The Assassins' Guild - Week 3 News
The Assassins' Guild - Week 3 NewsThe Umpires are feeling kind today, and so will count these incompetent Police as incompetent Assassins, for the purposes of redemption.
A dark aura pervaded the woodlands. Silence prevailed - no birds would sing in this vortex, every living creature feared to tread here. Save one. The glint of a knife shone out from the branches of a twisted old oak tree, marking the presence of one brave enough to confront the horrors of this place.
It seemed presently he was not alone. The distant gallop of a mighty steed could be heard far down the path. The figure in the tree hardly moved, but palpably tensed. It was a stormy steed, steam streaming from its nostrils. The rider came into view, a feisty-looking warrior woman who was clearly in command of the mount (whose name, Xanthos, was emblasoned on its reigns). She looked determined, purposeful even.
As they came under the boughs of his tree, the Duke leapt with acrobatic precision, landing perfectly on the saddle and, in one motion, slipping his dagger downwards into Helen Bernacki's lungs. As she collapsed, one sturdy shove knocked her flying into the bushes to die, no doubt a meal for some monstruous creature. The Duke rode the horse away from the foul canopy, then quickly slit its throat and leapt off as it collaped into a bundle of legs and panting flesh.
Another one bites the dust.
Dear Umpires,
Miss Sarah Donnelly has expressed some concerns over the behaviour of her assassin. He has a penchant for sending her cliched (non-poisonous) letters made from newspaper cut outs. The frequency of these have increased to an alarming rate and Ms Donnelly testifies that he is not actually lurking but dropping off his love letters and fleeing immediately.
I have two problems with this. The first is with style. It's really unoriginal to send letters like that. Please. Have a little originality. The second problem is that this person appears to just be sending the letters stalker-style rather than in a true assassins spirit. As a fellow woman, this is a little creepy.
If your Umpirical majesties approve, I would suggest that the assassin does not continue to receive competence for such attempts.
Lauren "Concerned of Newnham" Grest
Hunting incompetents is mostly boring... but occasionally you get lucky.
<.<;;
>.>;;
There's no one to be found...
*Knock knock*
... ... ...
*Fwip* *Stab*
~DesuDesuDesuDesu~
For killing an innocent Samuel Borin is placed on the wanted list.
He can redeem himself with two kills of his targets, assassins or wanted criminals
Friends who won't even knock on their neighbours doors... what is the world coming to? Fortunately, Helen solved this problem for me by walking past at a convenient moment. Unfortunately, she was already dead.
Around dinner time as defined by college Halls, I moseyed into the King's Bar for a spot of incobashing. Unfortunately I didn't find Diane Doliveux or Michael Clarke, and didn't know what to expect of the nasty Wanted Thomas Peach, so reverse-moseyed back out (it's like moseying but with a little bit of shimmy on the side).
---
Side note: for "didn't know what to expect of..." read "couldn't pick out of a line-up of Peruvian midgets."
Oh gracious and learned Umpires,
It has been brought to my attention in your most recent correspondence that I am incompetent. In my brief but colourful life before my unfortunate demise and subsequent inactivity in the police, I was left sorely disappointed by the lack of notable attempts upon me.
As such I would like to compensate by inviting anyone to strike me down, the reward being a bar of the finest cheapest chocolate I can lay my hands on. And maybe an apple.
I anticipate assassins climbing over one another for this irresistable bounty. At any rate it should not be hard to track me down.
Kind regards.
Samuel Vimes slumped back into the ancient chair in his tiny room, the sounds of the city floating in through the open window to merge with his gloomy thoughts. Thwarted again. Blast those Robinson dwarfs hiding in their interminable twisty tunnels. It had taken him a good half an hour to even find them.
He had fared little better at King's, where the most notorious criminal in the city had unaccountably failed to open the door. With an almost instinctive motion, Vimes reached for the half-bottle of MacAbre in his desk drawer...
Today I woke up, and decided I should do something, so I went to Jesus Lane to try and find those pesky incos Aphra Dowell and Nicholas Duncan. Unfortunately I should have known better than to go after a mathematician on a Saturday, the lazy bugger...I got cold for nothing :(
*knock knock*
Siobhan: Hi
Me: BANG
Siobhan: Are you serious?
Me: Yes. Sorry. Would you like a hug?
Act One
Scene One: Dzemsik is playing Chopin, the closing bars. Jack claps from
the back of the Hall.
Dz: Hullo.
J: Fantastic! That was so good, James.
Dz: Still some work to do yet. I'm gonna play it at the recital. So what's this
'great idea' you had then?
J: Let's go kill your son!
Dz: ...
Dz: Go on...
J: Every game the Assassins give out awards; for cop-killing, funniest
names. There's a Kenny award for dying too many times. Guy called Corteen's
gonna get that. One Award is called the Brutus Award - for the best
betrayal. There's another award for "least innocent innocent". I think I
can get you a chance for the both of them. And you'll be saving me from
incompetence, ensuring we don't get hordes of people hanging round outside
the house. Tempted? It'll be fun.
Dz: You had me at "kill my son".
exeunt
Scene Two: Jack and Dzemsik in The Cloisters, outside Rob Frimston's room.
J: Ok, so try to forget we're here to kill him. Act natural. And try not to
introduce me by name. If he's keen he'll have seen it, I'm way up the top
of the list.
Dz: You got a weapon? How are you gonna kill him?
J: Yeah, don't worry about that.
Dzemsik knocks.
Dz: Rooooob!
Dz: Rob?
J: Is it open?
Dz: Um... no. Locked.
J: Bastard. James, you have crap children.
Dz: Yeah. Actually having lives. Damn them. What now? Do we wait?
J: Nah, screw it, I'll kill him at Bar Extension. What are you going as?
Dz: Ben & I gonna cover ourselves in plastic forks. Go as Guys, Forks.
J: ... that is the best thing I have heard, ever.
exeunt
Today I went to Girton, and between the hours of 6 and 7, I shot the incompetent Sami Husa and then a short while later shot the other incompetent Rishi Baveja. Felix Aldonso
Message to all incompetent police: Cats:You are on the way to destruction, You have no chance to survive make your time.
Act Two
Scene One: Bar extension. Jack moves through the crowd in costume.
J: Is that him?
Dz: No.
J: Where the Hell is he?
Dz: He's not here yet.
J: Bollocks.
Scene Two: later
J: That him?
Dz: That's a woman.
J: Oh for fuck's sake.
Scene Three: later
J&Dz: I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MILES AND I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MORE
Scene Four: later still
J: Tliuabwjkla?
randomer: Sorry, do I know you?
J: ARE YOU ROB FRIMSTON!?!
r: ... not to my knowledge...
J: frfksk
Scene Five: about half two
J: DAMN YOU ROB FRIMSTON! YOU WIN THIS ROUND!
A perfect sphere materializes outside Trinity Bar.
He steps out, and in.
"Ai nee-ee-eed yorr Old-Ee-to-nee-an-Tie, yorr Cwotch-less-Lah-ee-tex-Twa-uh-sers and yorr Bunny-Suit."
Several Pool Players attack, to little avail. A Bottle-Nosed Dolphin is eviscerated.
Exit Raccoon through a Window.
He is now a Machine inside a Man inside a Rabbit inside a Degenerate Bondage Costume. Therefore he blends in perfectly.
FURMINATOR ACTIVATED.
TARGET FOR FURMINATION: that fake, hypocrite and Closet Furry "The Fursecutor General", who is therefore Substantially Bountied, doubly so if killed by a Furry in Full Costume.
The Umpires note that a bounty on someone's head does not make them a licit target for you, unless they would otherwise be one.
It seems I've been quite in demand recently, looking at how often my name comes up on the assassins website might be enough to make me paranoid if I wasn't so naturally optimistic. :)
Speaking of which, as I was talking to my corridor neighbour in my doorway at 2 30 today, I saw a bearded fellow approach with a gun and shut the door with lightning reflexes (maybe I am becoming a bit paranoid...) He managed to get a few elastic bands past me but none of them hit me. So I guess the moral of this story is, the longer you stay on the incompetence list, the more pages will come up when you type your name in on Google.
catch you later, assassins,
Diane
Hello there Umpires,
I decided that I was bored of essays, and so Jacob Samuel Corteen and myself decided to go on a bit of a bash, an 'incobash', you might say. First to Selwyn, where we failed to find Siobhan Elizabeth Smith (although we managed to be super suspicious and worry some neighbours). Then to Ellen Turnbull, where we helped a man with his shopping, and got into the building, but she didn't seem in. Then to King's, where we failed to find 2 of the incos, but then Jacob Samuel Corteen found Diane Doliveux, she was about a foot below all of his rubber bands. Bugger. Finally we thought we'd go and get stuck in St. Michael's Court. So we did. It wasn't much fun.
So all in all, not that successful, but it got me out of my room for a bit, which was nice :)
Hahahahaahaahahahahaaa! Phear my brackets! >:D no, wait, >:) !
Meh. Another unprofitable incobash.
"We apologise, but Lord Sunday is not available at the moment. Please try
again later."
Arthur wasn't going to let the last morrow day off that easily. He waited,
and waited...
Act Three
Scene One. Too early. Jack's room.
Much chaos. Jack staggers to the phone.
J: hlo?
Dz: Did you get him?
J: ... what?
Dz: Rob Frimston.
J: Don't talk to me about Rob fucking Frimston.
Dz: He'll be at choir this evening, you know.
J: ...is that so?
Jack's left eye starts to twitch.
Scene Two. Jack's room.
Much chaos. Jack is tooling up for killing. Left eye starts to twitch.
J: Aha. Ahaha. You're mine now Rob Frimston. You've sung your last matin. You're a sitting, singing duck.
J's conscience: Is this really sporting?
J: Quiet you! This time I have him! I know exactly what I'll do... Ahaha.
J's conscience: Is it even in bounds? Places of worship and that?
J: What!? What do you mean? It has to be!
Jack leaps into chair at desk. Scrolls through rules. Eye twitches.
J: Oh I bet you think you're SO clever, Rob Frimston.
-intermission-
Dear Umpire,
Today I saw Simeon Bird. He was wearing a hat, and cleaning up the Force. He may have been reprogramming himself to be twenty metres tall.
Simeon Bird
Clever girl.
Tonight at ~22:20 I killed the incompetent policeman Saul Glasman. I followed him from the magpie and stump (~22:00) but due to his frequent stopping I left him alone. I then found him again outside the college.
Saul: (Something about disliking being poked)
*Me stab him in back as approaching group*
Me: By the way Han-Ley your group is slightly less exclusive now.
*People look confused*
Me: Saul you're dead
Saul: I'm not even playing anymore.
Me: You're incompetent
Saul: How can dead people be incompetent?
Me: Dead people become police, haven't you ever watched robocop?
*rest of conversation blurry due to momentary flashbacks with very
poor quality special effects*
For Great Justice! Take off every Zig!
Went to lurk for Aphra Dowell. I saw lots of people come out of 66 Jesus Lane, but none coming out of 67. Eventually someone male went into number 67 and informed me that Aphra was in Durham. I thus decided to go home.
Inconceivable!
A note to wanted criminals: remembering your evil wanted status is a good idea.
The Umpires, in their infinite wisdom, have deemed that this is sufficient for Jacob Samuel Corteen to redeem himself for his earlier transgression. He is therefore no longer corrupt.
?_?
What a city, Vimes reflected. He still wasn't happy about cooperating with a known murderess from the Shades, even if it was in the pursuit of justice. It was as bad as vampires in the Watch, and it made his fists itch. Messrs Burleigh and Stronginthearm would be proud of the sterling job their products had done today, though. "Corpses thoroughly mutilated or your money back!!!!!", he thought. Not to mention an ample capacity for dispatching criminals quickly and with a minimum of mess. Yes, it had been a good evening's work.
And damn Vetinari would *have* to sit up and take notice of this one, after the fuss he'd made about the attempt to blow up the Palace the previous night. He'd summoned Vimes at an ungodly hour of the morning and told him in no uncertain terms that culprits must be found or created. In the interests of the city, he'd said, which was a weaselly little phrase Vimes knew well and had even, in a varied form, used himself. Given the state of the Watch Vimes had been forced to simply single out a random pair to face the charges rather than actually finding those responsible, but at least the people he'd singled out were criminals anyway, so a generalised principle of justice was upheld.
At this point, the Vimes stomach interrupted the musings of the Vimes brain, and headed off into the foggy chill of the winter city with the rest of his body in tow to find food.
The Duke heaved a mighty sigh as he collapsed on his leather armchair. It had been a long day. He'd returned once more to the near-impenetrable fortress of two mighty warlords he'd been tasked to kill, only this time (unlike the day before) the subtly concealed rear entrance had been blockaded. He must've been careless, left some clue as to his presence. He'd sneaked around a while, in the hope that some entrance may make itself known to him, but to no avail.
His elven servant brought him a bottle and a glass. He poured himself a large glass of liquor, and downed it. On his way home he'd passed a hamlet, in which he knew lived a wanted contrabandist. He'd gained entrance to the house, even entering the scoundrel's privy and storerooms, but no life stirred there.
One final detour had taken him to a hotbed of crime, where several dastardly creatures were said to dwell. He'd tailed a few of the shiftier-looking ones, but none fitted his profiles.
As the fire crackled and the sounds of the night outside grew, the Duke started to doze. He was almost asleep when he heard a mighty booming knock at his door. Instantly awake, he armed himself and went to check who it was. The only sign that anyone corporeal had visited was a notice pinned to the door and written in a red that looked suspiciously like dried blood. It read 'Call no man lucky till he be dead'. A stark warning indeed.
Last night, at around 11:30, someone buzzed my room. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Hello?
Buzzer: *tap tap tap*
Me: Hello?
Buzzer: Hi
Me: Who is it?
Buzzer: Tom
Me: Tom who?
Buzzer: Tom Larsen
Me: Why?
Buzzer: I've locked myself out, can you let me in?
I went downstairs and looked through the glass pane in the door. I see outside a water gun poking over the wall. I therefore go upstairs get an RBG and open the window, and see Simeon Bird and another assassin. A brief firefight ensued, in which we discovered that we were out of range of each other. Simeon kindly returned my thrown knife and I went to bed. I suspected the presence of other assassins, though I did not see them.
Dearest Umpire(s),
Tonight came a knock at my door,
A friend I expected for sure,
I opened it a crack
Soon realised an attack
And my assassins life was no more.
Yours poetically,
Joseph Darby.
I was Most Scientific. I avoided Martyn's Death Ray by the simple expedient of Ducking. Additionally, I penetrated Samuel Borin's RADAR of suspicion using my Stealth Hat.
Under the influence of port from the TMS, I decided to go on a killing spree.
I knocked on the doors of Lauren Smith and Michael Clarke, neither answered, but one had a light on. Since there didn't appear to be any noise, I very much doubt that either were there, and so I would like to remind people to save power and switch of your lights on leaving your room.
I then attempted to kill Lauren Elise Massey, but due to the fact that both both us appear to be totally incompetent assassins in a literal sense, no kills occurred. Note that the question "Are you an assassin?" doesn't actually give you that much information.
Dearest Umpire-entity, It is with great regret that I report my unfortunate demise. It appears that my former ally not only observed which courses I am taking, but also that I always leave lectures by the back exit, and now it appears he was also targetting me as well, which may or may not explain why he decided to dissolve the alliance. Ah well. I'm surprised I wasn't killed weeks ago, since I gave up carrying a gun to lectures after the first week. It seems that the Mafia were nearly a complete failure, then. Still, we shall be ph34rsome as Police. (Maybe.)
Dear Umpires! (as opposed to deer umpires - I shan't go into all the jokes I could make based on that, don't worry)
Today I got up at some god-awful hour to assist Charles Curry with a killin'. First we travelled to Peterhouse, where we spent 10 minutes or so lurking up Jenny Scott-Thompson's stairs (woof), but then ran away when someone came out of a room above us (it was tactical, damnit). Finding ourselves no longer inside, we decided that the best course of action would, instead, be to lurk the super secret (read: most direct) route from the target's lecture to her room, which proved most profitable :)
Michael Wallace, P to the hizzle, to the Dizzle, oh yes.
P.S. I have great respect for anyone who knits in lectures.
Dearest The Umpire,
In response to recent comments made by divers persons who may or may not be members of one of several non-existant cliques which may or may not be dominating (game loss ensues) either the possibly existant assassins social scene or the game, I would like to assert in the strongest possible terms that my father is a taxi-driver.
Once upon a time, I, Charles Curry, dreamt I was the Master of Jesus College, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes the Master of Jesus College. I was conscious only of my happiness as the Master of Jesus College, unaware that I was Charles. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was the Master of Jesus College, or whether I am now the Master of Jesus College, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and the Master of Jesus College there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things.
I hope you found that fascinating. You see, my life is (naturally) governed simultaneously by an underlying hidden Markov model and Edmonds statistics, the conflation of which is not only very silly but also, it would appear, fatal for poor Jenny. Now all was fluffy and well when I set off for my usual mid-morning random walk until I realised I had not happened upon a certain $undisclosed_location in a while. Sure enough, ten minutes later I found myself in the picturesque "forest grove" wherein lies the "raccoondominium". O what a tonic of life was there, drunk on the morning sun and the fountains of Wyne. We made illicit toasts to ourselves and marvelled at the follies of the world.
*scamperscamperscamperscamper*
Statistics directed us to Peterhouse, specifically the abode of Miss Scott-Thompson. Except it was probably locked or something, so instead we decided to sit down on a spiral staircase and wait. We then got bored and attempted to integrate it. This failed. Fortunately, nearby was a maths lecture theatre, so we gave up and ran there, seeking enlightenment.
Statistically speaking, no-one had walked randomly into their mark following lectures for some time. It had to happen. It had to happen soon. Sorry Jenny, it was all in the statistics.
Anyway, I bounced away feeling super happy and wonderful like I'd returned to the world of lol, or something, or just declared myself dark lord of the land. So happy, in fact, that I forgot to post threatening notes on James O'Driscoll's door. Ah well, statistics and irony will doubtless rectify that situation soon.
It's all in the statistics.
Yours randomly, Charles Curry
PS I lied. My father is in fact a bricklayer.
The University Of Cambridge reports:
Dear All,
The University Of Cambridge would like to state that due to the actions of Charles Curry it lost The Game at 15:30 on Wednesday 8th November 2006 Anno Domini. We would also like to wish aforementioned Charles Curry the best of success in his MA studies.
Yours Sincerely,
The University Of Cambridge.
He crept along, bow at the ready
His mind in turmoil, his hands steady;
The one he sought was not to be found
Although he'd wandered round and round.
The day wore on, he tired himself
Ithilion, a most tainted elf
His methods cruel and ever faster -
Not for himself: he served his master.
Dear Umpire,
Cambridge is no longer safe.
Since last I wrote, we have made many advances against the fursuited menace but now even the valiant Ocelot Hunter lies dead and, more worryingly still, my beautiful assistant, Don't Be The Bunny, has succumbed to necrophiliac furversions.
With this in mind, I set out to meet the great sage, David Manning. When I arrived, however, I found that he was out. Damn.
The Umpire-entity reports:
As they have not done anything since before time began, these people have been removed from the game.
Let this be a lesson to you to GET OUT THERE AND KILL PEOPLE, lest the same happen to you.
Dear Umpires, Today I threw away a letter. "This is a most unconvincing attempt at replicating an official University letter," I said to myself. When I got home my friends told me it had been from the Careers service and laughed at me. Luckily I plan to eke out a living mugging big issue salesmen for their daily takings anyway, and as such the loss of the letter did no great damage to my career prospects. Yours overconcernedly, Amos Micah How
On Wednesday, from 12.20 to 12.50, I lurked most unsubtly opposite the entrance to Diego's locked building, pretending to talk on my mobile. During this time I know he was in his room, as I could see him moving about; however he failed to come out and try to kill me. Oh, and I also spent another 10 minutes before this trying to find the building.
As he strolled alongside the friendly, gentle-hearted young lady, the Duke wondered if he was doing the right thing. His prey WAS a scoundrel of the lowest order, but maybe it was wrong of him to break the trust of this jovial girl. Still, she was the only route he had into the den of vipers where Archangel resided.
They entered the building, a grimy place that reeked of revolution and rebellion. The Duke cordially greeted all those present, noting the man he was after with a satisfied smirk (which would seem a friendly smile to those who knew him not). Time passed; the conversation became heated, and an argument broke out. The Duke saundered over to his victim, who stood apart from it all, and without a word stepped behind him and darted his blade into the back of the man's neck. With a gasping, gurgling hiss, he fell to the floor.
The commotion subsided as people noticed the body, but it took a while for anyone to notice the absentee. Long enough.
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
For shooting an innocent, Stephen McCann is made corrupt, and is placed on the list of corrupt police officers.
He is stripped of his rank, but may redeem himself by shooting a wanted criminal, two incompetent assassins, or four incompetent/corrupt police officers (in any combination).
97%
I hung around outside St. Peter's Terrace today (15.45 - 16.20) in hopes that Daniel Ross or Francesca Thrangorodrim Thompson might come out to play. Within the first 5 minutes I learned there's only so many times you can "innocently" walk a circular route before someone starts looking at you funny.
^.^;;<|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||> and ^.^;;<||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||> report:
T_T
Dear Umpires,
It seems that making lots of attempts has some drawbacks - one of which is that, as Noel Edmonds would have said, if you don't die on the first however many, then you're bound to die soon. It's like my life was the £250,000 box, and I didn't Deal in time :( Oh, Edmonds-Sensei, why did I not take your sound statistical advice to heart?
Oh well - for the benefit of anyone in the future - this means I lasted 15 weeks, 3 hours and about 20 minutes (you wouldn't believe how much of a hassle working out how long Laycock lasted was...well, you probably would, the answer is 'not very much', but it was still some, which is enough to be greater than zero... (yes, I admit it, I study maths, not Land Economy, I'm sorry)).
But yes, woe is me, etc. etc. - at least now I don't need to wear gloves when I go to get milk (although I don't think dying will stop my Cheery Neighbours from STEALING it >:() (seriously, there is no way to do a close bracket after an sad/angry face without it looking silly...). Oh, and I can wear my scarf now, excellent.
Dear God I hope I stay retired - I'm getting too old for this...
Michael Wallace, PhD
Today I confirmed the eerily familiar girl that walked past me outside the Anchor yesterday was Ellen Turnbull, the notorious incompetente. OoooooOOooh, thought I, I wonder if she'll do it again. So I lurked outside Darwin (logical route from $subject lectures to her impregnable abode of mystery) from 16:45 until 17:08, coming just short of the incompetence target. Why then do I bother to mention it? Simply to add to her enigmatic aura of mystery and unnattainability. I understand last year The Mighty Boo[th]sh hunted her every day for weeks before achieving a result. Truly an occult figure, this Ellen. Anyway, $subject and all that, same time same place bound to achieve a result. What are the police doing about it, that's what I'd like to know. -Jack Ruby
Tonight, at half six, The Smoking Gnu [dec] ended the suffering of the incompetent David Mack, then was fed rice pudding by his still warm corpse, after it taught her the art of stage lighting. Alas, in the heat of the moment, biscuits were forgotten.
The world has not yet been destroyed by a neutron bomb. This is more surprising than one might suppose.
A mysterious creature appears outside of the room of Michael Patrick Wallace...
On a dark and rainy night, several sinister shapes stalked the streets of Cambridge. They were cold, wet and they had misplaced their binoculars, but they cared not one whit for this. They had a mission. A mission that would change the course of history ...FOREVER!
They ventured through the teeming jungles of central Cambridge to place one scaly green monster with enormous jaws at the door of one Michael "Raccoon" Wallace, lol MA, rofl PhD, former Commander of the Legions of the North. Its purpose? To offer him a G+T. Never before had such heinous enormity of scope been coupled with such daring of spirit. Never before had brave men stood forth in the world with such intrepidity. Raccoon was going to get ice in his glass, and nothing would stand in their way.
Gentlemen, The Crocodile Has Landed.
This evening I decided to go up to Wychfield and try to find the naughty inco Janet Audrey Scott. I waited outside the only entrance to her house from 19:40 to 20:20, but without result. Upon leaving Wychfield, I decided to see who else I could go after. Peter Prescott, of Churchill College, caught my inco-list perusing eye. I attempted to find Churchill, getting rather lost in the process, then attempted to find his staircase, again getting rather lost. Why, when just about every other college uses the letter for the staircase and the number for the room, does Churchill have to be the other way round!? I waited outside his room from 20:50 to 21:05, again without success.
Hello Umpire!
I would like to report one of the more straightforward kills of this term, attributable to myself. I select Christian Richardt from the list of inco policemen. I go to the door of his room. I knock on the door. He opens it. I raise my gun and say bang. An amicable discussion then follows. I wish I could provide details of a desperate shoot out a la John Wayne plus a few decent car chases but that would be fibbing. It seems bad form to turn on my fellow Caian like that, but needs must with the SWAT raid tomorrow. Also, I get lost in other colleges...
Eystein
Return To Peril
It seems I ocelotted my way where no man has been before - and lived! This death defying stunt was pulled off at all times with the highest level of verve and style, pausing only to rescue a passing Princess or two from ravening hordes.
URGENT NEWS BULLETIN:
PLAGUE OF KILLER RABBITS SWEEPS THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE. ALL COLLEGES AND DEPARTMENTS DESTROYED, ONE UNIVERSITY MEMBER DEAD.
At approximately 10:00 pm, Wednesday 8th November 2006, the University Of Cambridge was unexpectedly hit by a plague of killer rabbits. We were long aware of rabbit damage being caused to the radio shack "Woop Woop II" of the Cambridge University Wireless Society, but the general consensus had been that they posed no serious threat to the University. This proved an erroneous assumption. The attack originated in Trinity Hall, near its JCR. Within seconds their numbers had reached the hundreds and were rapidly gnawing away at the building. After the Trinity Hall was levelled, the plague, still swelling in numbers, overran neighbouring colleges. The entire University Of Cambridge was levelled within the space of about 10 minutes.
Thus far only one fatality has been reported; that of an administrator of the university, who was located at the origin of the attack.
The causes of this plague are as yet unclear, however, preliminary hypotheses include the involvement of a student styling themself Janet Scott.
While the rabbits do not appear to be generally dangerous to human life, we nonetheless urge all students to not approach them. They are small, and have the distinguishing features of two red bands around their body, and the words "KILLER RABBIT" in black against a white patch on their fur. If seen, do not approach them, even if they are destroying your building or work.
The University Of Cambridge is making every effort to find a safe way to neutralise the plague. After that, classes may be able to resume. We have secured delivery of 17 thousand tents to provide temporary accomodation. Reconstruction will begin as soon as the rabbits are gone, but is expected to take many years. At present, the only authority in the University that looks anything like being able to return to its role is the Constabulary.
We hope to be of some help in these difficult times.
Yours Sincerely,
The Administration Of The University Of Cambridge In Exile In Birmingham.
"He's behind you!"
"Oh no he isn't!"
"Oh yes he is!"
*stab*
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