Mopoby reports:
just got back from my first (and rather poor) attempt-- dropped a rather
lethal letter in Chicken Brough's pigeon hole..carefully sealed + highly
dadly talcum powder - diluted with salt (wouldnt want 2 kill off the whole
college + also ran out of talcum powder) fingers crossed 4 some dieing
tonight
Mopoby x Joy.Discovery.Invention
Mokhtar Ben Mokhtar reports:
Proud dreams of camels sweeping across the deserts eliminating hordes of assassins were foiled by work and this foul English weather. All his camels had died of hypothermia, and time was running out before the competence deadline. The noble and cunning bandit was forced into lesser occupations to stave off trouble.
He has sent a letter with a clever ruse to The Minion of Myxomatosis. The toxin, an exotic and pungent confection from across the sea, was disguised in an envelope marked URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL. It is to be hoped that the implied haste will make him forget caution. If not, Mokhtar Ben Mokhtar has remained competent to attack another day.
The Minion of Myxomatosis reports:
Dear Sir/Madam,
While I quite appreciate that incompetence is something of a drag, I feel
that your recent attempt (dated 20:30 on Sunday, no doubt) makes you
'competent' only in the strictest and most technical of senses.
Referring you to my earlier critique of Mr Sainsbury's effort, your letter was clearly not any sort of official correspondance, and while you did manage to leave the poison loose in the envelope, not only could it be smelled, but it also RATTLED.
In short, I was not impressed. Or killed.
2/10 Could do better.
Minion
Miss Bennet reports:
Having noticed that one of my targets had become a wanted criminal and having neglected our correspondence of late, I proceeded to pen Marmite a letter in which I made clear my disapproval of her actions. I have no doubt that she will be so shocked by the receipt of said letter that she may well die. Oh well, it just not signify much, as my sister Lydia would say.
Yours,
Miss Bennet
Marmite reports:
i've received another delightful one (handwritten and vewy sweet) from "Miss Bennet"
Komodo reports:
I saw from the inco list that one of the unfortunates lived near me, indeed, one of my good friends had just moved in next door! That was lucky stroke number one. Lucky stroke number two was that the inco had left his shower door open. Lucky stroke number three was that he had just returned to his room from a neighbours, where he was watching a film, to make a sandwich. One shot, One kill.
Athena reports:
While foraging for food in preparation for hiding in my room until I could make a kill, Marmite, a member of my ex-mafia cowardly shot me while I had my hands temporarily full. Damn.
An Agglutination of Chthonic Panjandra reports:
Aha! Barely competent; door enterable. Find gun, hurry inside. Joe Kearney leans motionless now over pillows. Quickly run, shoot target under ventricles. Woohoo! Xcited. *yawn* Zzzzzz.
An Agglutination of Chthonic Panjandra reports:
Alphabeticism put aside, we turned to labyrinthism in the hope of negotiating the tortuous twisted passages of Newnham. At the end of what I'm sure was an inward spiral was G30. I knocked on the door, which opened a crack, and noxious clouds of smoke billowed out. This was followed by an eldritch arm covered in cobwebs bearing a rubber band gun.
I shot my own rubber bands into the dark, and the figure of the monster slumped forward.... turning out in fact to be a moderately gothic young lady who looked and sounded as if she needed a lot of sleep.
Hopefully with corporeal distractions put aside, the shade of Tweedle Dum will get some peaceful rest.
And after killing 2 incompetents and a legal target, Marmite is redeemed. Congratulations!
Edward Allcutt reports:
At around 10pm today I walked through i cant think of onr right now's unlocked door and shot her.
James Horder reports:
Jamie Horder, along with a couple of fellow assasains, went after 3 Christ's incompetents and one from St John's. Sadly, none were in, so he went home to write the essay that was in for 6 hours earlier. It was so uneventful, he wasn't even inspired to write an amusing report...
John-Joseph Wilks reports:
We went to the Christs incos, and were very paranoid, but none of them were in. Then the Johns inco turned out to apparently not live at his given address, so I gave up and went to visit friends in Johns.
The Minion of "You've just lost the game" reports:
Ministry of Minions Initial Report:
Following a public information broadcast by the Prime Minister[1], we set out on a holy mission [2], to visit her majesty's vengence on the unregistered minions of the land [3]. Splitting into multiple teams, the MoM special agents went throught the city hunting down these despicable beasts [4], alas for these creatures are elusive, calling on all three of the main site Christs oens we found not a single one home. Where could they be, the bar? [5]. Oh well, time for the next name on the list: that guy from Johns [6], we turned up to his staircase, only to find that someone seems to have failed to hand in correct details of this minion to local informer, resulting in us not being able to find him, at least the people on the next floor up were quite certain he didn't live there. They may have been lying, but we doubt it [7]. Following this we sent one of our agents off to visit a friend, before proceeding to Market Hostel where we defeated by the cold [8] Our mission a preliminary failure, we decided to call it a day and went our own seperate ways to deal with those in our own living accomadation who were unregisterd, therefore proving us innocent of having unregistered minions [9].
[1] Oh, what a bad mathmo like pun, you wouldn't want to divide the
umpire, would you?
[2] We have the mandate of the people, who seem to think they have the
support of God, so we feel this is a reasonable claim.
[3] At least we are reasonbably certain they are unregistered, after
all, they've gone inco.
[4] Now if only we could find their owners and arrange their deaths
also...
[5] This is Christs after all, so we doubt it!
[6] Who is therefore, by defn, evil. But there again so are people at
Twinity. And the other place.
[7] After all who would lie to the Mann from the Ministry!
[8] Also the door, but thats not important - at least we found the door,
which is no mean feat in and of itself!
[9]after all, we political servants can't appear to be hypocrites, can
we? Oh, wait...
Adam Biltcliffe reports:
Ah, incompetence night. Another evening of trudging through central Cambridge knocking on door after door, utterly failing to achieve anything. It says something that the highlight of the evening may not in fact have involved any interaction with the target at all.
HannibALI was the lucky incompetent who got five twitchy assassins outside his door. Pretty much every other door on the corridor was open, with music drifting out and happily oblivious innocents sitting inside in their little warm pools of light. HannibALI's, however, remained resolutely closed.
As we patrolled up and down the corridor, one suspicious-looking figure peered out from around a door at us. As we all stared, he ducked back into the room, then emerged again and quickly disappeared down some stairs. An argument ensued as to whether he'd been holding a gun or not; by the time we'd finished arguing he'd disappeared entirely. We carefully crept out of the staircase again and regrouped in Third Court. As we were wondering where to go, the suspicious-looking figure sprinted back from the direction of New Court and vanished inside. We followed, but necessary caution meant he gave us the slip.
After that we went and knocked on another dozen doors, but they were all out.
The King of Wrong reports:
20:00 - Pubmeet
22:00 - Catz ("thom yorke" - out)
22:15 - Sidney Sussex ("chidder" - attempt aborted)
22:20 - Christ's ("HannibALI" - out and probably running away, "azariel" -
out, "Wooly Bully" - out)
22:50 - Magdalene ("Bobby Digital" - out, "El Presidente" - out)
23:15 - King's ("Persephone" - out)
23:40 - Caius ("Lord Sainsbury" - staircase locked)
What an amazingly successful night!
The Badger reports:
I went to Samba's room at around 10.20 and knocked, but although I thought I could hear voices nobody seemed inclined to come out, so eventually I went away again.
The Girtonator reports:
21.45 - set out from Anchor, with an ally, a policeman who cannot
be named for legal reasons, and someone claiming to be JJ Wilks.
22.00 - arrive at Churchill. Get lost. Ask for directions to graduate
housing. Get more lost. Wander into the University Department of Earth
Sciences. Go back. Stumble into a car park near staircases 40a and 40b.
Leave Churchill.
22.55 - arrive at Robinson. The ally checks the matric photo for
The Black Panter. I have a look as well. The ally takes us to the staircase,
and we wait outside the outer door of the shared room. We whisper
discussions as to what we should do. He says, "Well, there's the
subtle way or the psychopathic way." So I check which door N11 is. Then,
after making sure it isn't Yale-locked, I walk in and shoot The Black Panter
repeatedly, at 23.05.
23.10 - arrive at Cripps Court Selwyn to get Christian Buckingham. Court
locked. No other way in. Leave Selwyn.
23.30 - arrive at Harvey Court. The policeman swipes us in and waits
outside, after we agree that this did not breach the strict terms of his
/\/\4f14 agreement. The other three of us locate Joe Kearney's room. I try
the doorhandle - locked. We go back downstairs and I agree to be the
suicidal psycho who tries to get him out while the ally points his RBG at
the door. I knock on the door and hide in the toilet next to it, my RBG
also trained on the abode. No answer. I knock again and shout "Joe are you
in?" No answer. We leave.
23.50 - arrive at St John's, looking for Robin Scott. Get very confused by
directions to North Court, and get lost. "JJ Wilks" opts to stay longer and
go hunting. My ally decides to head off on his own.
00.05 The other policeman and I go to Twinity to find the naughty Marmite,
who we do not know to be wedeemed at this point. Secuwity is vewy lax until
we get to her door, which has in place of handle a Yale lock alone.
Neighbours get vewy suspicious so we leave and call it a night.
Professional Librarian reports:
Having received a list of those who had committed offences against librarians, libraries, books and literature in general, I set off with three other librarians to give them an introductory session on library usage.
Our first targets, the authors going by the names of Papa Smurf and Huckleberry, were both well-known for their inability to use semi-colons correctly. Unfortunately, they were well-hidden within the dimly lit archives (graduate housing) of Churchill library.
Our next target, The Black Panter, was guilty of not paying several late-return fines. We quickly located his residence and obtained a likeness of him from the Porters' Lodge. We waited on his staircase, guns pointed at the door.
Girtonian, a robot who had caused the library much trouble in the past, but had been reprogrammed to assist in indexing the library's catalogue, opened the outer door, sneaked to the inner door, opened it, ran into the target's room and administered the late return fee with his gun. The target slumped half-naked in front of his laptop, an essay showing on his monitor and a look of surprise showing on his face. Next we sought "bob", whose talking had disturbed other library users far too many times. Unfortunately, the path to his room was blocked by a number of people playing table tennis. The noise was simply too much to bear, so we left swiftly.
We proceeded via West Road to St John's, where we hoped to find one known as "bobman", whose literary efforts were lacking in both commas and plot. Sadly, the local librarians had not provided a guide to their curious indexing system, and users of the library seemed as confused as we were. It was simply impossible to find that for which we were looking.
The size of our party halved, we made a final attempt on "Marmite", who was guilty of the unforgivable crime of dirtying our books with a dark, greasy, foul-smelling substance vaguely resembling food. We located her room easily enough. Someone had attached an insult written in an ancient language spoken by few to her door, claiming that she was a "l4m3r". Knowing that Marmite was unlikely to open the door to anyone at this time, we decided to return to our libraries and arrange the newly-arrived books in preparation for tomorrow.
The Black Panter reports:
My death came swifly in the dead of night - I was just completing an essaay on the global energy budget, when a legion of attackers assailed me through my door and shot me where I sat. The fact that I was virtually naked, did not seem to deter them as they loosed elastic band after elastic band into my uncovered body. I believe next time it would be advantageous to lock my door and perhaps wear a few more cloths. Sincerely - The Black Panter
The Duke reports:
This morning, Constable Northern Scum and myself decided to make a concerted effort on the lives of the numerous incompentents cluttering up the city. After being foiled by a number of arcane devices prohibiting entry to various buildings, we approached thom yorke's room dejectedly. Ignoring the notice indicating that the target was "out", we made our way to his room, to find that the door was resting on the latch. It was at this point that my companion insisted I make the kill, so, drawing my RBG, I knocked and swept the door wide open to reveal James Green, half undressed, standing within. I thought I saw a glimpse of comprehension and fear in his eyes as I pulled the trigger and sped his soul on the way to hell, but maybe it was the light. He's dead at any rate.
HannibALI reports:
What chance did I have against a dastardly bomb plot? Is it cos I iz incompetent?
azariel reports:
Writing from the regions of heaven, i have been permitted to make this one report to you so that the world may know how i died. Waking up early in the morning, and sleepily opening my door, i was astonished to hear a click before the building was rocked by an almighty explosion. Glass shattered, masonry flew everywhere, and unfortunately, i was caught under a piece of falling rubble and unable to escape, i perished. The last thing i remember is a hideous alien cackle, and two names..... Oglethorpe and Emery.......
chidder reports:
7AM - somewhere in sidney..... a mysterious man slips into my room (through the open door) and i wake up to hear 'BANG!', (but no rubber band - what a gent, taking into consideration the feelings of the not-even-half-awake like that) and i found myself dead. that's rather upsetting i thought, and fell back to sleep.thanks to all the criminal masterminds who organised this game - it was great fun. now only if i could master staying alive/the simple principles that lie behind the door lock........
El Presidente reports:
Dead. Dying. I feel death clutching at my throat, the result of a cowardly poisoned letter, as I write these; the last words of El Presidente before he accepts his minionage.
The Minion of "You've just lost the game" reports:
Following our guiding orders, today I dispatched 14 invitations to join the MoM, however tehre was a small test involved in these letters. They had to open them without dying.
As we were only recruiting for our secretarial pool (these are after all incompetents), we followed standard guidline no 5, however upon discovering that we were out of letter poison we were forced to sue vaseline, which has a nasty habit leaking through envelopes, leaving a unique mark well known by most assassins as that of a BPL. We proceeded to seal the envelopes and post them to the candidates before morning lectures.
Should any of them survive this attempt upon their lives I entreat them to reply with an application form, including the follwoing details:
Hopefully we'll get some members soon.
"The Third rule of the game is: You can't win the game you can only lose it. You lose the game by thinking about the game.
Papa Smurf reports:
This morning I received a rather unusually dilettantish poisoned letter of the
"Last-minute-don't-want-to-be-incompetent"-type.
Dear Minion, if I might cite your last report:
"there is such a thing as too much contact poison" though if you had used less I wouldn't even
have recognized poison at all, because so much of it had already leaked. And besides, maybe next
time, if you manage to avoid the biiiiig blue mark from the leaked posion, you could also invest
some time printing an envelope or at least make it look more official than a folded piece of
paper....
With the fondest and most regretful greetings
Papa Smurf
P.S.: Maybe you should think about filling theHiding in toilets with Scotsman position in your department, or just wait for me to come and kill you... (please make an appointment with my secretary, I think you have my email-adress)
Frenzii reports:
Having learnt my lessons on the last assassination venture, this time I borrowed a bike and took my dodgy cycling skills back up the hill to Homerton. It was early morning, and I knew my target would be leaving for lectures sometime soon, a hazy recollection of the matric photo told me long curly hair, a compsci, like myself. As I waited outside the door for some kind soul to let me in a likely suspect emerged from within.. "Barnacle?" I asked, and struggled to get my gun out of my pocket - whoops! After the slightly glazed look of non-recognition dissolved into realisation he sprinted off across the lawns so I sprinted after him, and a strange and crazy chase took place, until finally I shot him in the back. His life flowed out beneath the trees, and I knew that more deaths would be to come...
Space Monkey reports:
On the morning of monday the 3rd of november, I awoke through a pile of papers, and as ever attempted to escape rapidly to lectures. Checking the post (religiously) is one of my many bizarre morning habits, however, being disorganised I was late in doing so and picked up my mail on the way out. Immediately I grew suspicious at the hand written envelope that obviously wasn't another flyer... There was also something suspicious seeping through t he envelope... Unfortuneately for my would-be-assassin, I follow the firm belief that Cambridge possesses a near Siberian winter and hence was wrapped in coat, scarf, hat and GLOVES! And was none to chuffed as these proceeded to get covered in Vaseline... However, I was even less pleased a few minutes later as I rubbed my face and realised (to my dismay) that I disolved into a giant and very dead puddle... well... The letter was signed 'The Minion of "You've just lost the game"'.
Anonymous Coward reports:
Of all the bars in all the towns in the world, why did I walk into this one?"
So possibly went the last thoughts of love-rat as the bright flash of a razor-sharp knife passed across his chest and blood flowed out onto the floor. Perhaps he followed the knife as it disappeared back into the dark recesses of his shadowy assassin's cloak. Perhaps he pondered the futility and briefness of life, the universe and everything.
But more likely he just thought...
"bugger..."
slimjim reports:
I reckon there ought to be way less incompetents. Make an effort, guys! Anyway, though, i reckon too that maybe there ought to be more of them like thom yorke. He did the decent thing: left his door open so I could stroll right in and stab him. Thanks, James. You've helped rid the world of incompetents.
Persephone reports:
I got a detonating bomb and a suspicious-looking letter in my pigeonhole. The bomb detonated in the pigeon hole when I pulled out a piece of paper from on top of it, but I was about a metre away from the pigeon hole when it exploded...am I still alive? I think I ought to be.
Chris Field reports:
I was nearby, I had already prepared a nice bomb for no-one in particular and checking her mailbox, it seemed like she wouldn't notice an additional large item (I am sure there was a BPL under that pile...). Can't believe she got away with it, still at least she was stabbed afterwards, darned incompetents.
Chicken Brough reports:
Tonight I was killed outright at 6:15pm. I casually retrieved my mail from my pigeon hole and then before I knew it I was blown across the room by a book bomb. The (college of assassin) annual in fact. In my dying throes I decided to check the rest of my mail. On opening the first letter I was hurt by some contact poison on an elaborately typed letter. The second letter was written by a female assassin who wished me her love (and death!).
The Black Widow reports:
sorry to report I have been killed by a letter bomb, love The Black Widow
The Gostak reports:
My dosh Wooly Bully was skordillerant, so I prammed I morag feep to distim him. Iayayey jar was becoxingly chorpish; there were embloozerant goips sprung his shlib, so I zinged corb and krakkaked him vom he frobbed spib from oorung.
The King of Wrong reports:
A friend had invited Space Monkey to formal hall tonight, so I shot her while waiting in the bar. She said she was already dead.
Space Monkey reports:
A few hours later (when my puddle had surprisingly reformed into something that was just about presentable for formal hall) I was presented with a gun a shot most viciously. My assilant's face was a classic when informed he had just murdered a ghost! His name is The King of Wrong.
So, yeah, dude, I'm, like, sooooo dead... =)
Komodo reports:
A bit of research told me that this gentleman was the head of the Selwyn Table Football Team. As luck would have it, they had a match tonight (the website told me), but it would be an official society meeting and i don't know what Holden Caulfield looks like! The solution was to get my friend on the table football team to point him out. We went round to the JCR but the match had finished. Thankfully, they were in the bar! My friend pointed Holden Caulfield out, and i shot him. All was good.
A Long Grey Coat reports:
Time was running away like water and I couldn't see much time for killing. The one short slot available was not ideal but I nevertheless considered the locations and identities of my targets. As a result I was back outside Tweedle Dee's room. Same place, different time. Same procedure and sadly the same out come except I didn't drop the RBG while fleeing. That place is too paranoid in itself to lurk for long.
L'Homme Fatal reports:
I went to King's in the hope of finding someone who could help me kill Persephone. Almost immediately I ran into A Helpful Civilian who told me that not only did he know what Persephone looked like, but he had in fact seen her only moments ago. Together we ran around for a while trying to find her again. Eventually we looked in the King's mail room, where Helpful Civilian nodded meaningfully towards to a girl. A quick stab in the back later the hunt was over.
Persephone reports:
...it was a detonator in a book under the letter...so it might have been a near miss, but I have now, whilst writing this, been stabbed in the back...so its all academic really
Guthrie reports:
I just took down Jezsie. Churchill college was like one of those interminable levels of DooM, in which everywhere looks the same, and you end up putting IDCLIP on. Unfortunately that wasn't an option, so I had to resort to downloading the level, er, map, from the internet. Once standing outside the door, I used my wit, cunning and general savoir-faire to gain entry, and loose a round of my bfg2000 at point blank: back of the net. She went down like a sack of King Edwards. Strange how if I did that with a rocket launcher I would've been killed at such close range, yet the superior firepower of the bfg has no effect. nevermind....
Jezsie reports:
Hi, was assassinated about 6pm by someone called Guthrie
Dark Helmet reports:
With incompetence deadlines drawing near, I went to scour Cambridge of my targets. After one not in and one seemingly living somewhere invisible, my accomplice and I arrived at a Peterhouse student house. While standing on the doorstep trying to think of a cover story and trying to look inconspicuous with a large rocket launcher slung over my back, the door opened. The unsuspecting housemate led us into the hall and went to fetch our target J J Wilks. Realising that loading a rocket now might make the prying eyes of her housemates suspicious, my grip tightened about the knife in my pocket, and when the target appeared she barely had time to look confused.
Tragically, it turned out to be her birthday, and her housemates (the ones who let us in) had bought her a nice gun to slaughter her fellow assassins with. Ah well.
J J Wilks reports:
Yesterday I was sitting in my room getting ready for a grand night out, when one of my housemates knocked on my door saying, 'Hayley! Some friends have come round to say Happy Birthday to you!' Seeing as November 4 is indeed my birthday, this seemed quite likely and feeling rather pleasantly surprised, I wandered out of my room wearing only my dressing gown. But the face of the man was unfamiliar and he promptly stepped forwards and stabbed me. On my birthday. And yes, to make it even better timing it was only about an hour after my housemates had given me a gun for my birthday. I also got given another one later on in the evening. Still, in good birthday spirits I invited Dark Helmet to the bar later on, but have no idea if he turned up or not because at formal halls in the afterlife pennying seems to be a popular pursuit, and I was absolutely brewed.
El Sicario reports:
To Whom It May Concern,
This note contains the last words of Andres Hurtado, known as El Sicario
to my employers in Colombia. I have many Colombian enemies, so I had to flee
to Cambridge where I hoped that nobody would follow me. Somebody did, and
somebody kept sending me a list of names to assassinate, promising that if I
killed them, I would be rewarded accordingly.
I made an effort to play this person's game. I went through great
lengths to kill some of the names on the list. I HAD TO SIT THROUGH A BLOODY
TOLKIEN MEETING FOR GOD'S SAKE!
But I regret now that my conscious will not let me continue to hunt down
these people. I am being silently hunted by Interpol, the Cambridge Police,
an army of Colombian sicarios, and (apparantly) three Cambridge assassins
who have failed even so much as to TRY to kill me. So far I have eluded
every attempt on my life, but as of 9 o'clock tonight, every hitman and
assassin in Cambridge will be hunting for my head. The Trinity Mafia offered
me their friendship, but their silence since then suggests that I cannot
depend on them for protection.
I have had enough of this, and I want out. I have a loaded cap gun in my
hand. It's the most powerful short-range projectile allowed in the game, and
any clear shot from a range of less than a meter will kill instantly. I'm
aiming it straight at my heart. I am about to pull the trigger.
And let it be known that only El Sicario could kill El Sicario.
The Gostak reports:
Spodren Triple-A jumborloed my gram zarfing, I forlorked a boffy cumbling was enfraked. Jar pinnok I frobbed frempishly skur her oblong and jerfed a rarrigle star her womple. I yarr it distims her -- if not I box loop elopim to krakkak her.
Triple-A reports:
7:40 wake up in a daze to the sound of a beeping alarm reminisent of a reversing minibus.
Press snooze
7:45 minibus returns and to my dismay i awake fully and stumble towards the shower
7:45 and 30 seconds A strange drink bottle appears outside Triple A's door. Being in a daze
I take no notice,and continue with scrubing those hard to reach places
7:55 Scrubing complete but strange bottle remains, complete with crocodile clip trigger
mechanism. I wonder towards it. Stop. Proceed again.
7:56 Poke bottle with surgical approved stick (physio sport shower gel). Trigger ACTIVATED and
a 'large blast' ensues. Tried to hide behind makeshift shield i.e. towel but to no avail. A
fresher nullified and triple a killed while sleeping peacefully in her bed plotting assassination
of next victim.
Professional Librarian reports:
At 08:50 this morning I was on my way to a meeting of librarians when I found myself on Lensfield Road, home of the known incompetent Dr. Evil, who I hear is unable to understand the Dewey Decimal System.
I approached the door and discovered it had some sort of intercom system attached. Fortunately, a helpful resident was just leaving. "Are you here to see someone," he asked. "Yes, Dr. Evil," I replied. "Oh right, come in."
He led me inside and knocked on my target's door, which was directly
opposite the front door:
Helpful Resident: Dr. Evil, there's someone here to see you.
Dr. Evil: Who is it?
Helpful Resident: Matt (I think that was his name).
Dr. Evil: But who's here to see me?
Helpful Resident: (aside) What's your name?
Me: (aside) Professional Librarian.
Helpful Resident: Professional Librarian.
(I reach into my coat and ready my RPG.)
Helpful Resident: Oh, you're an assassin aren't you. Clever. Well, I'll
leave you to talk to him.
(A few moments pass. Dr. Evil opens the door slightly and peers round it.
I fire a round in his direction and shout, "Bang!". It appears to hit the
edge of the door, which he closes quickly.)
Me: Did I get you?
Dr. Evil: No, you hit the door.
Me: Are you going to open the door so I can try to shoot you again?
Dr. Evil: No.
(The bedder/cleaner looks on, slightly bemused.)
Me: OK. Bye.
At which point I had to leave to attend my librarians' meeting, where I discussed the relative merits of different classification systems.
Jenny Chase reports:
NEWSFLASH: TRINITY AND GIRTON MAFIAS WIPE ONE ANOTHER OUT
Tea and chocolate with Catherine is frequently a good idea, especially when you come out of her room to find two very suspicious characters deeply involved with explosive, string, wires and batteries outside my door. They stood up and drew single RBGs, I drew double pellet pistols, I fired. Jenny Chaser came dashing towards me with a RBG, I shot him down. JJ came at me, and I shot him down too.
Peace and quiet and extreme bloodiness reigned in the corridor.
The Badger reports:
I was contacted by Nathan last night to see if I would be interested in accomplicing in an attempt he had planned, and after hearing about the plan, it sounded like fun, so I agreed. I haven't done enough this game anyway. So we arrived at Girton around 10.20, after randomly walking around the area for a while, and gained entry to her staircase via the 'People's Portraits' exhibition, to get past card-locks.
We knocked on her door first, as had she been in her room the plan would have rather spectacularly failed, and hearing no movement, Nathan proceeded to set the bomb, while I tried to stand guard. Some neighbours were around, so we knew Jenny Chase would be warned that something had happened when she got back, but before Nathan finished setting the fake fake bomb brought for just this contingency, Jenny walked out of a room 3-4 doors down, quite coincidentally I think.
Unfortunately, we only had band guns, and she had pellet guns from outside band gun range, so she managed to shoot both of us without significant difficulty. Then, as should be covered in the other reports, she invited us in for tea, but was insufficiently paranoid about the bomb. So we all died, and had some rather nice tea. thanks Jenny!
Jenny Chaser reports:
Claim 1: At least 1 assassin is dead.
Proof: Let J be an assassin such that bodycount(J) >= 100.
We shall show the existence of an assassin n such that Killed(n, J), thus
implying dead(J).
We have bodycount(J) >=100 => VeryScary(J)
Now let n be such that:
(The existence of such an n follows trivially from Muller's theorem)
We deduce that KnowsTargets(J, n) and from (*)., MayKill(J, n)
From the scariness of J we see that n must have tried to kill J and from an
earlier lemma, we see that n used a bomb b. Indeed closer analysis shows
that this bomb must be very effective.
We deduce, given result 1.1, that
IsUmpire(R), where R is such that DeclaresLegal(R, b). Hence we are done.
Corollary 1: At least 2 assassins are dead
We shall show by contradiction that Killed(J, n)
For (Killed(n, J) ^ ~Killed(J, n)) => ~VeryScary(J)
so we are done.
Corrolary 2: At least 3 assassins are dead
we see that there does not exist an n such that:
We deduce, as above, that Killed(J, jj)
We are now done. (Note that the above is non-examinable)
Jenny Chaser
Jenny Chase reports:
At this point I made the unwise decision that since I could not see any explosive on the outside, the detonator must have been intended to connect to the more obvious bomb. Should really have asked about the application of the access rule... At which point I poked it with a 30cm ruler until it went off.
Ooops. Explosive pushed under door, and therefore not visible from the outside.... Damn these high-set Girton doors.
I may be the highest-profile player ever to be killed by a bomb. Apologies to Duncan for dying after killing him.
Congratulations to those nice Trinitarians, who I hope will get some pellet guns for next time.
smae reports:
I wandered over to the hell-hole where this incompetent resises, and lo! The sound of screeching chalk (known to some as pop) emanated from his, alas, locked room. No response to knocking and shouting JOHN! However there seemed to be someone in a nearby bathroom cubucle. However upon waiting for about 20/30 min, the person was still in there.
If this is you...incompetence everywhere.
man who eats aborted foetuses reports:
At about 2:15 today, before my incompetance deadline, I paid another visit to The King of Wrong. Now I could almost could count on the fact that he wouldn't be in because this is the only thing that seems to be happening to me. So, with plenty of availible time a dug a hole in the floor about 10ft deep and constructed a huge bear pit right outside his door. Now, to any sane, observant person, this trap should arouse suspicion almost immediately and be quite easly avoided and consequently disabled.
However, this is no ordinary trap.
It is a DECOY BEAR PIT!
Imagine his surprise when he tries to move one of the many counterfeit grizzlies only to discover that they're effugies entirely made of lethal raspberry jam. MWA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!
The King of Wrong reports:
OK, somebody put a piece of cardboard marked "Bear Pit!" outside my door. Not being quite sure how to deal with a bear pit, I shot it several times (to remove the bears, Lara Croft style) and then moved the portable hole using a long and pointy umbrella. It wasn't sliding well, so I used the aforesaid pointy umbrella to flip it over. Contact jam! Obviously, in accordance with the relevant physical laws, it had originally landed jam-side down on the carpet... I expect the college will be thrilled by this. After picking it up with plastic gloves - I'm not spending all night cleaning jam off my nice gloves - The note on the back claimed it was from the man who eats aborted foetuses.
So, to cut a long story short - too late! - I'm not dead, I'm not happy and I'm not paying for any damage this silly trap caused to the carpet. I just hope the patch of jam it left behind doesn't claim any innocent lives...
The Duke reports:
As I cruised round the shops near Sainsbury's, frittering away my loan (curse Fopp and their temptingly low prices) I was whistling a merry tune that got stuck in my head from somewhere. "If I were not in the CID something else I'd like to be If I were not in the CID a window cleaner me With a rub-a-dub-dub and a rub-a-dub-dub and a rub-a-dub-dub all day long With a rub-a-dub-dub and a rub-a-dub-dub I'd sing this merry song, (repeat ad nauseam)" However, despite the jaunty, uplifting nature of the tune, something was wrong. Window-cleaning isn't exactly a job associated with the aristocracy. Hmmm... A secret service agent? No, didn't fit the metre. A politician? Thr rhythm works, but doesn't really fit my projected image of fearsome, peerless assassin. My ruminations over this lyrical and musical conundrun continued as I entered Magdalene College and ascended the stairs leading to the target's residence. "If I were not in the CID something else I'd like to be If I were not in the CID a window cleaner me..." My thoughts were interrupted by the potential kill ahead.I knocked and continued walking so he could not see me through the spy-hole. There was a muffled "hello?" and then the unmistakeable sound of a chain being removed. The door swung open, and I strode back towards the door, right arm extended. Poor old Bobby Digital saw the knife in it too late, and even as he leapt backwards, it buried itself in his chest. Even as his warm blood spilled over my hands, that damn song came back to me. More killing is perhaps in order.
Madame Dark reports:
On Thursday the 6th November I received a poison letter in my pigeonhole. Red glitter poison clearly showing through the envelope window. A pathetic attempt. Not worthy.
On a mission from Glod reports:
In the shortest ever lurk of my short career as a deathmonger, smae met his end today having carelessly left his room fortress for the purpose of food. A casual pre-witchburning stroll through Wolfson Court led me to the death-trap creaky floor that marked the beginning of his corridoor, a problem I pondered for about thirty seconds, when I heard the sound of a door opening. Diving backwards, I found myself in a tiny toilet cubicle, moments later footsteps drew near and the door began to open. A shot at point blank range resulted in much splattered gore and a dead smae, farewell....
smae reports:
I am now dead; at 6:50, I left my room to pursue dastardly deeds (eating in hall) and was summarily dispatched by an enormous bang emanating from inside the toilets...Damn Wolfson and its 'nearly' full-ensuite.
Jonathan Hogg reports:
I think the following words (blatantly stolen) sum it up:
*sniff* I'm sorry, I know I'm a bad person, and that what I did was very wrong, but I couldn't help it, I had to kill her, it's in my blood. She was a good friend *sniff* and I gunned her down in cold blood. Never even gave her a chance. *sniff* I hope her soul can forgive me, and that her friends and family can too. I feel really bad about Ric, I hope he doesn't take it too badly. *sniff* I promise I'll never do it again, I'll try and be good from now on, but I have the feeling that it may happen again. I may just end it now. No, I can't that'd be weak, but this burden will weigh heavily on me. Maybe the guilt can be covered in a tide of blood. It seems to be my only hope. *breaks down and weeps*
UmpSuckupPoints[JonHogg]-=200
Now, if I wanted a good report I'd prbably write something like this:
The Black Cape of Dhooooommmmmm! reports:
Quietly, I hid in the shadows, the cloak masking my presence, until,
finally my target worked past, oblivious to the unpleasent fate that
awaited her on wings of balck death. Sudden;y she met her dhoooommmm!
with only the warning that was a black shadow flitting across the street
towards her.
Failing that I'd sum it up like this:
i) Go to soceity meeting. Arrive 15 minutes early. ooops.
ii) Hide in shadows across street, waiting for epopel to arrive, or
the time to reach 1900.
iii) Note I am wearing a black cloak, am stood in dark shadows and am
across the street, hence quite hard to spot.
iv) Spot target walkign down street oblivious to my presence.
v) Run across street and shout bang while pointing a good at her within
range.
vi) Go and hide again.
vii) Burn the witch.
Professional Librarian reports:
Following yesterday's unsuccesssful attempt on Dr. Evil, I consulted the library's records, which showed that he was the representative for the Physics Society for his college and had been in Cambridge last year. From this I guessed he might be a second year NatSci doing physics, and so would have a 09:00 lecture this morning.
I arrived outside his house at 08:25 this morning. I hid (in full view of anyone passing) behind a bush and waited, hand in coat, ready to draw my RPG and fire.
I saw a bee land on one of the flowers on the bush; I received several strange glances from the builders next door; I saw someone leave the house; I did not see Dr. Evil.
At 08:57, with my librarians' meeting approaching, someone returned to the house. I followed him to the door.
Man: Hello. Why are you here?
Me: I've come to see AJ.
Man: Why don't you press his buzzer then?
(I push a buzzer; the man walks inside and shuts the door behind him.)
Other Man: Hello? You pressed the buzzer?
Me: Hello. I'd like to join the Physics Society and I was told you were
the person to speak to.
Other Man: Oh, you want to speak to AJ. Try his buzzer.
Oops. It appeared I had pressed the wrong button, so I tried the one
below. There was no response.
Someone left the house, but this time they left the door to swing shut. I sneaked in, looking out for anyone who might be dangerous, and went to Dr. Evil's door. Turning the handle didn't seem to have any effct, so I thought the door must be locked. A sharp push revealed that this was not the case. I ran in with RPG ready.
It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of Dr. Evil's lair. Fortunately, he seemed only just awake, and didn't manage to fight back before I saw him stirring on his bed in the corner of the room and shot him.
Me: You're dead.
Him: Oh... Were you assigned to kill me?
Me: No, you were incompetent: anyone could kill you.
Him: Oh... (groan)
Me: Anyway, sorry to disturb you, but I have a lecture now, so I have to
go. Bye. It was fun assassinating you.
Anonymous Coward reports:
The next chapter in the story of Anonymous Coward begins as thus.
And thus did he that was known as Anonymous Coward feast upon the lambs and anchovies, and carp, and orangutans and breakfast cereals, and verily it was all good. As so sayeth he "that was indeed truely good, now I am afraid that I must goeth forth and kill someone". And so it was decided. So he did consult the book of armaments, chapter two, verses nine to twenty one, but alas he had no holy hand grenade of Antioch with which to blow to tiny bits his opponent. Anonymous Coward wept, for this was truely a great loss to his plans. But he remembered his Somewhat holy Rubber Band Gun of Killing People Unpleasantly and it was all good. So he crossed the gorge of death and avoided the eternal peril. And thus he came to outside the fortress of his enemy. Outside the door he decided that he would count to three, and three would be the number of the counting, and the number of the counting would be three. Four would he not count, neither two, excepting that he would then proceedeth to three. However mortally afraid that the Holy Grail jokes were running a little thin he did count all the way to five, not missing out either three or four before bursting in upon his enemy. In the confusion and heat of combat he did spray-and-pray the room, and to his amazement upon entering it there was the smoking corpses of not one but two persons. And he thought to himself "ooops". But it was no good, so he retreated back to the lair from whence he came and plotted the unpleasant death of anyone coming too close to him, or for that matter the entire population of cambridge*.
For which I am going to need a bomb of volume ~ (e^5x10^3) litres so if anybody has a few spare bottles, or large resevoirs please tell me.
Lady Penelope reports:
At 12:45 I was sharing a cup of Earl Gray with the King of Guatemala and Princess Leia in the drawing room of my vast estate. Whilst chatting about the weather, Royal servants, the gold standard and the country's exports and imports my attention was momentarily distracted by someone I suspected was a member of my waiting staff.
Angrily I moved to close the door: how could anyone dare interrupt a conversation concerning the future of the quantumverse. Plus I couldn't be arsed to go through all the proceedings to do with the Official Secrets Act.
To my shock (and horror) the swine drew a gun and began spraying my room with bullets. The villain, I later learned, known as Anonymous Coward, had been seen before in my rather exclusive neighbourhood.
I regret to inform the world of the death of HM The King of Guatemala by three bullets to the back and the maiming of HRH Princess Leia. I hereby also announce my own death and leave everything I own to Parker my loyal and trustworthy (and gorgeous) butler (and lover).
This wanton act of gartuitous violence against myself and my innocent colleagues should not go unnoticed and I request that villain be moved to the wanted list. A bounty will be paid by the Royal family of Guatemala to the sum of £0.03 and can be claimed by phoning +36 8976 789693.
Best regards and happy hunting,
Lady Penelope
x
For this, Anonymous Coward is indeed made wanted.
Lestrade reports:
After lectures this morning I went on a stakeout of Dr. Evil's house. My plan was simple, to kill
him as he came back for lunch. I soon spotted someone who vaguely resembled my target. I sprung
into action like a baby panda eating bamboo. (thats fast).
Casually, I inquired if this was the elusive Dr. Evil in front of me. When he hesitated, I
plunged my hand into my pocket, only to be informed that :
1) He was not Dr. Evil.
2) Dr. Evil was in fact already dead and
3) I had mispronounced Dr. Evil's name.
Need to be slightly more subtle next time...
The Man in White reports:
If there's ever to be an award for 'most legitimate kill', then I've just won it for this game.
On the hope that my target would have a 12pm lecture today, I headed over to St. John's shortly after 1pm. Spotting that his staircase claimed that he was still 'Out', I decided to lurk the place for a while. I didn't have to, though, seeing as he just then appeared through the archway. With the umpire. Promptly stabbing him in the back (along with some utterly horrific cry along the lines of "you is dead") before he could make it to his staircase, I knew that there would be no disputing this kill.
Fried Chicken reports:
An impressive kill. The first I knew about it was a stabbing pain near my right shoulder blade. The last too...
My epitaph:
"I played Assassins as I worked. I kept putting it off, and then suddenly found I'd run out of time and done nothing."
I hope people will raise a glass to my memory, and a bottle in an attempt to forget it again. I may even hold a formal to that effect...
Ric Brackenbury reports:
Poor Fried Chicken. He had just enjoyed his (final) lecture with the great Imre Leader, and as I was heading into town, we walked back through Johns. We discussed many things, I look back with regret at conversations unfinished. For as we parted, I saw the knife. A cruel thing, but only potent in the hands of an accomplished knife user. Sadly I then saw The Man in White who was such a user. Fried Chicken's body fell and twisted in front of me, giving me a final accusatory stare. Oh the targetting! The targetting! I turned my head away in shame. And it was done.
The King of Wrong reports:
I've just (15:15) sent letters to my target, Eric. Standard MO - Royal Mail delivery of a red glitter BPL.
Eric reports:
an attempt on my life was made on friday the...mm...7th. i was a v shit attempt but an attempt nether the less. some weak minded individual sent me a poisoned letter! my insticts for survival were imediatly aroused as soon as i open my post box because there sat an envelope that wasn't a bill. upon shaking the object it emitted a sound similar to that would be made of lose sand in an evelope. anyway...i transport the letter to my current place of work where i would be able to examine it safely. doning a surgical gown and some purple latex free gloves i opened said letter and found some poisoned glitter...v original. after disposing of the letter in the clinical waste bin i contimplated suicide due to being lazy and an illdisire to comute into cambridge town center to kill people. thankfully better judgement over came as i pondered the humiliation of being killed by such a pants letter...and also i didnt wana crawl bout through the bin while a really fit nurse was watching.
It could Be Bunnies! reports:
As the afternoon wore on I found myself beginning to slur words, starting to stumble often, basic algebra began to elude me, I was almost becoming ... incompetent. The time for action had come, a finely crafted message with a most subtle of poisons was concocted and deposited a the residence of a Fluffy Bunny Killer. The glow of the watch gave the time as 3:25, a wave of knowledge washed over me and I recited several long words .. my competency is back for a while,
Keeper of the Dancing Penguins reports:
I was informed by the Penguin Intelligence Agency that FatController is (or was) a Compsci. Further investigations revealed that he would be attending a practical "ticking" session in Cockcroft 4 at 3:22.5 pm.
Arriving about ten minutes early, I selected a computer with a good view of the desk where my target would be sitting and pretended to use the computer while I waited. A few minutes later, he arrived. After some discussions with his ticker, he got up and prepared to leave. I followed him into the lift lobby and engaged him in conversation.
Me: "It's such a drag having to come all the way up here for such a short session isn't it?"
Him: "Oh yes"
Me: "Which college are you from?"
Him: "Homerton"
I was now certain that this person was my target
Me: "Gosh, so you have a long walk home."
The lift arrived and I followed him inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors closed and I prepared my Penguin Super Stabbing Knife (cunningly disguised as a pencil). As the lift passed the 3rd floor, I thrust it into his chest. He screamed in horror as blood gushed all around. His body slumped against the lift doors, and fell out when they opened at the ground floor.
There were no witnesses.
In the lift, no one can hear you scream! (TM)
FatController reports:
I have been killed! Happly waiting in the lift in the Cockcroft lecture theatre, I was stabbed through the heart by Keeper of the Dancing Penguins posing as a freindly passer by.
The King of Wrong reports:
"I happened to notice that the incompetent FatController was due to have a tick debriefing at 15:22'20" this very afternoon. I sneaked into, and lurked in, Cockcroft 4 until the victim was preparing to leave. I nonchalantly walked past him into the great wide in-bounds. He didn't follow immediately so, to allay suspicion I walked down the stairs. The lift started moving but it's a very slow lift so I reached the ground floor ahead of it, took aim and shot him as he emerged.
Whereupon he told me that he'd been killed in the lift. Oh bugger."
FatController reports:
To make things worse, I was killed again when I walked out of the lift by somebody else. It must be a record. Killed twice within 30 seconds.
Jennifer Chaste reports:
Having infiltrated the myriad of passages to Maratheoir's door, I steeled
myself and tried to think of an excuse. I dredged something up from
folklore and knocked on the door:
Me (the mysterious Jennifer Chaste): "Do you have my fish?!"
Maratheoir: "No, I don't"
Me: "Hmmm, my neighbour said you did."
Maratheoir: "Well, no"
Me: "Do you know anyone who would have my fish?"
Maratheoir: "No"
At this point I'm beginning to spot a theme to Maratheoir's answers. Cutting my losses, I leave.
Maratheoir reports:
At sometime this afternoon (about 4:30 or 5:00 I think) I received an inquiry from a strange person knocking at my door, wondering whether I had their fish. An interesting approach to trying to get into my room yet it was somehow lacking in subtlety... we had a nice little conversation before my assassin turned on his heels and legged it. I say assassin, but of course it could just have been someone looking for their fish...
man who eats aborted foetuses reports:
I was carelessly meandering through the college grounds at night, when I met on the porch special agent The Duke. I felt obilged to talk to him breifly as we did go to the same college together, with a view to humour him, and possibly enlighten him. There was an amible interchange between the two of us, until we reached a lull in the conversation. Now I don't find silences uncomfortable, but he thought the only way to solce this awkward situation was to brandish a knife in front of me and threaten to perform kendo on me (though in this instance it was more a sort of "bonzai kendo"). His intentions were quite affable but soon horseplay curdled into mindless violence. Both of us were trying to get hold of the knife. However, neither of us are in our athletic prime or natural hand-to-hand fighters, so to the average onlooker it just looked like a pair of vagrant dyspraxic ninjas fighting over the last swig of Strongbow. Eventually I got his arms locked tightly behind his back, but with the sinister spotlighting it struck too much resemblance to the rape scene in Hollyoaks that I thought it best to let go lest we frighten any passing citizens. He took his chances and tried slit open my left index finger although his knife didn't penetrate but immediately distingrated into pieces. He had forgotton that my left index finger was made from prosthetic, stainless steel. It had to be transplanted after a nasty accident when I was twelve when I got it stuck in a Chinese finger trap with my penis at the other end and decided that losing my finger was the lesser of two evils. How we laughed! We both went away quite merry, and with no harm intended.
Anonymous Coward reports:
Just 6 hours after committing the heinous crime that brought him into the unwelcome limelight, Anonymous Coward succumbed to the forces of the police. Finally venturing out of his fortified room loaded with weapons he thought it safe to venture to college to eat. Alas, this transparent move had been predicted and the police lay in wait for him. His hand on a gun, concealed within a bag he thought himself safe from any attacker. But hardly had he laid down his artillery to go and eat than he heard the sharp crack of a gunshot behind him. Then another one. Shot twice in the back he collapsed to the ground. As his vision blurred and his limbs went numb he thought of those who had died at his own hands... it had all seemed unreal then. Death had meant nothing. You pulled the trigger, you watched them fall and crumple on the ground. Suddenly it had all become real. Too real. What happened to the innocence of youth? Invincible, bulletproof and capable of doing anything? It was never meant to end like this... shot by an enemy you never saw coming and tracing your own blood down the wall as you fell.
Then I saw the sign...
Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here....
The Girtonator reports:
> time = 11-06-2003 18:41GMT
> RUN gps locator
= king's parade/ direction SSE/ speed 16kph
> RUN system status check
= system status OK
> mode = seek and destroy
> RUN display authorised programmers
=1 ric brackenbury
=2 rosemary warner
> RUN display mission objectives
=1 terminate criminals
=2 terminate incompetents
=3 terminate corrupt law authorities
=4 protect the innocent
> RUN display mission parameters
=1 do not terminate innocents
=2 do not terminate lawful citizens
=3 avoid civilian casu\\
> priority function override
= id target1/ elevation -5/ bearing 348/ speed 3kph
> RUN facial recognition
= 99.9% match
= PRIMARY TARGET ACQUIRED/ gordon ball
= threat assessment/ medium
> RUN dismount velocipede
> RUN secure velocipede
> mode = hunt and kill
> RUN reacquire target
= entered king's college
= target reacquired/ elevation -5/ bearing 0/ velocity 0kph
> RUN select weapon of choice
= rbg
> RUN terminate target1
> aim elevation 0/ target heart via ribs/ assault back
= fire
= fire
> target1 id confirmed
> human casualties 1.0
> primary target terminated/ mission successful
Fluffy Bunny Killer reports:
The Lament of Fluffy Bunny Killer:
I knocked three times upon my target's door,
and three times my knockings were ignored.
Not to be denied my kill-de-jour,
I headed off towards target 2's door
So I knocked three times upon the door,
and three times my knockings were ignored.
Cursing my misfortune and the stars for their luck,
Towards the dwelling of my third and final target I snuck.
I knocked three times upon the door,
and three times my knockings were ignored.
So it came to pass that thrice times thrice i knocked upon doors,
and thrice times thrice my knockings were ignored.
I shuffled home with my head held low,
for my inco deadline had just one day to go.
Later, unsatisfied, I again left my dwelling,
Hungry for blood, for murder and killing.
I arrived at the threshold of door number one,
In my left hand a knife, in my right hand a gun.
Three times I knocked upon the door,
Three times my knockings were as ignored as before
GIVE ME A BREAK!!!!
In anger and rage i fled into the mist,
and once again headed for the next on my list.
Aha! What's this! My target is in!
Seeing him through his window gave my face a big grin.
But he looks like a pro I must be cautious,
So I settled down to wait for him to leave his fortress.
Three times thirty minutes in the cold did I wait,
till I got so bored that a direct assault I did make.
Thus three times I knocked upon the door,
And lo! Behold! My knockings were not ignored!
I answered his challenge, my cover was in place,
and as the door unlocked a flicker of tension passed across my face.
But before I could open my mouth to speak,
Three bright flashes made my legs turn weak.
I fell to my knees, my legs turned to jelly,
While my killer fired round after round in my belly.
Blood splattered right, blood splattered left,
The walls were all covered with the bright red of death,
Till he finally stopped, I was not a threat,
he saw I was dying, gasping for breath.
And as I lay on the floor, senses dimming as I gasped my last,
I saw a face
through the haze, lips move: 'Umm... are you an assasin?' he asked.
L'Homme Fatal reports:
Tonight I killed an assassin who came round to my room. Apparantly he had waited for me outside for quite a while but eventually decided that he didn't want to freeze to death. Therefore he went in and knocked on my door, this being a comparitively quick and painless way of dying.
The Fairy Godfather reports:
Another week, another of Niki's finest to stave off those who would call me lazy. I am a busy man, with many pressures on my time. I can't be having with this assassination business.
Anyway, Keeper of the Dancing Penguins gets a present, and I return to my work.
Keeper of the Dancing Penguins reports:
Checking my mail this morning, I noticed a decidedly suspicious letter. It bore no marks other than my name, so had evidently not come through any of the penguin mail services.
I opened the letter with a letter opener over the bin. I could see very little trace of any poison, so removed the letter wearing Penguin Patent Hand Protectors.
The letter was headed "Lobachevsky Industries - A wholly owned subsidiary of GMaf". The letter made a reference to it being a copy of a letter sent by a "great German psychopath" (Bjoern?), and also stated in a strange way that the idea of poisoned letters was stolen by Ric Brackenbury and the Selwyn mafia.
After reading this thoroughly odd letter, I inserted it into a biohazard containment sleeve and filed it away for prosperity.
There is no Selwyn mafia...
Maratheoir reports:
At 9:50 this morning I delivered a poisoned letter to Marmite's pidgeonhole. Er, that's about it really.
Marmite reports:
i received a poisoned letter at 5pm on Sunday from a certain: A S Sassin, but sadly, it didn't even come close to killing me. Since dying (hence it prolly doesnt bear significance),
Jar Jar Wilks reports:
Radio Free Monkey, you said. CUR1350, you said. Every Friday lunchtime from 1 to 2pm, you said.
You promised. You promised "an eclectic mix of old, new, borrowed and blue from Cambridge's leading alternative to a healthy lunch". And what did we get? Barbie Girl and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. I couldn't bear it.
I couldn't bear to have my hopes shattered after all the promises you made. I couldn't bear the disappointment. I couldn't bear the cheese.
Maybe we could have worked it out. Maybe you would have seen what you'd done to me, maybe you'd have made things better, maybe you'd have broken down and wept and told me you were sorry and that things would be better now, you'd make sure of it. But maybe you wouldn't. And I couldn't take that chance.
I shot you dead on your way into the studio this afternoon. Martin, I'm sorry.
James Osborn reports:
Oh well, I killed Hoggy, bad me. I know that playing games of semantics is bad a wrong, and assuming you have a no-kill with someone just cos they agreed it was a good idea to have one is probably understandable, but occasionally fatal. At least I didn't kill him whilst he was in my room, or under a clearly defined no-kill (such as in the CMS). Bryony said she was annoyed she didn't get to kill him, for which I apologise. I could have written a better report, viz the time I killed Jen, but I can't be arsed, and no-one is ever going to give me the Harlan Quinn award anyway, so I've stopped trying.
"Hoooooggggggyyyyy, we luuuuuvvvveeee yoooouuu! HarmHarmHarmHarmHarmHarm"
M3g4-|>3tH-As5ASs1N-K1lLa reports:
42 50 9 23 54 0 47 51 0 54 56 58 59 13 19 13 55 13 54 25 58 27 57 39 42 33 54 55 55 26 61 49 11 62 21 38 58 58 59 28 33 45 0 48 38 53 22 58 8 25 13 55 9 53 48 22 62 0 12 46 51 20 61 19 2 57 56 41 46 5 4 51 39 23 61 29 31 37 3 37 49 0 59 21 1 61 51 53 53 7 3 10 32 5 47 47 53 61 48 23 31 7 41 28 2 6 58 63 19 28 4 9 38 25 53 34 0 27 43 41 9 35 10 54 10 2 59 10 27 62 56 45 53 32 27 28 41 41 12 14 55 60 16 31 28 61 29 17 48 34 51 59 26 31 11 9 32 41 62 41 2 59 15 33 28 36 45 62 39 2 25 5 11 57 0 6 59 48 27 60 28 31 56 32 54 59 19 18 24 4 11 32 42 54 25 59 26 48 5 62 5 36 60 16 3 26 40 11 45 20 6 58 27 31 20 1 15 46 46 54 55 12 19 12 57 9 34 30 63 42 2 59 49 17 62 40 44 55 18 2 57 42 29 62 14 38 46 2 59 24 40 9 39 14 39 51 16 19 12 61 9 33 12 63 16 58 63 17 19 43 14 6 23 2 50 30 8 11 44 18 15 61 32 21 26 36 13 28 14 39 54 51 18 0 5 29 35 49 63 60 10 31 17 39 42 6 6 55 2 50 30 8 11 47 5 22 58 27 18 24 17 13 20 12 46 58 56 23 9 5 45 62 44 55 33 11
Professional Librarian reports:
One with so silly a name as "Joe-Bob" is most probably of American descent. Considering how the Americans have butchered the English language, and exported their corrupted version of "English" around the world, I thought it only fair that The New Lad Joe-Bob and his Electric Truncheon be sent to the archives permanently.
Arriving at his residence at around 16:10, I noted that it had a buzzer system similar to those I have encountered before. I did not wish to alert my target to a possible assassin; neither was there a Helpful Person entering or leaving who could let me in. Luckily, I noticed an open window and climbed in.
I made my way up the stairs, where my target's room lay. I readied my RPG and knocked on the door; there was no response. I knocked again; there was no response. I looked around the nearby kitchen and bathroom; there was no-one there. I assumed my target was not in and, with a meeting to test the new library computer system approaching, I left hurriedly (via the front door).
man who eats aborted foetuses reports:
From about 4:30 to 5:07 today I lingered round The New Lad Joe-Bob and his Electric Truncheon's college, asking locals if anyone knew where he was. Most of the hoi-polloi seemed ignorant of his current whereabouts, so I just went on a bit of a ramble. I couldn't be arsed to go to his room because knowing my luck he wouldn't be in. None-the-less, I scoured the grounds with shurikans at hand, hoping to nail the bugger, despite the fact the damp air turned the shurikans into a force as lethal as throwing rose petals over your face. To be quite honest, this was a really half-baked, shoddy attempt at an attempt, but an attempt none-the-less. At the moment all my disapointment and self-loathing has turned me into a limp wreck. I feel as popular as an asbestos-flavoured condom.
My lack of a kill tally is very distressing. So far, the only way I've contrived to easily repremand this problem is to kill myself. Drastic measures, and kinda puts me out of the game, BUT A KILL'S A KILL.
The Minion of Myxomatosis reports:
Madame Dark was incompetent, and I didn't really want to be, so I dropped by.
She wasn't in, which was a shame (I keep wondering if that shadowy figure I passed on the staircase was her...) - so I left a bomb.
Let's be honest - it wasn't a very good bomb. I only put the detonator in to keep up appearances.
Still, it was contact poisoned, so if we get proper incompetents (like we used to, back in the day - when men were men, and women were housewives), then she'll die.
Such a lottery, no?
Minion
However the bomb did not reach Madame Dark...
The Masked Avenger reports:
This evening around 7.30, I called in on The King of Wrong, but he wasn't there, thus saving himself, however briefly, from a sudden, violent death. So I left him a little note to say I'd called... his days are numbered, believe you me.
Severian reports:
Long have I, the lictor of Thrax, stalked this elusive client. Many times have I thought him finally caught, only for him to slip through my grasp once more. At first, this time seemed no different from many others. After interrogating the dockmaster and several of the uncouth louts who fashioned themselves as sailors in the last town, I had discovered the name and destination of the ship he fled on. I immediately sought passage on another ship, though the price was not cheap I still had several orichalks left since I first started up Nessus. The journey to Perdus was but three days, though I had trouble sleeping, ever expecting the rude crew of the vessel to murder in my sleep for my belongings. And so, weary and with little wealth with which to buy a nights lodging I arrived in Perdus.
As soon as I was rested I began to make enquiries about any newcomers to the town, though the sort I had to enquire of were not those I was wont to trust. I often had to threaten, but eventually was told of a man who, new to the area, was often to be found at a certain tavern. Going there the next evening I set myself in a dim corner, my fuligin cloak casting a deeper shadow than was present before. I had not long to wait, my quarry entered, and though he seemed furtive, he did not see me. Silently thanking the increate I stepped outside while his back was turned. I made my way round to the rear of the low establishment thinking to catch him unawares as he made a trip to the privy, as he must if he indulged himself as was his habit.
An hour at least I waited, perhaps two, concealed in the darkness 'neath my fugilin gown. From time to time I toyed with the Claw in it's pouch, but forebore to bring it forth lest it begin to shine and give me away. At last I saw the flash of light as the door opened and I readied my sword, Terminus Est.
As he stepped around the corner, I brought it down and around, neatly cleaving his head from his shoulders. I left him lying there, and left quickly, resolved to recommence my journey to Thrax at dawn.
The Being of Pure Energy reports:
Alas, forsooth. I would have been alright were it not for my one weakness - taverns. Severian caught me unawares, unsuspecting and unarmed whilst I revelled. Oh and then spmepne else desecrated my body. So it is that GMaf dies, the mafia that never was.
The Duke reports:
At about 8.30, having decided not to go to my usual Friday night entertainment due to a dodgy arm, I went inco-hunting instead. The only one on the list who could be defined as "accessible", however, was Madame Dark, so it seemed she would be having the pleasure of my company tonight. As I approached her room,I noticed a large bomb in front of her door. A rudimentary examination showed it was still armed, so she probably wasn't in. That was a shame. Suddenly, however, a new plan came to me! The bomb was fairly crudely designed and easily disarmed with the equipment I had brought, but I left the (now dud) bomb in situ. When Madame Dark returned, she would stop to examine the bomb, and I could leap out of the kitchen (an excellent hiding place) and deliver the coup de grace. A foolproof plan, or so I thought.
At about 8.50, a young woman climbed the stairs and, after an agonizingly long conversation with a friend on said staircase, approached the room. She stopped to peer at the bomb. "Aha!" I thought, and strolled nonchalantly out of my hiding place. "The bomb's harmless," I said, levelling my RBG. "But this isn't." With that quip I shot her through the chest, killing her instantly. "But it's not me," she replied.
I have to confess that several rude words went through my head at that point (though I said none of them). Not only was my victim wholly innocent (a neighbour of Madame Dark's), but she had no idea when my target would return. Damn. However, after a mere five minutes more, another young lady approached the room and stopped to look at the bomb. Not wanting to take any chances, I decided to talk to her before shooting her (this time).
Me: Are you Susanna?
Madame Dark: Yes?
Me: The bomb's harmless, you know. I disarmed it.
Madame Dark: Why did you do that?
Me: (levels RBG) so that *I* could shoot you.
Madame Dark: You can't do that!
Me: (gestures with RBG) Well what am I supposed to do now?
Madame Dark: You could let me run...?
Not wanting to be ungentlemanly, I let her get as far as the door before following. She ran with the speed of one possessed up tortuously turning concrete staircases, while I followed, a sort of bizarre cross between Bond and Neo, shooting a couple of bands. Sadly my accuracy deserted me and, still more like Bond, said ammunition ricocheted from doorframes and walls instead of hitting the target. Eventually, she ran into a friend's room and took cover, first behind an innocent, then under a desk. Not wanting to injure any more civilians, I failed to shoot before she had managed to hide. I considered for a moment crawling under there and stabbing her, but the thought of the affront to her (let alone my!) dignity stayed my hand. I tried to shoot her instead, only for my gun to misfire.
Engaging her friends in conversation, I reloaded and fired again. I'm pretty sure I hit her, but whether she is dead or not remains to be seen. At any rate, she refused to come out until I'd gone, so I left, with the intention of returning if all was not well.
Madame Dark reports:
today i went to london. upon returning on the bus i received a phone call from the girl who lives next door. she'd just been shot by a guy from peterhouse, who thought that she was me. [so i guess that means he goes on the wanted list?] an unfortunate thing happened next:
the girl who lives on the other side, who isnt playing assassins, decided to impersonate me WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE OR PERMISSION. this guy from peterhouse now apparently thinks that he's killed me, but it wasn't, it was another innocent.
There was a bomb outside my door which the peterhouse guy apparently said wasnt from him, and that he'd disarmed it in order to shoot me. i dont know if thats true, or if he was hoping that the first girl who he'd killed would pass the info onto me, so that i would open my door and get killed. i looked at the bomb and saw that it was a milk carton filled with water with a little metal contraption on the side next to the door. this contraption wasnt touching anything, so i didnt see how it could be triggered. opened my door, stepped over it and walked into the room.
Police shouldn't defuse bombs set for incompetents/criminals, so sadly I am forced to make The Duke wanted. Oh, he shot an innocent as well. As he was well-intentioned, I will redeem him if he kills 2 other criminals or incompetents.
The King of Wrong reports:
My neighbour has been killed. Again. He accidentally knocked over a bottle of water leaning on my door and triggered the cap detonator secreted below. Maybe he can win the Kenny award?
It was a 2L bottle, seemingly 75% full of water, giving a blast radius of 3.5m. Luckily, my bed is just a little further than that so I slept through the explosion quite peacefully. The note had the standard disclaimer but I don't recall seeing an explicit blast radius calculation.
The King of Wrong and everyone else are reminded that you should not ask innocents to defuse bombs, however I will accept that this was an accident.
A Long Grey Coat reports:
I have a sneaky suspicion that an attempt might have been made to open my door. It was possibly the third time. I'm honestly not sure as I saw no one afterwards. Has anyone reported an attempt or 2 on me?
Lars Busshom reports:
Following increasing pressure from my superiors at the Swedish Transport Authority, I decided to go and terminate another contract. In order to achieve this, I popped a poisoned note under the door of Bryony Baines. I have a feeling that in future, I will have to terminate contracts by rather more face-to-face means - customer interaction is so important. For now, however, the note will suffice. We shall see whether it achieves its purpose.
Lars Busshom,
Director of Communications, Swedish Transport Authority
Bryony Baines reports:
Returning from afar I discovered someone had left an anonymous brown envelope under my door in my abscence. Excitement! I opened carefully using Mr Sainsburies and Mr Subway plastic bags, with the assorted junk covering the carpet providing a disposable underlayer should any poison escape to haunt me at a later date. The letter was from the Swedish Transport Authority (I believe), and contained a dubious fine white powder.
Samba reports:
"do, do, do, do, do ,do, do, do, doo, doooo". What more can really be said? The evil crocodile priest has unleashed his wrath and vengeance must be had. However, for the moment, customs dictate that first the monkey ninjas must make some exceptionally lame attempt in order to remain competent - whatever that means. Which leads us nicely to a poison letter. Hence one has been sent. So no blood for the moment. But soon, oh so soon! So as the saying goes "Let's go away!"
Xanthophobia reports:
I'm the proud recipient of one of the best poison letters ever. It isn't the best in the sense that it was presented in a particularly official way, or that the poison was particularly dangerous, or anything like that. It's the best in the sense that it was not at all dangerous but a really nice letter. As it sounds like Keeper Of Dancing Penguins received a practically identical letter I can only guess that this was sent by [the now-deceased] Martin O'Leary, so I still don't know who any of my assassins are =P.
It'd be a shame to let the letter go to waste (it's full of nice mafia references), so I'll probably try and get it scanned sometime soon (unless Martin wants to save me time and sends Ric a hard copy =P).
Alas Xanthophobia you have been tricked! Samba is your assassin, not Martin...
The Gostak reports:
Samba poxed blim being inchorpish to distim, so I forlorked I morag prorlo he was frempish sufflict not to be distimmed by a distimmanted umbroke stodren I stimmed a pinny aniyenk zarfing. I encraked cork an umbroke spur his frimblehoom jar spodrennok.
Samba reports:
I would spice this report up to make it seem remotely interesting, but the nature of the attempt means it really isn't worth it. Dodgy letter in pigeonhole (hand delivered) + paranoid monkey = safe monkey. Still, thanks for the poison letter Mr. "Timothy Walker", it's nice to feel wanted.
Professional Librarian reports:
Madame Dark was well-known for disturbing the peace of the library by letting out unnecessary streams of expletives, so it was only natural that I should try to silence her.
I made my way carefully to her residence. I encountered no locked doors or other such obstacles. Madame Dark had kindly left her own door ajar. I flung it open and looked around for my target, but no-one was there. I hid behind a support, next to a rail of clothes, and waited.
Madame Dark Dark had kindly left on Radio 4 for my entertainment, so it seemed like no time at all (in reality it was probably 5-10 minutes) before she walked in at 13:48. She went with back turned to me to her laptop, which seemed to be running some strange proprietary operating system with a graphical user interface (all library computers have text-mode interfaces).
I fired a single RPG round into Madame Dark's back before she let loose one final stream of expletives and fell to the floor. Well, either it was Madame Dark or a very lively corpse. I bade her farewell and attempted to leave through a cupboard cleverly disguised as the door.
Madame Dark reports:
Today, Saturday the 8th November I, Mistress Bitch, am saddened to report that my boss Madame Dark has indeed been killed by a Professional Librarian. He was very polite about it and shook her hand afterwards, a gesture of goodwill in return for the entertainment provided him by my sisters during his wait, I am sure.
Later there was a second bomb left, alongside a poison apple. Too late, men.
Dark Wishes on behalf of the Madame. Until next term.
Marmite reports:
I knocked.
Target no there.
The chocolate machine felt my wrath.
(only smarties have the answer)
Mowgli reports:
Oh, I made an attempt, a really lame one on The New Lad Joe-Bob and his Electric Truncheon of Emmanuel (involving a poisoned pigeonhole message). He was incompetent
The New Lad Joe-Bob and his Electric Truncheon reports:
Save your thunderbolts, I am dead. Well, I have decided to be dead. Saturday night saw a poisoned note in my pigeonhole, and you can record it as a kill for Mowgli as I am not going to do anything this game - my 2nd year resolution to work has done away with free time I would have used for raping and pillaging my across the city.
Shrove Tuesday reports:
It was not Shrove's best work, this was certain, but with the organization bearing down on him with a deeply uncomfortable and impending glare, it would simply have to do. He had had to use a heady concoction, two parts cunning to one part guile, in order to acquire the fiendishly deceptive device that he now held in his hand: an unassumingly pallid envelope that carried the emblem of 'NTL:Business' without hint of forgerous forgery. Its contents, however, was not nearly so subtle; to the paper was fixed a dark granular toxin that bore more than a passing resemblance to instant-coffee.
The letter left his grasp and fled off into the complex and antiquated dance of the correspondence distribution system
Chris Field reports:
I got a letter, at home. Very nice of someone. Shame that I don't have a phoneline or the whole NTL thing would have been quite clever - that and the fact that the glue had been remelted or something made me suspicious. No sign of who it was from, but some sticky coffee like substance was all over the paper, made it quite difficult to open.
Lars Busshom reports:
Dead, I'm afraid. I suppose I should count myself lucky - my assailant's college had clearly been struck by a powercut - from what they were wearing, they must have dressed in the dark this morning. As I proceded along King's Parade, without a care in the world, Jennifer Chaste made for me, shooting me between the scaffolding (which really hurt, I can tell you). Never mind - at least I outlived Jenny Chase :)
Lars' Lars Post
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