but it was hard not to look too suspicious since there was only one other person there, who was very obviously not her.
Fried Chicken reports:
I placed a bomb on A Long Grey Coat's door. It was difficult to work out if he was in there, and something seemed to be happening on the floor below so I didn't hang around.
A Long Grey Coat reports:
Another bomb, even more obvious than the last one; and more cunning too. It was labelled in such a way that the normal approach of tying it up with string preceding safe detonation would be much harder. Serious contemplation led to keyhole surgery on the label before continuing with the standard procedure, adapted to make better use of the building's design. This procedure resulted in an explosion that achieved nothing as there was a wall of significant width and a lot of space separating the device from me. Having returned to my room I had to wonder if my attacker had forgotten what month it was.
Maratheoir reports:
At 7:30 this evening I made an attempt on A Long Grey Coat. I approached his room to find that some very kind person had got there before me and left a bomb on his door. Seeing my opportunity, I knocked loudly and took cover behind a staircase, drawing my weapon just in case, expecting to stand back and watch the fun. Unfortunately it appears he wasn't in, or just wasn't feeling very sociable. Convinced that there was nothing else to see, and figuring the bomb might do my work for me anyway, I left.
Oliver McGoo reports:
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo had a target to kill.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo had a plan.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo left a box of choclates for his target.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo had left a detonator in the top of this box of chocolates.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo saw to it that this was not a normal detonator.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo covered it in neurotoxin Goo.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo had spent many days practicing the handwriting of a Mathmo.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo left a cunning note.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo's note said "To Abigail Baker, love Ric".
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo left in his target's peigonhole.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo hopes no piegons got in there first.
It was Saturday and McGoo was very bored.
McGoo awaits news of his target's death.
It was Sunday and McGoo was very bored.
Abigail Baker reports:
Nice try, but suspicious packages claiming to be from my boyfriend are, well, suspicious. Besides, he knows I don't like chocolate that goes bang.
!!ptXd!p~ reports:
Xt!ptch: !ng~ ppt! (Destination: High Command)
Krt!ch !ctsch (Mission Success)
ttclt! !!ptXd!p~ Kk!t~ tmp! (Agent !!ptXd!p~ returning to base)
FreeTibet reports:
Just to let you know that I received two attempts - one failed, the other succeded. The successful one was being shot in the face by !!ptXd!p~. So I am out...
Shrove Tuesday reports:
The chill light of the college diffused into the air unspectacularly, its harsh white surfaces weary of the world. With his trusty pistol not more than a mosquito's wing-beat away from the cat-like pounce of his altogether non-cat-like hand, Shrove Tuesday passed through the brittle glassy entrance of the collegial edifice and strode over to the personal communication array.
The organisation had once again required his expertise in extinguishing some of the more "troublesome" elements of the population - and yet again an element in England's Cambridge; Why were so many of them from Cambridge, he wondered, what sinister machinations were turning away, utterly inaudible above the incessantly chiming innocence of the University's legitimacy?
He found his target's pigeon-hole pleasantly occupied with a box of Celebrations; "To Abigail Baker, love Ric" the sticker announced. Shrove removed the packet, a cocktail of suspicion and delight coursing through his mind.
There was no poison - none on the outside at least, and the seal seemed unbroken. Shrove was well aware that there were others that would want Abigail Baker just as extinguished as he did, but this "Ric" attempt, if it was one, was either extremely well-researched, or (more likely) based on the rather quaint notion that the very concept of chocolate could override every sensible section of the female mind. Tuesday decided that this could well be entirely innocent - a gesture of genuinely hopelesssentimentality, something that he recalled reading an article about in the last contract killer quarterly.
Removing a small vial of poison from his person (a concentrated extract from a genetic improvement of yeast that currently had the working-title Marmite) Shrove administered the toxin to the back of the box and just under the opening flap, returning it to the communication-receptacle in such a way that the Ric's sticker was plainly visible, and the packet could not be removed without reaching over to the back.
Our hero smiled thinly and returned to the soft embrace of night's dark.
L'Homme Fatal reports:
Early bird catches the worm. Or blows it to bits at least. I left a present for Whoops outside his door this morning, which I hope he will appreciate.
Whoops reports:
How reassuring it is to be killed by a consumate proffesional.
The bomb placed outside my room this morning - a carton of a popular fruit-based drink lasooed to door frame cap detanator - was fiendlishly clever, or cleverly fiendish. One of two. But then, the dispute as to which of the two citations is the more appropriate is of hardly any consequence now that I am quite firmly dispatched to the corridor of the departed, despite the noble efforts of my trusty accomplice. Indifferent to the promise of my previous endurance (masterly surviving no less than three earlier confrontations with fellow assassins) the vast potential for homicidal proficiency has been decimated by a musty exposion and drowned beneath a cascade of orange juice - with juicy bits.
Lament my friends. "Whoops" has departed, leaving no forwarding address or contact number.
Royal Mail cannot reach him now. Though BT will probably claim that they can.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
With a rather nasty bang.
smae reports:
Waking up at the ungodly-early hour of 11.57, I wondered outside (by now about 1220 obviously) and what should I see but a BOMB. Chilled to the bone, I hurriedly ran back into my room, panting and gasping for air. Was I dead? Had the deadly bomb been triggered? No and no. After lunch, coming back to the still-unexploded bomb ("blast radius 4.5m") I brought a fellow assassin along to assess this piece of ill-advised and ill-designed contraption. Taking it at its word I decieded to try to set the bomb off (from 5m away) by rolling balls-of-infinite-density (oranges IRL) at it. On the third attempt the bomb was struck... but still no response. I was frankly upset at the lack of care and attention which had been put into this bomb -- no poisonous fluids or noxious gases, simple the good old friend dihydrogen monoxide. Feeling absolutely safe now, I took the bomb (nothing went off) and threw it out of my window, roughly 10m up. Eventually gravity did what the bomb's designer could not -- set off the bomb. The resulting mess has of course been cleaned away (by my accomplice, I ahem would not go near such a pathetic excuse for a bomb).
Better luck, or indeed effort next time
Keeper of the Dancing Penguins reports:
Waking this morning to the usual sound of many chirruping penguins, I was informed by the Antarctic News Service that there was a strong possibility of me being made into an "incompetent". This just won't do! I took an envelope and, having written a suitable letter, filled it with penguin droppings (highly toxic). I then gave it to the post penguin to be delivered to the unfortunate recipient. I am informed that it may take considerable time to deliver due to my targets extremely isolated non-Antarctican location.
Dark Helmet reports:
Recieved a very suspicious letter via the UMS (well all letters are suspicious really seeing as we aren't getting any regular ones). Opened with rubber gloves, had a chuckle at the letter (nice headed notepaper) and disposed of.
Marmite was lurking her target and shot the wrong person who entered the corridor. Oops. That was careless. She will be redeemed for killing 3 incompetents, or 2 incos and another legal kill. If Marmite survives to the inco deadline tonight, that is.... More details to come
Someone randomly reports:
Someone randomly sent a bad poisoned letter. What a shame.
bobman reports:
I bobman have been killed by a poison letter containing anthrax from Matthew Garrett
The Masked Avenger reports:
Twas just another ordinary day for doodlebug as he left the archery hall in Kelsey Kerridge. Or so he thought. Little did he realise that today was his last day on earth! From just in front of him came a stranger, who drew out a gun. "Hasta la vista, baby" he yelled, and filled poor doodlebug full of lead (actually he said "Eh...bang?", but some artistic license is required to make this story interesting in any way). Laughing at his enemies demise, The Masked Avenger (for it was he) swept back into the room to practise some actual archery, as the people at the club had actually talked him into it. And that's the end of the story.
An entirely legal kill. The first step to Marmite's redemption?
The Being of Pure Energy reports:
1750: The Being of Pure Energy descended upon the target of choice - azariel - with energistic powers fully charged to strike. Unfortunately the lifeform in question was out, not even returning for tea. Ten minutes lurk in a nasty flower bed was fruitless.
1805: Went to see Hannah Burton, but she was out as well. Bummer.
Komodo reports:
With incompetence fast approaching I decided to act, and made my way to Churchill. Arriving, I trod the familiar path to my target's staircase (yes, I had already made one very lame attempt). The corridor was fairly active, with what sounded like people in the kitchen, so I retreated downstairs to a position where I could see hobart's door through a handily placed, and slightly pointless, window. It wasn't long before I saw legs entering the room. This gave me a dilemma... Was it hobart alone returning to his room, in which case I could open the door and easily complete the kill, or was it a friend, meaning that there could be any number of possible targets in there. My only picture of David Guarrera was from an out of date webpage, and he could easily have changed. With no other ideas, I retired downstairs, and set out to find a better vantage point. Exiting the college I walked to the rear, where by virtue of a small rise I could see right in my target's first floor window. He and a young lady sat looking away from me facing the computer, with him nearest the door. Returning inside I trusted that the door would still be unlocked. Rubber band gun at the ready I opened the door, took a second to get my bearings (as he looked surprised, and fairly so!) and then dispatched him with three bands. His own RBG sat unused by the monitor. Bad luck on his part, but a very nice guy!
hobart reports:
To report your own death is sadder than I might have thought. I had hopes and dreams. My door was unlocked because my girlfriend (who is visiting for the weekend) had not been properly schooled on the sort of preventative vigilance that is required to be an assassin. She also had opened the shades this morning. Komodo saw I was in the room through the window, came up, opened the door, and opened fire while Laura and I were watching the latest strongbad email. I didn't even have time to reach for my gun. I was left bleeding in the arms of my woman. I would have liked to see montana.
Anonymous Coward reports:
After a brief scouting expedition this morning found Lady Penelope's room but one on which I wasn't carrying suitable tools for the job, I returned in the evening hoping to find Lady Penelope at home. Unfortunately a quick look did not reveal their whereabouts to me and before I could make a second attempt I was spotted and decided that the best course of action was retreat. Very fast. In the words of a politician loosely connected with California...I'll be back...possibly...
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