The Assassins' Guild - Week 2 News
The Assassins' Guild - Week 2 NewsThe target seemed to be getting increasingly agitated as he calmly walked down King's Parade at 9 this morning. I stalked from early morning shadow to early morning shadow, holding a large bazzoka-like RBG with both hands and a knife in my right. As the Aramatic smell of the fudge shop filled my nostrils, i had the iinteresting sensation of justice approaching rapidly. When I was close enough to be certain of a hit, I whipped my weapon out. At this moment, the target stopped. Caught between the 1-metre-rule and not wanting to shoot my target in the head, and being unsure of the exact distance, I was forced to shoot and simultaneously shout bang in a foolish way. Sorry man, it was an honest mistake no harm meant, I just wanted to kill you.
Whilst strolling at an alarmingly fast pace down kimngs parade this morning in order to get to a lecture that turned out to be more important than life itself i noticed a figure advancing upon me on my left, quickenening my pace, my observations were interrupted by a totally uninvolved friend wishing me good morning. Time seemed to stand still. I heard a rustle of coat, raising of arm, and the oh so un-looked-for word "bang" mumbled into the wind. Yet before i could congratulate my assassin of disposing of me , click, clicky-clicky-clicky-ouch, as half a dozen rubber bands ewere unleaded into the back of my head. Not so much killed as splatterred over the pavement and surrounding area, i ran to get to my lecture, funny , my assassin was so apologetic about having to kill me.
An attempt was made on my life today, monday the 1st of October. As I rounded the corner towards my building, an assassin crept timidly from behind a wall. He was mounted on his bike for a quick gettaway. As he saw me it was evident from the terrified look on his face that something was going to go down. He paused, not sure if it was me, too scared to make a move. I quickly checked my person for weapons, realising in my rush before tennis practice I had neglected to take anything. Realising the only answer was retreat, I took advantage of his indecision to nip inside my building, locking myself away from the danger. I quickly ran to collect a weapon but realising the game was up, my assailant scarpered before he felt retribution.
With the incompetence deadline looming, I got up early(ish) and stood near my target's room. I didn't recognise him in time and he got in WAAAAAAAAA :-(
An attempt to assainate me via a letter under my door was successful. Unfortunately I'm not the only victim. On my way in from lectures I was greeted by my bedder with the question "Is this trash?" upon which she placed the poison covered letter into my hand. Therefore I'm glad to say that although dead, my death will be avenged since the assassin is now on the wanted list.
The Umpire notes that it is not an assassin's fault if a bedder picks up poison letters intended for you. They shouldn't be so nosy.
The notion of incompetent members of the choir on my own staircase disgusts me. so, i went upstairs to give Mrs X a one on one choral lesson. showing her true lack of ability, she opened the door of her chapel with only one knock required by myself. as soon as she appeared, i began my symphony of death. 7 octaves cut through her soul, leaving her a broken choirgirl. the choirmaster demanded this lesson be given. Mr. Smith was only too happy to oblige.
After a LONG morning's lectures I thought "how about a spot of inco-bashing?" and called upon various associates to assist me in hunting down these murderous incompetents. And so three of us elected to raid Clare memorial court, offering as it did the highest concentration of incompetents. It was thus surprising that upon knocking on target's door, he burst out of the adjoining bathroom guns blazing. He unloaded many rounds into my chest before my comrades observed my lungs splattered all over the walls, and shot him.
After 'deliberately' gaining incompetant status in an attempt to live life on the edge, I was greeted with the site of a trio of assassins upon leaving the toilet. Unholstering my rubber band gun, I was able to unleash a volley of bands in the direction of one assassin, unfortunately succumbing to return fire from his partners.
The Art of Kanly is a fine and subtle one. The finest human minds turned to precise and delicate delineations for ways to administer treacherous death. Shall it be chaumurky - poison in the drink? Or chaumas - poison in the food? But no, its going to be a couple of lead slugs in the stomach and a messy, bloody death in the corridor. Let the refined assassins of the imperium think of a nice word for that.
Kill for love, for money, for a cause you passionately believe in. Kill those who would stand in your way, or those who would lay barriers before him. Kill for your principles, or the tear in the eye of a cherubic child.
But in this case, just kill because the guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Kill in the street with no art and no subtlety.
Life's cheap. Nil Mortifi, Sine Lucre.
He was called Stuart, an inco from Queens, who simply opened the door unarmed when I knocked, and gratefully received 3 elastic bands to the body. It seems he'd forgotten he was assassin... He didn't have a fridge.
Having survived a full week in the assassins game, due to no small amounts of skill, cunning, planning, scheming and luck, I was finally found and mercilessly gunned down today whilst slaving over a hot pad of paper, in preparation for a supervision rapidly approaching. My assassins used the fact that I would be deeply engrossed in algebra and geometry to lure me to the door unarmed, whereupon bullets flew and despite some incredible reactions (like blinking rapidly in surprise) I was hit multiple times in the torso. Blood spattered the otherwise pristine and neat noticeboard behind me, dripping slowly onto the most comfortable (and now most blood-sodden) chair in my room. Gurgling in shock, I used the only weapon available to me, notably the vicious glare at cheery assassins. Unfortunately this proved slightly less than fatal and they prowled off into the darkened corridor, probably plotting a celebratory drink or sacrifice of goat. Meanwhile I was left to enjoy my dying moments, to the strains of Dust n' Bones by, you guessed it ... Guns N' Roses. Even as I slipped away, the irony was not lost on me ...
Life had been comparatively quiet in the police station recently. Well there was a wanted criminal on the loose, but she didn't seem to be causing much of a problem for society as a whole, so we weren't too concerned. The pile of empty doughnut wrappers had reached truly shocking proportions, when the call came.
The Chief of Police answered, and then announced to us that a truly vast number of people had been sentenced to death for contravening law 6. Seizing the chance to finally do something, we brushed aside the empty bottles and located our weapons, before proceeding in the direction of the first incompetent.
The first college on our route, Jesus, contained 3 incompetents, with 1 in a nearby house. We proceeded to chapel court, calling first at the room of Victoria Newton. Carefully opening the door which lead off the corridor, I saw that her door was wide open. The mark of a true incompetent! I stormed her room and discovered her at her desk, facing away from the door. I used my gun to dispatch her, the new police issue explosive ammo neatly removing her head.
The corpse informed me that she always left her door wide open while in residence. You just can't get the staff these days.
The Quick Brown Fox decided, in view of the fact his previous efforts had been far less than successful, that a slightly more direct method of making friends was necessary. Far and wide across Cambridge, though perhaps slightly more wide than far, his tail forever atwitch in anticipation, the animal crept. He lurked behind doors, he crouched at the top of long-forgotten stairs. He once tried to camouflage himself in a field of Irn Bru, but, not being able to find one in Cambridge, made do with hiding behind a sinister smirk...
Is it just me, or are incompetents getting more incompetent?
Having decided enough was enough, and atomic orbitals probably wouldn't spontaneously collapse without me understanding them, I decided to have a quick peruse of my favourite tabloid, the 'Cloak and Dagger'. Ignoring the obituaries, (why bother? I'm not in them!), I strolled along past the wanted ads and reached the (damn, I can't think of a newspaper analogy for incompetence) anyway, I looked at the incompetents, and behold! someone within remarkably easy reach.
Having decided that a killing would help me unwind, I strolled along to his room with my helpful midget sidekick, Tonto. Reaching the door, I knocked gently, and proceeded to lean nonchalantly, weapons vaguely concealed.
Remarkably, the door just opened, and so a focused conversation began;
'You do English, right?' I ventured, drawing him smoothly into my confidence, 'Yeah' he replied, now looking rather curious.
Worried I was losing the advantage, I stormed ahead, making sure he was who he should be. Success! He was.
With this confirmed it was an easy matter to draw, aim and fire in quick succession, felling him with a single shot, straight through the heart. I then proceeded to inform him of the best way to retrieve his unfortunately lost work, and had a nice chat. Well, it never hurts to be polite to one's victims now, does it?
Following my previous success, I visited more Jesuans, a Trinitarian and a Johnian, all of which were either out or cowering in their rooms. Moving on to Clare Memorial Court, I encountered two corpses, an overly paranoid person who refused to open the door, and someone else who appeared to be out. A visit to Robinson was similarly unsuccessful.
Eventually we reached Selwyn Cripps Court, the scene of many police incidents in previous years. The incompetent's staircase was located, and after backtracking due to climbing too high, we arrived in the correct corridor.
The incompetent's neighbours all appeared to be in the kitchen, and exclaimed, "Ooh, you're going to assassinate Alan." They confirmed the location of his room and that he was in (quite how he didn't notice is beyond me). After peering around the door, and noticing that his back was to it, I stormed the room.
Unfortunately, I didn't notice the trap which had been set in the form of a loose rug on a highly polished floor, and was sent flying towards him. However, I was still holding my gun, and blasted away most of his posterior. The neighbours enquired if there was much of a mess. Well, other than the miscellaneous body parts ...
Having just completed a most gruelling essay, a theses on the bitter nature of mortality, The Phoenix decided to put some of his theories to the test. If there is one thing that The Phoenix dispises more than cowardice, it is weakness, and incompetance. It was time to see if Darwin was right. Bursting into Sam Waldock's room at 5.45pm The Phoenix watched as his victim resigned himself to the inevitable.
"You're here to kill me aren't you?" said he.
"Yes!" said I, and so I did.
A single shot from the 'Unlifer' was enough to end his pitiful existance. Carving in blood, my gruseome mark upon his forhead, I left him, a gift to the dark powers, or to the bedders, whomever finds his festering corpse first....
Upon passing by and seeing Peter Dawson's room lights on, I proceeded to investigate. Getting inside was easy, his door was ajar with a doorstop, and he was sitting on his bed inside. So, in the name of the law, I shot him infront of his parents and younger brother, probably scarring the three for life.
After learning an incompetent lived in the very same college as me, I resolved to kill him that very day. Such sloppiness is not acceptable within the Guild. He didn't even hear my approach as I placed my silenced pistol against the back of his head. I am glad to report I have removed an embarrassment to us all.
The Phoenix could feel bloodlust rising inside him. The moon was right, the stars told the tale, more blood must be shed tonight! Encountering a lone figure in the hallowed corridors of this most glorious of colleges, The Phoenix knew that he must die.
"Charlie Williamson?" I drew the 'Unlifer'
"Yes... oh shit!"
Turning on his heels, Mr Williamson made to flee down the passageway. But he made it not more than a few paces before before a gutwrenching bang echoed about the most ancient of halls, shortly followed by a dull thud as his lifeless corpse hit the ground. Blood soaked the cold stone floors. The Phoenix stooped, sniffing, yes, this smelt good! So good! Turning his victim over, The Phoenix drew his knife, and carved upon the victim's forehead for all to see, that most terrifying of marks, the most evil of all post-modern art projects, the flaming bird of dread and death, the mark of The Phoenix....
Went to the college of Thomas de Rivaz with the intent of bombing his pigeon hole. Forgot that it was lunchtime and there would be a lot of people around. Went in anyway. Almost made bomb go of while still holding it, but managed to reset without opening the envelope (i hope). Set up bomb in rather a hurry. left building. Do I get nominated for the worst assassin award or what? And it was a deviously clever bomb and all. Practically foolproof. practically.
Haha, its another BPL (Bad Poisened Letter)!
At least, that is what I thought... It turned out that the sticky letter in my pigeon hole as actually an ESBBPL (Evil Sneaky B*****d Bad Poisened Letter)
Knocking the letter arround before hall with a ruler, I found no explosion so I thought it was safe. I came back after hall to open in in safety but it had been carefully designed so that the detonator came out the back and was stuck to the corner of the pigeon hole. This ment that the only way to see that it was an ESBBPL and not a BPL was to take it out. On the removal, it went bang! Or rather did a little jingle.
So to summerise: Pick up all letters with tongs!
PS Very cool letter :) Thanks for all the work done with it, It really made my day... no life as I am now sadly desceaced.
We then went for Pembroke, here we split up - I went after an incompetent and again got no reply while Wilks went for a target on his list. I met him later as his victim was being conned into opening the door, Wilks quickly fired 2 shots into his torso and I then came in and fired one on his neck.
The Umpire points out that it is illegal to attempt to kill other people's targets while accomplicing.
Minty Caldicot appeared to have luck on her side, judging by the large explosive device that had mis-fired outside her room without her knowing. Amateurs. Any assassin worth his salt knows you need to politely introduce yourself to your victim, possibly gaining a cup of tea in the process, before sinking a knife to the hilt into their chest. Which is exactly what I did. Its what Minty would have wanted. Service with a smile, and a very english "I'm dreadfully sorry about all of this..." Anyway, the Weasel squeaks again, and Minty, no more.
SWAT raids may be fun, but I have been thinking it may be worth the effort of starting the arduous trek up to the slightly less paranoid world of the redeemed criminal. One name on the incompetence list looks promising - I know where and when his lectures are. Tracking rusty nail from the lecture was not difficult because he was wearing a Boatie jumper with his college on it. I used all my stealth to follow him to a less crowded area, and then knife him in the back. Bit pointless really, since he wasn't even aware he'd gone incompetent and had to be on the look-out. His final words were, "Oh, am I dead?"
Clearly fearing The Phoenix's rapid rise to power, and aghast at the trail of corpses left in his wake, Gordon Ball made a pre-emptive strike upon him, slaughtering him in cold blood. Approaching The Phoenix silently from behind, Godon stuck a knife into him. Curse the day I ever allowed him to see my face! With my dying breaths, I salute his courage, but be warned, you have made a mortal enemy this day! The immortal Phoenix shall return, it is only a matter of time before he is born again from the fires of hatred to wreak a terrible vengeance....
In the crystal clear moonlight of the early morning daylight, Lydia and I danced a grim fandango whilst tendrils of fog entwined their twisted fingers around us. As the dance grew deeper, the music rose to a crescendo as with a final florish I drove my 3inch blade deep into her heart.
She turned to face me with compassion in her eyes. She knew what I had done. As the red stain spead across her black lace ballgown, she thanked me for the dance and fell into my arms... one last time...
Cruelly, outside my lecture hall, a friend from my home town approached as if to talk, and then struck me down. As I slumped to floor, blood flowing from my chest, I thought, "If only I'd trusted no-one."
This morning at five to twelve, I walked up to Robin Message, smiled, said "hello", and brutally knifed him in the chest. "I should have guessed you would be playing", came his last painful words. Don't you just love it when you get given targets you already know?
silently i flittered like a shadow through the night and with the stealth of a cheeta i placed my evil device on the doomed door of my victim (Niraj Modha) and once more diappeared into the shadows again
I got fried at approximately 12.15pm this afternoon. Returning from a morning lecture, I failed to neutralise a cunningly-placed bomb outside my door, and the lack of natural light did not help my shoddy defusal technique. But Ziggy will be reincarnated! Peace out.
After failing to kill Rory Blevins (I approached him, my knife tucked into my jacket, only to find out he was already gone to pastures greener), I was in a somewhat disconsolate mood. This mood was not improved when someone poked me with a pen as I hurried to my physics practical at the Cavedish. The downward trend was continued by my realisation - an embarassingly long time later - that this meant I was dead.
After his previous slightly bungled and extremely lucky assassination Skeletor decided he needed to be a bit more clinical. This required much research. Having traced the movements of his next target for many days he determined exactly when and where the target would be arriving for a lab experiment. Casually loitering with a coffee and a cigarette outside the door Skeletor spotted his target, Ben Wynne. Quietly he approached and uttered the word "Ben". A head turned, it was all the confirmation Skeletor needed to plunge his knife deep into the targets chest. As he fell to the ground all Ben could be heard to say was "how did you know?" Skeletor prefers to keep his intelligence network to himself.
And one bright afternoon in the year of our lord two thousand and four the sun did shine upon two brave knights of the Computer Laboratory as they sat at their shining white workstations in Castle Intelworkstationroom.
"Good Sir Williams," said the more honourable of the two knights. "I do
declare that the good name of our very own Castle Intelworkstationroom has
been besmirched by the most lowly and villainous
"Indeed!" said the more trenchcoated of the two knights. "'tis a heroic
quest you propose for us, Sir Biltcliffe. But I do declare that I espy a
trivial flaw in your proposition, in that neither of us are possessed of
the slightest hope of recognising the dishonourable
"Your objection is a most wise one," said the honourable knight, "but verily, I do declare that such a matter need not present more than the most trivial obstacle to our knightly selves, for verily I shall call upon the Lady of the Interweb to grant me the wisdom to recognise the evildoer."
"Then I wish you the best of luck," said the trenchcoated knight, "but I shall not assist you in your quest. I have more pressing business, for I must seek out and slay the fearsome dragon of Tickfive."
And so the knights did part and go upon their separate quests. And the honourable knight did pray with great piety to the Lady of the Interweb, but she did not see fit to grant him the boon of knowledge. And after some time, the tea-drinking knight arrived to find the honourable knight in prayer.
"Good Sir Biltcliffe," said the tea-drinking knight, "I do declare that thou art praying with great piety to the Lady of the Interweb."
"Indeed, 'tis so, Sir Lester," said the honourable knight, "but as yet she
has not seen fit to grant me a boon of knowledge. Tell me, knowest thou the
most dishonourable
"Indeed, Sir Biltcliffe," answered the tea-drinking knight, "walk with me
'cross the courtyard and I shall show you the face of the most evil and
villainous
And so the knights walked together across Castle Intelworkstationroom, and
the tea-drinking knight did show to the honourable knight the face of the
most evil and villainous
"I am indebted to thee, Sir Lester," said the honourable knight. "Verily, I am glad to see the lowly scoundrel here, for I have been lax in my knightly duties and my duck has not tasted blood for many months."
"Sir Biltcliffe, I declare that thou art sick of mind," said the tea-drinking knight, "for surely thou meanest to refer to thy sword and not to thy duck?"
"Would that it were so," said the honourable knight, "but I am without a sword, and must set about the slaying of evildoers armed only with this duck." And the honourable knight did produce the duck, which had been hidden in his coat pocket, and show it to the tea-drinking knight.
"Verily, thou art a victim of the greatest ill-fortune," said the
tea-drinking knight. "Unto you I wish the best of luck in your noble quest
to slay the dastardly
"I am aware of that of which you speak, Sir Lester," said the honourable
knight, "but 'tis of no import, for verily I shall simply ride out when the
dishonourable
"Yours words are wise," said the tea-drinking knight, "and so I bid thee
the best of luck in thy quest to slay the lowly
And many hours did pass, and the sun did sink lower upon the horizon, and eventually a missive from the tea-drinking knight returned to Castle Intelworkstationroom.
"Sir Biltcliffe," enquired the missive, "wert thou successful on thy most
noble quest to slay the despicable
"Nay, Sir Lester," read the missive which the honourable knight did return to the tea-drinking knight, "for the little bugger has not yet left the Castle, and so I remain in vigil."
And many more hours did pass, and the sun did sink even lower upon the horizon, and eventually the trenchcoated knight, having slain the fearsome dragon of Tickfive, did return to Castle Intelworkstationroom and find the honourable knight still at his vigil.
"Sir Biltcliffe," enquired the trenchcoated knight, "did thou meet with
success in thy quest to slay the villainous
"Nay, Sir Williams," said the honourable knight, "for look yonder, the little bugger has not yet left the Castle, and so I remain in vigil."
And so the trenchcoated knight did once more depart, and the honourable
knight remained in vigil. And eventually after many more hours the sun did
set upon the Computer Laboratory, and the honourable knight was mindful
that the King's blessing no longer lay with the evildoers who sought
sanctuary within the Castle's walls. And so the honourable knight did slay
the evil
I've been brutally killed from half a meter away by Adam Biltcliffe who waited lamely (yes, lamely) for an extra half hour after the end of our practical just to be able to legally kill me in an out of bounds area. My identity having been revealed to him previously, while his was entirely concealed, I stood no chance.
The colts are burried and the rose has withered in the desert of treachery.
Unfortunately whilest in the bar last night I let my guard done for a second or two. I had previously tried to kill Livia (Sarah Thacker) as she was an incompetent, but failed. While I was ordering a drink she thought it best to repay the favour, and stabbed me in the back. I wasn't even holding a weapon ...
Killing people who aren't your targets is naughty.
Just having a cardlocked staircase really isn't enough, there's always a way through...
I was killed by an explosive device placed outside my door. Unfortunately, so was the entirely innocent Burrell's Field cat, who was with me at the time. He will be sorely missed by all the residents of W Burrell's Field...
This morning I emerged bleary-eyed from my burrow, squeaking curses not suitable for a childrens novel at having enjoyed perhaps one too many butterbeers with Brare Badger and Molly Rabbit at the Crinkle-Wood Arms the night before. Imagine then how my mood lightened, my little ears pricked and my squeak strengthened when I heard over the acorn-net that Che Meakin was in town. I knew he was just dying to meet me.
Once again I found myself staring down at hands that clutched a poorly callibrated derringer. Once again they became sticky with the blood of my victim. It was then it finally dawned upon me:
Killing people is A LOT more fun than collecting nuts.
The Quick Brown Fox decided more force was necessary to help him get hold of one of his friends. So he employed the services of a rather large water firing thing type device, and waited... Unfortunately, his friend didn't show, so despite all of his efforts, and the help of Steve McCann with each one, his friend got away once more.
Stalu ond Cwalu didest reflectle abouts all the killinings in the denlie of the three. 'Mayhaps the nine are scarified,' Reflectled Cwalu, 'ond doe not trustings us.' So Stalu ond Cwalu formificated a plane of grade jingityness. Reflectling much on the nine didst they find a veily veildeer, enema of the nine, ond a mans of grated ire to boots. So, Cwalu reflectled, shoulder they exploded the mans of grated ire, theys shoulder winning the toast of the nine, ond ones a gain be toasted bye the nine.
Ond they're mounds remained, Stalu ond Cwalu didest sneakle ond scufflie along the peerage of King's foiling as they did a shady-shadeswearing mans who lookings over his should regulated, ond keepings his handings in his coaster, but he was not the mans of grated ire. The mans of grated ire was to be in the Lectern of the computering in the sight of a musicium of newness, ond so Stalu ond Cwalu wented there.
Stalu deeded to hide ond gourd the stares with a "crowne prosecution servise" whateverer those was. Cwalu deeded to gourd the exit of the count wear the stares wear. They waitered on these positives until the mans ond some weemans of the computerings did exited, but the cowierdly mans of grated ire was not withist, for he had bean paranormals, ond had hided rabbit then go. Lazy bugger.
The Quick Brown Fox was making his quick (albeit not particularly brown) way home after lectures. Little did he know a friend was waiting for him with a present...
After the paranoia of our friend became too much to bear we decided it was time for her death. And so as she skulked away from hall we gave chase and both fired shots into her skull as she ran for the relative safety of the girls toilets. As she lay in a crumpled heap on the floor her last words were, " I didn't think you were actually going to kill me!"
And so it was that Heather Burgess (saffron) was removed from the incompetent list, and from this world in general by the great skills of Quentin and Spongebob.
Blessing my luck that I still had this nearby target, I wandered up to his room whilst waiting for my dinner to microwave. People were wandering around, but his door was shut tight. The presence of many people, seemingly preparing to cook, encouraged me to return to my own meal, which pinged 'Done' just as I got back to the kitchen! If you're interested, it was very tasty indeed...
Look, people, I try to make it easy for you, I really do. Anyone out there who's got me as a target (and there are three of you, I know that much) will know that the 'additional notes' section of my player information includes the fact that I live in a shared room. Not only that, it says - explicitly - "please take care to avoid killing my roommate".
Can that be so hard? He is - was - fairly inoffensive, fairly unimposing. He had no particularly suicidal inclinations. His habit of running thoughtlessly towards potential assassins screaming "me! shoot me!" was notable only in its complete lack of existence. If you're going to knock on my door, even if you don't credit me with the slightest inclination towards self-preservation whatsoever, you've still got to accept that there's only a fity-fifty chance that the guy who opens the door and wanders out, completely unarmed, into the corridor is, in fact, me. Add this to the fact that I've played this game five times and killed seventeen people and knocking on my door and hoping I come out to get shot really doesn't look like that attractive an option.
So, where was I? Oh yeah - I wander back this evening, climb up the horribly rickety flight of stairs, and what do I come across? Given the central theme of the last two paragraphs, the observant reader probably won't need telling that what I came across was the bloodstained, bullet-riddled corpse of one ex-roommate (mine). Someone evidently fancied their chances a bit more than I did, and he was the one who paid the price.
Anyway, conventional wisdom has it that one should keep one's enemies where one can see them, so the prospect of one of my assassins joining the wanted list is not one to which I am inclined to object. I'd be obliged if people keep him there for a bit, since killing him would only serve to get him replaced with someone whose identity is more mysterious. Still, at least I've had an assassin show interest in me for once - barring that dodgy letter in my pigeonhole which I've yet to check out I've not had a jot of excitement all game.
To the killer:
Firstly, don't be put off. No-one is that hard to kill, and if you can find a more subtle strategy than knocking on my door and shooting the first man out, I wish you the very best of luck with it. I hope your redemption conditions are not too harsh.
Secondly, I shall be invoicing you for the cost of the funeral.
For redemption,
Time: 9:50pm Wednesday 3rd December
Place: Trinity Bar
George Bush has won the election! Amen, my brothers! Yeehah! Let's go shoot
us some littygaytors!
The death of a disco dancer
Well, it happens a lot 'round here
And if you think Peace
Is a common goal
That goes to show
How little you know
This evening, fresh from Formal Hall, the White Rabbit bounced down to the Trinity Bar. There, he was much amused to see David Jackson, known wanted Twinitawian, attempting to play the 'Countdown' quiz machine (a machine from which we were later to win B#5, but that's a different story).
Do you remember me? how we used to be?
Do you think we should be closer?
She stood in the doorway the ghost of a smile
Haunting her face like a cheap motel sign
Her cold eyes imploring the men in their macs
For the gold in their bags or the knives in their backs
Stepping up boldly one put out his hand
He said, "i was just a child then now i'm only a man."
Stealthily, he drew his 'knife' and plunged it deep into Gower's back.
"Ha!" he cried, "you're dead."
"Ow. I wish you hadn't stabbed me." (or equivalently-pithy come-back) I then proceeded to stab him a few more times for good measure to make his bloodied corpse look like the handiwork of a frenzied psychopath (as opposed to that of a responsible police officer).
It seems that 'PC' name, Llewellyn Pilbeam, was so enraged by the death of his friend, the infamous criminal, David Jackson, that he took a knife, cunningly disguised as a biro and brutally murdered Richard Gibson, mathmo extraordinaire and better known as White Rabbit, the police's spokesman for Racial Equality and pubmeets.
I observed a dodgy guy approaching me from across the bar and proceeded to hide at the feet of my mathmo friend. He, shock horror, engaged me in conversation:
"Hi there," he muttered, sinisterly.
"Ummm..are you dead?"
"Ummm.I'm a policeman."
"That's ok then," I replied. Cautiously, I stood up.
"Can I see your knife?" he enquired.
"No." I felt this was an appropriate answer to his question. So much for subtlety on his part.
Unfortunately, he then proceeded to puncture my left lung with a knife borrowed from the dead wanted criminal hanging around near the quiz machine (editor's note: is it legal for corpses to lend out their weapons?). This was exceedingly painful and led to my untimely demise in the line of duty. How terrible that a so-called policeman decided to avenge the death of a wanted criminal in this way. It shows the way our society's headed..
Luckily,
An associate and I went on a "killing the easy incompetents, because they're bored of playing" spree. It was fun. Our first outing was to Elena Narozanski at Emma. She left her keys in her door. Seeing there was nothing of note in her room, excepting a large road sign, I went upstairs to her friend's room. "are you E Narozanski" "Have you come to kill me at last? Ive been waiting two weeks" [note to umpire: surely her assassins can be made incompetent for this negligence of duty?] A rubber band to the torso was all it took. We (my cowardly associate made it upstairs by this point, along with the chips we had bought from the van of death on the long trek from college) then received - Ben and Jerry's ice cream - Offers of white wine (politely, we declined.) - Invited to an Emma formal and, absurdly, a Geography Formal, and a formal for "Nat's Birthday" - Conversation about Cambridge, the universe and everything - An offer of a large road sign - A discussion on the Assassin's Guild and the nature of its players (all beautiful, sun-loving individuals) They were genuinely nice people, but if any assassins think they can top this for hospitality, please e-mail me via the umpire, I'd be glad to come and steal your food (No death without payment. [desceased.])
We then continued on our adventure to Queen's College, and eventually found the right room, for Tom Smith, the inco. We knocked, he opened, I shot, he died. We now note - he too was a nice bloke, not bitter in the midst of defeat, although he didn't appreciate the 3rd and 4th rounds I fired at him. He took the time out from his work (Maths, so it was probably hard) to entertain us with conversation for some time. On Adam Other's "How willing was the corpse to entertain/feed/water/amuse/help or otherwise be nice to/smile at/generally be a good host to me/us - ometer" T. Smith gets the excellent score of 7.5. Better Luck Next Time Tom, remember: we're thirsty people!
Incompetents? Dragging the name of my college in the dirt? Braving the regurgitated biological booby traps next to the college bar (ewww), I trudged back to the place I had sworn never to go again... The Staircase Next To The One I Was On Last Year.
I was carrying a bomb of very cunning design, having 2 detonators to increase the probability of one going off. While attaching this to my target's door I discovered her door was open. I played with the idea of just killing her there and then, but realised she might kill me in real life if I did. I then went about the long and tedious procedure of attaching a bomb to a door that won't stay closed.
The first detonator attached OK. The second detonator exploded in my hand. Riiiight. Nice to know the Andrew-always-dies-in-stupid-ways-before-killing-anyone rule is being upheld.
Incompetence? In Emmanuel? Never.
I have defused a further two exploding devices (both yesterday), my attention was drawn to the first by my early-rising nextdoor neighbour, and the second was just obvious really - an unsuspected CD in my pigeonhole - both the standard sprung cap devices. The former was disarmed without the spring firing by the pro-active neigbour who spotted it. The latter by me hurling it at a wall from a safe distance. Inside was a note detailing that you only die if you are holding the case at time of detonation. Unlucky!
I felt like killing after chemistry, like usual. So I decided to go to
Returning from a jaunt to the train station, I made the mistake of checking my pigeonhole. To my surprise, it contained an envelope. In my excitement at getting something other than adverts, I recklessly picked it up, at which point it immediately informed me, with a real voice and everything, that it was a bomb and wished me a happy birthday. So overall I am impressed and felicitated but deceased. Although the anonymous culprit thinks my name is 'Maheed', which was less impressive.
I was walking up the stairs to my room to find some guy standing outside. "stuart?" he said, and in the confusion said "sorry?" And I saw his arm relax where he was holding the gun. Stupidly, after fooling him I went for my gun and he shot me. Almost got away.
An early tip off from the porter's lodge told me my target had bleached blonde hair. Very useful. I found his main door unlocked, (though his actually room was shut) and also discovered the entrance to his shared bathroom open and occupied by someone not fitting the description. I told him I had made a mistake and entered the wrong room. I think he bought it. I hung around until he left and then wandered in. In pitch blackness, I waited in the bathroom for 10 minutes, hoping my target and not his neighbour would return. Eventually someone drew near. Heart racing, the doorknobe turned. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but the give away was the 'glow in the dark hair". I fired one fatal shot into his back. It came as quite a shock, judging from the comedy reaction.
Woo! My very first BPL! As if anyone would actually UMS me a letter... After getting rid of the nasty stuff and opening the letter (wearing flying gloves) I found a little card. It said:
IS YOU FEARINGS?
STALU OND CWALU COMINGS FOR YOU!
BEWARINGS US, MANS OF GRATED IRE!
THE COMPUTINGS CASTICLE WILLS NOT PROTECTING YOU FOREVENING!!!
BEWARING US!! STALU 7 CWALU
Needless to say, my spell checker didn't enjoy that. On the reverse (sic):
"This is a special letter for the mock assassination game run by Cambridge university assassins guild. The substances contained within are not harmful and are, as follows (alphabetically:)
Barbecue Seasoning, Black Pepper, Caraway, Cayene Pepper, Chilies, Chopped Basil, Coffee, Curry Powder, Flour, Garlic Powder, glitter, herbs de Provence (whatever they are,) Marjocam, oregano, paprika, pepper, Rosemary, Salt, Sugar, Thyme. (20) All cookery queries, or recipe suggestions can be sent, with any queries, to this game's fantastic umpire: Martin O'Leary, of St. John's College. (assassins@srcf.ucam.org.)"
Reflectling gratelings on the mans of grated ire, Cwalu determerings that he was excessiving in the paranormals boating his lecterns, ond wouldst not be findeded there any times soonishes. Cwalu determeirnged that bepoisonining the ired one wouldst cwalu him, or threatsinning him at least. Probables.
'But', reflectled Stalu, on heedering this plane of deathliening, 'a bepoisonned loiter rarely beworks!' 'Ah', responsible Cwalu... 'but he mightiest avoideded one posione, but neverever twenticle!'
So Stalu ond Cwalu didst bepoison the letterer of deathliness with very poiseons they couldst finderers, ond senderings it thought the "Unintangled Municiple Satsumers" to their nemomesis. Sneaky buggers.
Paid a fruitless visit to the Tang household, got my info and access from a corridor mate. Mwahahaha. Next time he will taste my watery wrath.
Spent a very relaxing evening in a friends room watching the superb film of Battle Royal (i was hoping to pick up some assasins tips). After the film and the formalities of goodbyes i returned to my room to discover a bomb outside the door, set to go off as i left in the morning. Unknown to my attacked i was not in my room so it would not be catching me out! I recruited the help of a friend to aid in the diffusion. The detonator was removed, wrapped in selotape, and sits safely on my mantle piece if the assasin wants to come round in person to reclaim then they are welcome, i shall even throw in an elastic band or two. Better luck next time.
It's always a bonus when you receive a target at your own college, or someone on your course, or even someone who is in your rowing team. To receive a target who is all three is a gift from the Creator himself. James never stood a chance. I had to excercise severe restraint this morning in not killing him until after the rowing was finished in order to abide by rules, and then a quick, quiet shot to the head sufficed. Since I sctually know the target I made sure it was a painless death and will also be contributing towards his funeral costs and possibly making a donation to a charity of his family's chosing.
I have just arived back from rowing to find my neighbour dead in our gyp room, having been fatally injured by a bomb left by my assassin. Before he drew his last breath he wrote a note explaining that he felt the bomb blast at 8.06 and knew that as he was writing he didn't have much longer. Assassination foiled!!!
He thrust himself into the room and pushed hard on her door. It was totally stiff and didn't budge at all. He knelt down before it and deposited his explosive load beside it. He wedged his device hard into the crack. Then he left for breakfast, knowing that she would be banging within a few hours.
Have carried out detailed surveilance in a former life, I decided that killing the incompetent Richard Turner was a job for BadgerGirl. Knowing his rountine as intimately as I did, it was a simple matter to cycle to his college and blow him away. Badgers Badgers Badgers.
I'm dead, a policeman who failed to kill me in his previous incarnation shot me on the way to a lecture. Damnable reincarnation, I thought I was safe, saw him whizzing by on his bike, thought that's one less person I have to worry about. Half a minute later I felt the flechets of rubber ripping through my skin, tearing my torso into an unrecognisable pulp.
To celebrate my first day as a police constable, I decided to bump off a wanted person. Not just anyone, but someone who had made himself known to me (and just about everyone else on my course) in the most brilliant fashion.
This morning I eagerly checked the police list for news of my reincarnation, and to my delight I was listed as a lowly constable. Good enough for me. Upon checking the rest of the site I did notice that Llewellyn Pilbeam had somehow made himself wanted for attacking another officer. His name rang a bell, as the week previously he had done just about the best thing he could do in an Assassins game and had nominated himself for our course representitive and made himself known to the ENTIRE lecture theature. I actually missed the bit when he was stood at the front of the lecture hall, but my friends didn't, and were able to make a positive identification for me. It also doesn't help to have your friends discussing assassins outside practical classes... you don't know who might be listening....!!
With the joyous plan of an easy kill inside my mind, I did pack my knives and wander off to lectures.
For the whole practical I debated my tactics and plans, quizzing friends to make sure he was the person I thought he was. I decided not to make a move during the trip from lab to lecture but wait to see if he got the course rep job in which case I would see him very clearly and he would undoubtably be very dead.
Unfortuantly for me he was beaten to it by a girl, so I had no choice but to chance making a kill after the lecture. I sat on the end of a row and rushed out at the end to mingle with the people waiting outside for the next lecture. I waited. My friends came out and I waited. And waited. He was one of the last out, and got stuck in a crowd trying to exit the area. Anyone sensible would have made it a quick kill whilst they could, but nerves got the better of me and I didn't bother. He then set off with a friend at a frighteningly quick pace. I (with rather bemused friends in tow) had to move pretty quickly to keep up, which is when things started to get suspicious. You'd be suspicious if you had a group of girls whom you didn't know following you and practically having to trot to keep up! Two backwards glances was enough to let me know he knew something was wrong, so I dashed forwards and stabbed him in the back with my knife. I do think that annoyed him a bit. Ha ha! I felt goooood. He collapsed and died under the archway to the Downing Site, and his blood ran into the gutter.
Why couldn't any of my targets have been that easy?
Many thanks to my friend Racheal, without whom this kill would not have been possible, and for the moral support along the way.
Sorry that you didn't get the course rep Llewellyn, I actually did vote for you.
The Pineapple Strikes Again!
Oi!
I hate incompetent assassins. not incompetents, who are known as scum, but assassins that puposely set crappy traps that are so obvious, and can be defused with about as much difficulty as SPS. even worse, these rubbish things mean hey avoid the incompetents list, where they rightly belong.
Case in point:
This morning i awoke to find a pineapple outside my room. i thought "pineapple = bomb" in a typically mathmo way. however, i was late for lectures, so i ignored it. it didnt go off.
i returned at 1350 hours, to discover it still there. even my bedder and neighbours hadnt set the bomb off. so, i retreat to a safe distance, and lob a shoe at it. on cue, it explodes. rather uninspired.
so, i approach it, typically paranoid, i don my biology grade rubber glove. fine. i touch it. not even any contact poison! even better, in his smugness, hes left me his name and adress with it, so i can return his precious detonator via the umpire.
anyway, im still alive, as it was a useless "if youre touching this bomb". i also now have a roasted pineapple for tea. for this, i thank you Mr. Booth.
ok, rant over. time to do some killing.
Catch-23, the curse of inevitability, is a terrible thing to deal with. Some claim that this foreboding of ultimate doom can be forestalled by human sacrifice. In the interests of scientific enquiry, I'm going to put that theory to the test.
Ingredients:
Target
Various nefarious devices
Limiting conditions:
Incompetence deadline
Method:
- Take one target (
- Knock on the target's door anyway for the sake of courtesy. Inform the voice on the other side that you are an assassin out to get them.
[You should note the sarcasm in the target's voice when they respond to this revelation. I got a reaction of "Very subtle...."]
- Have a short, friendly chat, then wander off. At this point you are allowed to feel happy in the knowledge that competence is no longer an issue.
- Acquire a bottle from a nearby cornershop, then go leave a bomb on your target's door, just on the offchance that they've been put off guard by your self-evident lameness.
Conclusion:
Sometimes there are no good excuses. Sometimes there is no good way to hunt your target down. Be glad, for Catch-23 interprets this as autosacrifice and will pass you by when you're in trouble. Over and out.
As I was finishing my lunch, a knock came at my door.
Me: "Yes?" Assassin: "Hello, I'm from the assassins' guild. I've been ordered to hunt you down" M:(commendingly) "Subtle." A: "Yes well, I couldn't think of anything else. Your name's on the door, so I couldn't really pretend to be lost, and I don't know what societies you're in." M:(Trying, albeit not very hard, to be helpful) "You could leave a note on my door. Someone did that last week. Unfortunately the fairy liquid had soaked through the paper." A: "Normally the thing to do in these situations is to leave a bomb on the door, but I didn't bring one with me"
I decided to leave it a while before returning the margarine to the fridge. When I did leave, the coast was clear.
Later, checking my email, I found the following message:
"Heya, Apologies for stopping by at what was obviously an inconvenient time for you - I was in the area and figured it was only polite to introduce myself. Hope you enjoy the lemonade. Any requests for what I should bring next time? Yours, Catch-23"
This puzzled me rather, as I hadn't found any bomb. I found the solution, however, when whilst walking down the corridor I heard the following conversation:
"So does this mean you're dead?"
"I'm not playing!"
Wandering on down the corridor, I found a pair of people gathered round a bomb that had obviously already been removed from a door 4 down from mine. The label on the bomb (which I didn't go near) said it was from catch-23. I explained what I thought must have happened. One of the people moved to pick it up.
"Careful!", I warned.
"It's ok. It already went off when I removed it from the door."
I decided there was hardly likely to be a problem if someone who was already a corpse got contact poison on their fingers. The corpse was now examining the bottle.
"Do you think its really 7-Up inside it?" (not lemonade?)
"You can have it", I said.
Note to Catch-23: next time, please send fruit juice, as I don't like fizzy drinks.
For being a complete and utter buffoon and bombing the wrong door,
The shame of it! A wanted criminal residing in my own home! Wary of the fortified status of her corridor I had been delaying my attempt on the Rabid Pigeon's life until backup (and a detonator) was available. Then, returning after my lectures I spied an all-too familiar figure from the Porters Lodge - the criminal! Fumbling an attempt to retrieve my RBG from my bag I followed, but was spotted. A chase ensued, ending with several bands hitting her door just as she reached the safety of her room.
pathetic incompetent fool that i am, i well deserved being shot 6 times in the chest with a lethal rubber band gun. i met my end at the hands of the murderously talented Mr Smith. it was very dramatic, and, sad to say, probably the highlight of my day.
it has come to my attention that several of you are semi-incompetent. today, during some difficult work, i decided to alleviate myself. following that, i decided to kill a random inco, Sarah Ramsey, AKA grendel, from catz.
upon arriving, i found said inco's door wide open, noone inside. i found the toilet door down the hall locked, someone inside. hence i waited for her to emerge, followed her back to her room, and shot her seven times in the chest. she almost had heart attack before she died, but die she did.
after the act, her ghost came to me, and told me of how she wasnt really bothered, that she wasnt really playing etc.
so, dear brothers and corpses to be in the guild, i ask this. who had this person as target, and why, after 10 days, isnt she dead? it must be at least one if not more competent players. so, do your job and KILL KILL KILL!!!!!!!!!
Minutes before I was supposed to be leaving Cambridge for the weekend, I received an urgent communication from an informant who wished to inform me that Steve Pettitt had just been sighted in the Biochemistry department. Grabbing an accomplice and a gun, I set off at great speed across Cambridge, heading down Tennis Court Road in the hope of spotting him as he came the other way. Alas, he was cycling, and though he passed within a foot of me, his nefarious green bicycle helmet concealed his features from him until it was too late to draw my gun. As he sped by, we changed tack and sprinted through Pembroke in the hope that he would be held up by traffic and we could beat him to Silver Street, but for once the roads were clear and he got clean away.
Today, at 17:40 two heavily armed assassins burst into my room with a wild shout of 'Are you James Robinson?' Before I had time to react, I had been gunned down and lay slumped across my desk in a pool of blood.
Catch-23 states that every choice has its downside. For James Robinson, the choice was whether to leave his door open so he could chat to those on his corridor. The downside was that I was able to gun him down. He will be sorely missed, as he was a nice guy. Over and out.
Have just shot, stabbed and laughed at the corpse of Jeff, (Robert Shaw) as he came home from a supervision. Jeff cycled home unawares, not realising death lay behind the very bushes he was cycling past. His carefree arrogance ultimately led to his demise, thinking himself safe back at Fortress Girton. This was not to be, and four shots to the chest, accompanied by a knife to the stomach, saw him in a pool of his own blood on the floor.
Poetry in Motion
Upon returning home earlier, I was informed by a helpful neighbour that two people had been round looking for me earlier. Assassins, i thought! And as such I went about preperations for dinner unusually well armed. Just as I finished cooking, I heard helpful neighbour in the hall talking to a gentleman. As my floor is all girls, it couldn't be one of the other residents. I opened the kitchen door carefully, to see a man standing at the head of the stairs. "Are you KCopyKCat?" he asked? I opened fire with my shotgun, and killed him, seemingly to his surprise. Don't blame him really!
I went on a little trip this evening to visit one of my targets, a certain
And call back later I did, whereupon I found their room empty once more, and the same suspicious neighbour roaming. With my trusty accomplice waiting on the floor below, I turned to leave but as I did so I noticed the neighbour creeping towards the bathroom. I pulled my trusty RBG from my pocket, but as I did so a shady character leapt from the murky depths of the bathroom, opening fire with their mighty weapon. My feeble cries of “Luke… I am your father!” did nothing to stay their trigger finger, and I fell lifeless to the floor.
So ends the awesome reign of Garth Vader.
After the fireworks ended, I spotted someone who fitted the rough description I'd been given of Ian Blaney. After checking it was him, I stabbed him in the back with my knife. He hadn't noticed he was incompetent, and took his death rather well, before heading off in search of burgers.
Alas, Badger Girl is dead. Taking the opportunity of a pub visit to look in on a target, I had the joy of meeting a certain incompetents friends. After finding out he was not around, I was having a delightful chat with them when suddenly I was stabbed in the back by Neil Sadler. As darkness engulfed me, I realised the hunter had become the hunted, and slunk back to the pub.
One day, Mr. Policeman went to a lecture. There he had lots of fun listening and taking notes, before leaving, walking to the outside of the chemistry building, and shooting poor Suzy. Poor poor Suzy. Suzy gone night-night now.
To blow up Philip,
That was our prime objective,
Alas he was out.
Lurk cold go home hats are good.
Catch-23 - all roads lead to hell. In this case, as I am unfortunately Wanted, the roads in question lead to my targets and my fellow Wanted person, Vincent Tang. Finding the latter option more aesthetically appealing, I made my way to Tennis Court Road, where some friendly folk in the lounge were only too happy to let me in to return Vince's lecture notes.
Knock on the door - no response. No light underneath it either. Bummer. I left a bomb and wandered off - I have other fish to fry this evening. Over and out.
on arrival to my humble abode i found the remnants of a member of my hostel smeared limbless in front of my door. in the palm of his detatched charred hand i found what was left of a bomb which curiosity had urged him to seize. His demise has led to a hefty investigation, which revealed 3 assassins making thier way to my residence before setting up the device. Members of his family would like to know who was responsible for the explosion of their son. Will the real slim shady please stand up.
One of the aforementioned "other fish", Maria Sedelnikova, seems to be evading Catch-23 quite efficiently - still alive, unwanted, non-incompetent and apparently thriving. What sacrilege...
Knowing that such a run of luck can only come back to haunt her, I decides that the only charitable option was to carefully place a rake on the garden path of her life. This took the form of a bomb attached to her door - she'll undoubtedly thank me for it later.
Note: apologies to the occupants of her floor who I so thoroughly freaked out. Unless one of them was my target. In which case, GRRRRRR.
Over and out.
Ok, I'm dead. And in the most stupid way possible.
Came home early this morning to find a 2 litre bottle attached to my door. By a small metal device. (The device was selotaped to bottle and propped closed against my door). Oh and it completely failed to go off when I detached it from said door and bottle. So why am i dead I hear you cry? (well I would if there was anyone here except me or if anyone was interested) Having never seen a device like it (I know I've lead a sheltered life, don't hold it against me) I decided to investigate how it works and why it did not go off. Causing it to go off. In my hands. At least it was not attached to the explosive anymore, thereby saving my innocent neighbour from being blown to bits as she lay sleeping peacefully in her room. My mangled corpse can at least take comfort in that.
Alchemical Experiment 1: Transmutation of Lord Striker into a corpse
The elemental ingredients of the starting state follow.
Oxygen, 52 kg. Carbon, 14.5 kg. Hydrogen, 8 kg. Nitrogen, 2.5 kg. Calcium, 1.2 kg. Phosphorus, 800 g. Potassium, 280 g. Sulphur, 200 g. Sodium, 120 g. Copper, 80 g. Zinc, 65 g. Selenium, 55 g. Magnesium, 40 g. Iron, 40 g. Molybdenum, 35 g. Chlorine, 25 g. Fluorine, 20 g. Iodine, 15 g. Manganese, 15 g. Cobalt, 15 g. Lithium, 15 g. Strontium, 15 g. Aluminium, 15 g. Silicon, 10 g. Lead, 10 g. Vanadium, 8 g. Arsenic, 3 g. Bromine, 2 g.
The elemental additions required to form the target state follow.
Carbon, 6 g. Hydrogen, 6 g. Oxygen, 1 g.
The most trivial means of acquiring these materials is in the form of the humble rubber band.
Experimental write-up:
The rubber bands were acquired and placed on a particularly useful means of delivery, known in alchemical circles as RBGs. Armed with these RBGs, and ready to perform the first experiment, we set forth towards the lair of the experimental subject.
It fell to
The transmutation worked perfectly; the neighbour was transmuted into a corpse. With still no sign of Lord Striker himself, the experiment was halted.
That is the end of the first experiment. For the second experiment, we shall be looking at...
Aha! I am the poisoned chalice! I returned home today to find my neighbour lying in a pool of blood. When I resurrected him, he told me that three assassins had come a-knocking for me, and, finding me absent, popped some caps in his ass instead. That sounds like a killing of an innocent to me. Bite me!
With incompetence deadlines looming I thought that I would take advantage of having an incompetent so close and so I gathered my merry band and we set off to Magdalene. Handily one of our number knew the fellow we were after. Unfortunately the other didn't, and shot an innocent. Looking at the matriculation photo afterwards we decided that the innocent looked nothing like our target, and that he'd been a little bit silly.
the board next to his name sai he was in but he wouldn't open the door. I waitined there for a good 30min whixh was a complete waste of time. i went round the side of the building to see if the lights were on and they were but the shutters were closed.
Taking advantage of his new wantedness, I accompanied my accomplice to his room to collect a water weapon, and then on to Burrell's Field, where he intended to solve something that had been puzzling him. After a while we got bored of that game, however, and set off back home for food - stopping only while my friend fired a few shots at a random assassin.
I'd like to say that I've always fervently believed it to be preferable to reform criminals rather than punishing them, and that it was in this noble cause that I willing gave my life for the redemption of Catch-23. Unfortunately, it would be a complete and utter lie. The real cause of my death was inexperience and carelessness on my part, and a fiendish bomb on Catch-23's.
Having been in my room for all of about 10 minutes, and already being late for a meeting, I decided that the chances of someone having managed to rig up a bomb outside my door without me having heard them were about nil. In this happy belief, I opened my door normally, instead of from within my bomb shelter.
BANG!
Drat. Still being in a hurry, I decide once again that there's not much that contact poison can do to a corpse, and begin hurriedly to dismantle it. As I separate the 2 cartons of juice that make up the bomb,
BANG!
Oh well. I suppose it didn't really matter. Notice a note was in the space between the cartons. Read it:
"It's worth noting that the first detonator was not attached to the bomb :). Cheers, Catch-23"
Drat. That was cruel. Funny, but cruel.
So in conclusion, there's little I can do but wish Catch-23 the best of luck in his rehabilitation.
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