Next on Maverick's list was the somewhat more paranoid "Beakachu". Says the assassin:
I tried to kill another target, but he wouldn't answer his door even when i answered his question "who is it" with "me". However i have left a note in his p'hole informing him i will be back. I will get him though.
The target reports from the bathroom:
Someone came knocking on Beackachu's door,
An evil assassin? I'm not quite sure
I asked who it was, who could it be?
A dullard's voice replied "T'is only me"
While Beakachu squats upon his throne-
A gilded toilet carved in stone-
May all you infidels understand,
His wizened form still troubles the land...
"The Purple Lady" sucessfully knifed Matthew "The Brown Avenger" Bennett in his sleep.
It is I purple lady - overdressed, undecover, the mauve harpy, revenge in violet. Last term tragedy befell moi when I din't realise the game had started... I was summarily knifed after leaving hall a wquarter of an hour after the game's inception.
However, this term I decided things would be different - I ignored the college duties calling to me and strode out down St. John's Street, the Siberian wind reminding me of my childhood, the great palaces, the tsar's Balls.... I should have been a russian princess - now I find myself a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, selling my soul as I sold my body on the streets of Paris. I went to the foul, stinking pit of arrogance and idiocy they have the nerve to call trinity. Bennett's room was quickly located, and wilfully poorly guarded. As I walked in, it reminded me of a bordello I once worked in Macau. I ran him through with my trusy blade, the kill as impressive, unsubtle, violent and cruel as the imperial court where I belong. Full of pride, I left his body oozing into the half-light of morning, and returned to College.
Extract from 'Stab' by Mortician:
Carving the flesh
Blood spattered death
Screaming for help
No one will come
Knife blade flashing
Your life will end
Corpse is strung up
Throat is cut open
Disembowelled
Guts spilling out
Extract from the personal log of "The Brown Avenger":
(Due to the limits of text-based media we cannot show you the actual stool extract, but we will attempt to reconstruct events based on the data found from the log.)
After a lengthy battle with my eternal foe Constipat-Or last night, I had
exhausted almost all my reserves of Brown. I was barely able to climb back
into the Brownmobile and make it into the Brown Cave alive. My relief was short
lived, though. Some demonic harpy calling herself the Purple Lady
-- though the purple of the Prune had always been my ally -- stabbed
me with a table knife while I lay 70% asleep in bed this
afternoon. Not even the FaeceShield could have saved me. And as the brown
stain on the bedsheet grows ever larger and more foul-smelling, I.....I
--gagh *ppppppppppppPP*
Beakachu survived a poisoned letter
A greedy old knave,
To Beakachu gave,
A letter of evil intent
Wise Beakachu knew,
What the knave tried to do,
And why the letter was sent
What a feeble excuse,
By a dunce on the loose,
For an assassination attempt...
The demonic Beakachu didn't manage to claim Uh's soul, but shot his accomplice instead.
This evening, The Brown Avenger and I went to assassinate Uh. Following years of painstaking research in
the field of excellence, not to mention several gruelling undercover
operations, I located his soiled nest. We waited outside the nest for
around ten
minutes, whereupon an arrogant-looking fellowe strolled past and went
downstairs. Little did we know that it was the unholy Uh
himself.
A few minutes later another arrogant looking fellowe came
upstairs and proceeded to unlock Uh's
door with a set of keys and walk
in. I promptly shot him twelvety (six) times in the back, thinking he was
Uh. The dunce then purported not to be
Uh, but an accomplice sent
to retrieve his gun. I believe there were adequate grounds for shooting
him, as he was opening the target's door with the target's keys, and was
intending to deliver an illegal weapon for the purpose of murder.
Following this shocking encounter, we tiptoed downstairs to where the evil Uh was squatting. Unaware of the fate of his sinful accomplice, the knave was cowering behind the door of the dead man's room. Upon seeing his grotesque, owl-like visage, I fired twelvety (four) slugs at his head. There was then some confusion as Uh attempted to shut the door before the bullets reached him.
The door protected him sufficently.
Beakachu came very close to apprehending the wanted criminal Lloyd
Following our attempts on the life of Uh, The Brown Avenger and I decided to take the life of the wanted criminal Jamie Douglass. Having knocked on his door several times we were astonished to find it unlocked and his soiled nest empty. Greedily we decided to sit around in his room and wait for the knave. With a cap gun and water pistol (belonging to the target himself) we waited for his arrival. About 5 minutes later we got bored and decided to phone him, The Brown Avenger having discovered his mobile number in his room. Sadly, the phone was on top of the fridge. We discovered this after we called it and it started ringing, from on top of the fridge. I then ordered The Brown Avenger to return to the Brown Cave and retrieve the Bowelbomb and a deadly canister of 'Brown For Men'.
While the slave was away, the target returned to his lair. Unaware of my presence (I was sitting in his armchair facing the door), the coward was still exceedingly cautious and armed. There followed a long range gunfight. He was armed with a cap gun and I had a cap gun and water pistol. Firing both wildly, the gunfight ended as the target fled. A truce was called to ascertain what had happened. Sadly I had only wounded him on the hand with my water pistol (a witness confirmed the target's claims). As for our cap guns, we were at too great a range to confirm any kills. I quietly slipped away, weary after a long day of not doing anything good.
Children, children. You'll have to do better than this...
returned to my room from a small gathering to find a person in my easy
chair. No manners at all. Before I could offer him a drink, or perhaps a
light snack, he started to blast the wall behind me with an enthusiasm I
can only describe as alarming. I appreciate the internal architecture of
Sidney as little as anyone with a modicum of taste, but honestly..
OBVIOUSLY I shot him, but sadly I was a little out of range for my dainty
snub-nose (I worry about the number of male assassins who favour large,
and frankly phallic, super-soakers. A slight inadequacy perhaps? Would
they
care to comment?) and I didnt care to approach such an anti-social
guest. After a little chat, we decided that no harm had been done, other
than converting the lavatory wall into a particularly arresting water
feature, so I gave him a drink and sent him into the night. Nice chap
actually, when one gets to know him - though I do suggest a quick course
to learn the proper way to introduce oneself, without the use of firearms...
love and kisses,
Lloyd
PS He claimed he was going to poison my wine. Please dont do that sort of
thing. Sainsbry's Chateau Neuf du Crap tastes so awful, I might not
notice...
Beakachu's second attempt on Christopher "Uh" Reynish proved successful. In his own words...
Despite his years of painstaking research in the field of excellence, Beakachu only found out today that he had been attending the same lectures as his arch nemesis, Uh, since the beginning of Michaelmas term. Following The Brown Avenger's gross incompetence when ordered to guard the trapped Uh on Saturday, not to mention the target's miraculous escape, Beakachu was especially keen to do away with this arrogant fellowe. Sitting at the back of the lecture hall he spied 'Tonto's' corpse. Sure enough, the target was sitting next to him. Beakachu waited for the lecture to end, cackling greedily at the thought of this knave's demise. He then followed the target out of the lecture hall and, after a brief struggle, plunged his knife deep into Uh's mangled flesh. The cad squealed like a pig, his hideous trotters flailing wildly as he desperately tried to cling on to his worthless life. Greedily Beakachu devoured the soiled remains before returning to his lair to revel in the drool of Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Donning his clogs, his cape and kilt,
And clutching his sword by the hilt,
Gallant Beakachu spied the cad,
And lunged at him with all he had
For twelvety days and twelvety nights,
The Titans fought and soiled their tights,
Bravely Beakachu drew his beak,
And plunged it deep into Chris's cheek
Now Uh lies with lifeless eyes,
Silenced are his cowardly cries,
And peasants weep while knaves exclaim,
That evil Uh has been slain!
This murder was committed in front of many witnesses, some of whom espied the male attacker running off towards Trinity Hall after the kill. All were unable to confirm that Beakachu's glow red. Scrawled in blood on the pavement were these, the victim's last words:
Yesterday at 10 o'clock I was returning to my room, confident that those who would feed upon me could not be abroad during the hours of daylight, when a knife was plunged into my side from behind. I turned to face my attacker and the burning eyes of Beakachu glared back at me. The demon drained the blood from my dying body as I drifted in and out of consciousness. The last thing I saw before my life ended was Beakachu transforming into a cute little bat and then flying away.
Witnesses contest this tale of events; apparently, the bat wasn't all that cute.
James "Beakachu" Wright slew Ruth "Mexico" Jackson and was in turn slain by "Cyrus". Beakachu begins the tale:
The Brown Avenger and I were in the Brown Cave forging our very own Cad. Having made a hat out of some Hatinum, and a brim out of some Brimstone, we set to work on the Cad itself. We had just completed the skellington when my naughty slave confessed that he had forgotten to purchase the Cadmium. The rascal's incompetence had jeopardised the entire project! I knew that if I did not kill again, soon, there was no telling what the Beak would make me do. I pulled the toilet chain to activate Brown Alert and leaped into the Water Closet to use it.
The Brown Avenger slipped into his stained cape whilst I just wore normal clothes like a normal person. The journey was long and perilous, and we were accosted by beggars at almost every step, but eventually we located the target's hovel. "Jesu be praised!" cried The Brown Avenger. "Silence! You always say that!" I replied while greedily giving him six of the best with a discarded Badmington racket, "No prunes for you, my lad!". The target's door was open, as was the door opposite; we heard empty-headed wenches talking within. The Brown Avenger and I hid on the stairs outside the door for a quarter of an hour, rummaging through the Sack of Dismay. But alas! before we had found the chosen instrument of naughtiness (an AK Twelvety-Seven), we espied a slithering rogue beginning to mount the steps. Hurriedly, I cried out "Ruth?" and, holding my beak, penetrated the fog-like stench of the wench's inner sanctum. The foolish Ruth stood up. And I shot her. I shot her dead.
The lady reports:
i have to report my exceedingly boring death. shot at point blank range through my own stupidity. i answered to my name and wandered out into the staircase, where i was shot.
a fellow assassin was coming up the stairs for tea and biccies and he professed ignorance of the game when questioned by my assassins. he then shot both of them for having weapons in full view.
For Beakachu had made now a fatal mistake...
The slime-coated warrior from downstairs impudently demanded to know what was going on. "You're not from the assassin's guild, are you?" I said. "No," he lied, extended a rotting, forked tongue and licking his slimy lips. That cad then went into the inner sanctum and returned with a small woman's revolver. Squealing with fear, I cowered by the door but it was too late. He pumped my befeather'd body full of lead, before turning to shoot the skidmarked corpse of the Brown Avenger. The last thing I saw before perishing was an exceedingly large Shoe-horne. Good day to you, Sir.
When Beakachu slew in the stories of old, He was gentle and brave, he was gallant and bold But now he has taken a shot to the beak. And scoundrels shall mourn him for many a week.
The demon-slayer reports:
Shot two assassins seen in College at point blank with a pistol in a random staircase (they had just completed another kill). One of them claimed not to be an assassin but both of them had revealed weapons (a bomb and a pistol).
PC Brown Avenger made sure of things by pumping the corpse of Navin "John Galt" Dasigi full of lead:
I woke up last night, cold and stinking, in the city morgue. After I unzipped the body bag surounding my stiff flesh and pushed open the steel drawer, I saw incredulously that I was dressed in the brown cape and helmet of an orificer of the law. The memory of my death was fresh. The brownlust was fully upon me.
I pulled out sliding metal coffins until I found the uniformed body of Beakachu. His beak snapped open and shut once and he awoke. Even as he examined his feathered uniform he told a mad tale of necromancy and treachery; the two bullet-holes in my torso had seemingly been put there when Beakachu used my putrid and skidmarked corpse as some sort of puppet on a series of unholy suicide missions.
But the time for vengeance was over; now the time had come for justice. In the breast pocket of my standturd-issue jacket was a roll of toilet paper, holding upon its slightly stained surfaces the name and location of every known criminal in Cambridge. Among these were many fools indeed, but the one called 'John Galt' was chosen for his most childish and facetious name.
Enlisting the help of the unenthusiastic Indifferent Dave, Beakachu and I selected suitable instruments of punishment and travelled through the winturd night, to an evil tower outside Trinity where Galt was believed to soil his incompetent pants daily. When we arrived, I knew that last to be true; the Smell was strong here, almost as strong as in the Brown Cave itself, but this odour was one of weakness, not of consistency and fibre, so it was with confidence that we entered his lair.
Indifferent Dave went up alone to borrow Galt's maths notes, and as quickly as Beakachu and I climbed the slippery and odorous steps, there was no window of opportunity and we were forced to squat outisde. But the landing was so narrow that someone looking through the poop-hole could see everything and our mission was soon aborted.
Rage in my bowels, I knew I would see that cad dead by the end of the week. I vowed to forgo sleep and instead assemble a small one-man base, complete with flamethrower, outside the ground-floor door to Galt's despicable spire. This I did, knowing that Galt would have to evacuate his intestines, and hence his room, eventually. The rapscallion had previously told Indifferent Dave that he would be going on an important-sounding army-related training course that morning. I anticipated an early start - Operation Durchfall was fully underway by 6 A.M.
Fortunately I had cultivated the skill of patience during my countless battles with the foul Constipat-Or. With nothing more than the blueprints of Cambridge's sewer system to entertain me, I waited. I waited for an hour. And then I waited for another hour. Truly the brownlust had built up to near-intolerable levels, and for the final forty minutes I was only able to stop myself assaulting the door to his room by painfully recalling my demise at the hands of the dastardly Purple Lady.
At last, at twenty to nine, after many false alarms and nearly three hours, I heard sounds almost certainly made by my victim-to-be. His uncautious feet clunked down the tower's stairs; I quickly concealed myself in the bathroom, home to so many of my fondest memories. The ground-floor door to the tower opened, and a hideous, half-nude human stepped through it. The knave had underestimated his redeemer, apparently intending to take a shower in the morning. *Nobody* takes a shower while the Brown Avenger is on duty.
I farted and squeezed the trigger to the flamethrower. Flaming gouts of my special-recipe napalm flew forth and enveloped Galt; he screamed, frantically flailing his burning limbs as if he thought it would achieve something. Within ten seconds he had leapt through the open bathroom window with a stoolcurdling shriek of agony. Very soon, a sickening, crunching thud cut off his cries. I dismantled my base and left that stinking hellhole.
As I greedily fled, I granted a passing glance to the sticky remains of Galt. His charred and smashed corpse left no doubt as to his condition: terminated.
Alas that this was the case even before the Brown Avenger's efforts.
Reverend Green reports:
Reverend Green in the study with the revolver.
Insincerity is a sin.
Insincere Dave reports:
Someone assassinated me while I was asleep. I don't know who he was, but he was certainly a real smooth guy! He must have spent days coming up with that plan!
Colonel Mustard reports:
Colonel Mustard in the salon with the dagger.
JJ. The Musical Ass Factory Foundation reports:
The Musical Ass Factory Foundation had just become a registered charity, when it was cruelly crushed. I can't remember who it was that killed me, just like I couldn't remember either that I was in the assassins, or when it began. Therefore my assassin had no trouble in stabbing me in the lung with a carrot as I lay sleeping, less than 10 hours since the game had begun, and more than 10 hours since I had checked my email. Alas.
Insincere Dave reports:
Hey guys! Assassins is excellent!! Bjorn Killthesamepersontwicehauer just killed me again!! I almost killed him, but then I didn't.
Colonel Mustard reports:
Colonel Mustard with the grenade launcher outside the Billiard Room.
When I was walking out of Blue Boar, I suddenly spotted Insincere Dave again and hence tried to ambush him at the bottom of his staircase. However he spotted me and had his supersoaker out already. He managed to dive into the adjacent stairwell, which suggested he would be trying to get around me via a different floor of the building. Dashing upstairs I arrived just in time to block his way. We exchange several shots along the corridor, then he suddenly tried to charge through a parallel corridor. Quickly diving into his path, I managed to spin my gun around in time and caught him in the chest.
Insincere Dave reports:
Just now I went up to Dan Jane's room. There were some people in there having a real interesting conversation! They were all yammering on for ages about free will. They sure do know a lot about philosophy!!
While they idly yammered, I carefully tested the door to see if it was unlocked, which it was. Dan Jane must care a lot about security! Then I went in and shot his face off while he lounged rudely in a set-tee. He put up a real good fight!
My next exploits are guaranteed to be even more fun!!!!!
Burns reports:
What do you mean 'a real good fight' ? I screamed, and that was about it.
Must snap out of this cannon fodder mentality.
Insincere Dave reports:
I refer you to http://www.moleman.freeserve.co.uk/id.htm
JJ. The Musical Ass Factory Foundation reports:
My incomplitude was again shown to be most forthcoming as I was unable to remember to buy/make any weapons. Insincere Dave fooled me by knowing me quite well, so I wasn't up to my usual lightning defence reactions. He cunningly walked up to me and stabbed me in the twelvety with a stray bean procured from Johns hall, which was apparently a knife. It was crusty and stale enough to be convincing and it had the word "nif" etched onto it in biro. A lot of that isn't true, but you get the point. Shitstation.
Insincere Dave reports:
I went to St. John's to meet that great assassin 'Revenge In Lilac'. The way she killed me last term was really devious! Instead, I went to the wrong staircase and found someone who looked like her. I shot her in the leg before she asked what the hell was going on. I'm pretty smooth!!
I knifed Neil Morrison today, but I just realised it might not be a legal kill since it was between 9am and 5:30pm in a computer room. He fought back really hard!!
Automatic umpire reports:
Indeed, this does not count. Computer rooms are out-of-bounds during office-hours (9:00am to 5:30pm).
JJ. The Musical Ass Factory Foundation reports:
Oh goody! I am the champions.
Insincere Dave reports:
Here's a pretty smooth character for you: The Society Curio. I saw him in the computer centre. Then I left the computer centre. Then he left the computer centre. I was waiting for him. What an original plan!! I perforated his puny torso with millions of white hot lead shards from my boomstick. I've never seen anything like it!
Insincere Dave reports:
Hey, since I'm such a nice guy, I think it's perverted and evil to kill the same person twice. But Burns just had to try to get his revenge. I'm sure he meant well!! He saw me sauntering out of Great Gate brandishing my semi-automatic Shoe-horne launcher and yelled an accursed battlecry before shooting a cap-gun at me. He was about six or seven feet away. Within seconds, my Shoe-hornes had sliced through his fetid body and begun dancing merrily about near some schoolchildren, who had been watching with some interest. They probably thought we were real cool!!
I went to several other colleges, but nobody was in. It was excellent!!!!
Burns reports:
I could've SWORN that was six inches...
Insincere Dave reports:
Beakachu the cursed. Beakachu the weak. Beakachu the fallen. His new name is definitely funnier!!
I was on a trip to return an holy Bowe-tie, and to kill Rembrandt Q. Einstein. Although he had once been an adequate assistant, his arrogance and Greede had led him into the jaws of squalor, and he was no longer fit to be a Gentleman of the Shoe-horne. Doing the Bumps was definitely a legitimate excuse!!
Waiting on the stairs, two plump fellowes (one was an Woman) trotted past. It's what's on the inside that counts!! They looked at me with amusement on their over-stuffed faces. I should have slain them right there, but I feared my unholy water would have little effect on them. Yet I realised my folly when R.Q. Einstein hobbled toward his window; the dumpling-men alerted him and I feared all was lost. I'm sure they were only being friendly neighbours!!
Einstein squealed, "Don't bother, Matthew." That almost convinced me not to shoot him!! Then I shot him.
When Beakachu tried to escape his duty, And feast on the filth of his Neste, A stout-hearted Shoe-horne, be-haloed in Beauty Speared straight through his black-hearted chest. I am the best.
Rembrandt Q. Einstein reports:
'pon returning to my nest I was alerted by two kindly Dumpling-Warriors to the presence of a greedy blackguard skulking by the toy-let. I put on my magical shoes of wisdom and ventured bravely forth. To my relief the rogue turned out to be my dull-brained, wantwit servant who was returning my beautiful Bowe-Tie. I bade him good morrow and pounced t'ward my door. Judas! the dolthead ran me through with a hideous shoe-horne launcher. Had my wondrous shoes failed me yet again? I looked down only to find that the lackwit had stolen my magical slippers and replaced them with the sandals of ignorance. The Shame!
Insincere Dave, The naughty Knave, Greedily slew, Poor Rembrandt Q.
Insincere Dave reports:
Someone knocked up-on my door. Who could it be? 'Twas Ed Nokes and his foolish sidekick, Bjorn Holzhauer (or is that t'other way round?). I don't know how they came up with that plan!!
They also tried to throw things through my window, but they were rubbish and I was great. I'm sure you'll get me next time guys!!
Ha-Lan Kwin of the Chinese Triad reports:
He cowardly refused to fight. I really can't understand why; there was only two of us and our guns were only twice the size of his.
Teddy the terrorist reports:
I'd swear those carrots have become sentient entities during their time in Björn's pocket... they certainly seemed to have ideas of their own with regard to their own trajectory.
PS: You got it the correct way round.
Insincere Dave reports:
Hey guys!! I just perforated an innocent bystander! He thought it was real funny!!!
Insincere Dave reports:
M.F. Uncle was yammering with some rogue outside his staircase. He drew his Beretta when he saw me, but fiery Shoe-horne-based death was already on its way. His record of 4-0 was definitely justified!!
Insincere Dave reports:
Starting at around 10:00, A. Bumchester and I (with the late addition of the kindly Rembrandt Q. Einstein) attempted to apprehend approximately 12 cads over the course of 4 hours and 5 colleges. How many were in? None! It was super-fun!!!!!!!!
Magic Robot Monstor Monstor reports:
I got a bit pissed and accidentally shot myself in the face.
The Society Curio reports:
I would remind you of rule 1.2.10: "Suicides are NOT allowed."
Insincere Dave reports:
I would remind you of Super Face 83: "David Chaplin isn't really playing."
Overkill, PhD (retired) reports:
i went to Sheila 2 hours early, disguised as a Goth, with long brown hair and fairly full make-up. i then took a suitable sniping position to ambush my potential ambushers. To stay out of sight, a periscope was built out of a wall-mirror and a highly-polished spoon. Sadly, Bjoern and Ed did not turn up, nor did any other known sassin walk past that part of Trinity street... then my professional Simon Ford impersonator established radio contact with me to confirm H staircase was free of miscreants, allowing me to attend unmolested 'xcept for my wig.
Juan Ramiresh of Shpain reports:
Perhaps an interesting question is why you wrote "Bjoern" instead of "Björn". Why not just call yourself Edvard Andersquiggle?
Rembrandt Q. Einstein reports:
Rub. I got shot. Was watching T.V in my room when I heard toilets flushing in the distance. I thought nothing of it till some merry-andrew burst into my soiled abode a shot me twelvety times in the head. Naughty. Very naughty indeed.
Frightfully Vicious reports:
So far, I've been frightfully virtuous on the inside and frightfully vicious on the outside, having made no effort at all to look for people. But not any more. Trinity Hall being just next door, I thought I'd pay a visit to that good old chap, James Wright. He opened the door when I knocked, and I mangled his corpse with a water pistol, so to say.
Rembrandt Q. Einstein reports:
A mischievous mooncalf thought t'would be rather grand if he used my putrid carcasse for target practice. The fiend then proceeded to utilise my corpse as some kind of puppet in series of unholy suicide missions. Not really. That was a lie.
Insincere Dave reports:
Super Report 41
I was lying half-asleep in bed, with the door unlocked. I have been killed twice before in these exact circumstances. Can you guess what happened when E. Wallace vudely burst in with an Beane-cannon? I certainly can't!!
There was also a Special Mystery Guest (E. Anderson). He was completely crucial to the mission!!!!
Good old x squared sin 1 over x reports:
The discontinuity of my second derivative at the origin was giving me problems again, so I decided to calm my troubled oscillations with a spot of killing. Neither frightfully vicious or frightfully curious were in, so imagine my sinusoidal delight when I found the insincere one's door accessible. Adopting a beefy masculine method of approach, I swiftly entered the inner sanctum of bennettitude, drawing my trusty weapon and creating some discontinuities in Dave.
Now my garden is rosy.
The Society Curio reports:
While on my way from dinner to my room, I observed, through the window of the bar as I passed, my fellow-mathmo Juan Ramiresh of Shpain. Ah, I thought, fresh blood. It transpired that he had been too amateur to notice my passing. Safely out of sight, I pulled my water pistol out of my pocket, then leapt in front of the window to shower him with bullets. He didn't even know what hit him.
Juan Ramiresh of Shpain reports:
A more accurate report is that I was playing (and winning) on the Trinity bar's quizhampton, assisted by the two barmen, and was most alarmed when my concentration was broken by a mediocre amount of water. In defence of my lack of preparation, I might add that I've only ever seen The Society Curio once in the bar before, and neither Burns nor Frightfully Vicious frequent it, so I ruled out the possibility of death there.
NB first reported useage of "quizhampton", 7.47pm on 19/06/2001.
The Society Curio reports:
Whilst enjoying a meal of curry, rice and poppadom, my eye chanced on a duo of assassins, namely Juan Ramiresh and Insincere Dave, as they queued for their meal. My initial reaction was: "I will silently wait until they are seated, then destroy them", but then I realised they could notice me sitting there and gain the element of surprise. So I boldly leapt out of my seat, gun in hand, and ran towards them. Juan ducked away from the first shot, but he could not elude my bullets for long; I turned my attention to his associate and shot him, before he replied "I'm already dead, you fool".
Juan Ramiresh of Shpain reports:
It has to be said we weren't really trying. I may have been able to draw my gun had I not been carrying a tray full of meaty badness. Does the smell of the Hall canteen count as a weapon?
Frightfully Vicious reports:
Poison gas is not allowed in this term's game.
The Society Curio reports:
Having checked the Game News at 2.30pm, I see that Insincere Dave's assertion that he was already dead was erroneous, or at least not reported. Consequently my assassination of him is valid.
Insincere Dave reports:
I didn't say I was dead, you buttfuck. I said I couldn't be bothered to play anymore. Your kill reports are super-interesting!!!
I've always believed that courtesy and good manners are an integral part of professionalism in just about every trade, so I decided that it would be plain rude to assassinate without provocation the charming young man smothered in shaving foam who answered the door. I daresay, had I killed him there and then, he'd have made a dreadful mess of that lovely blue carpet - not to mention his coffin interior.
However, on reflection I realised that while I'd shown mercy and compassion towards this young chap, I'd failed to see that I had in fact been in grave danger. You see the object that he'd clasped in his left hand was, despite attempts to conceal it in a mass of foam, a lethal weapon. This implement is well known to colleagues in my profession as a 'Mach 3' - a class of triple blade high precision instrument that 'does the job in just one stroke'. I was therefore, very lucky to be alive.
Hence I'm sure you'll be most understanding when I tell you that I returned to his place of residence after tea and shot him dead at point blank range.
Neil Morrison, aka H.Awkwind reports:
Lo and behold, H.Awkwind is no more. Never again will the strains of
"Hurry on Sundown" or "Ghost Dance" be heard emanating from the corpses of
the slain. For one of mine assailants had the temerity and audacity to
find out who I was in advance, thereby gaining an unfair advantage. Of
course, only a true disbeliever would fail to recognise their prey whence
the chords and melodies of "Earth Calling" trundled their whimsical way
through the ether of Blue Boar. For this foe had the nerve to knock upon
my door. Fearing that I had misread an scroll, and failed to identify the
exact number of moons before the behappenstance of the tournament, I
immediately attempted to escape into the 14th century. However, an large
obstacular ve'hicle had failed to reproach, and thusly I was denied.
Presently I had no choice but to unbolt the portcullis, and shine the
light of stoner rock music upon the unholy and vengeful one. Relieved was
I when my initial fears had been proved erroneousl; this adversary had but
one task repeating in their scunnerous mind - to proclaim to the warlords
that they had identified the enemy, and could begin battle. Hark, the
Valkyries cry again. I skilfully used the power of lies to not tell her
the truth, and all but a modicum of belief seemed to elude me. However,
the foe soon dispersed, although twice more before the witching hour I
spied the unsurruptitious attempts to locate my essence. I left mine abode
with good time to spare before the eleventh hour, and hasten'd to pastures
anew. The following morn, I awoke to a breakfast of finest wheats
afrost'd, with milk from the kye of the pure. This nourishment however was
taken in vain - barberously lurking 'mongst the catacombs was not two, not
three, but one assassins; the very same cad as had previously acquiesced.
Having mysteriously placed my implements of death in an closet
unreachable, I had no chance to escape, and was deservedly run through
with an sheath of liquid pale. The cannon struck true, and I fell unnobly
towards my coffin. No more shall songs of druids and love be heard in the
Trinity doldrums.
Today Fat Harry laid down his life in the cause of naivety; having spent his Sunday afternoon in the computer room he walked down a random dark alley completely failing to notice the stranger in the big coat...turning his back to scury off the stranger pulled an unnervingly small gun from his coat and pausing for a second to note the fragility of human life shot Harry in the back twice before retreating to find a kebab shop.
Here lies Fat Harry...a fresher, a dosser, a third rate assassin.
And from a very slightly different perspective:
At an quarter to Five, the Master went out upon the town. He selected a
pair of burgundy poulaines and a Fine Tricorne (made by the best tailor in
London Towne) from the Worr-Drobe and made an hasty exit.
The Master had nothing else to wear. Greed-E-Shoe had eaten everything in
the Worr-Drobe, extending his luxuriously soft velveteen tongue and
rasping on leathern plimpsolls and Handsome Wood'n Clogs until they were
worn away. This has given him great power.
But there was one thing Greed-E-Shoe did not Consume. The knavely
cornuthaum knownst to the erstwhile inhabitants of the Worr-Drobe as
Nor-T-Hat was, to be sure, far too naughty for his refined Tastes.
Indeede, so naughty was Nor-T-Hat that as soon as the Master had departed,
he slithered down from a'top his Pegg! and arrogantly opened the door of
the Worr-Drobe with his very tip.
'By Jesu!' exclaimed Greed-E-Shoe. 'Durst thou escape?'
'Ho!' replied the errant Fools-cappe. 'Not only shall I exit the confines
of this musty Closet, but I shall skewer to the death many Rogues!' Then
Greed-E-Shoe's shock turned to Greed, for he knew that there were many
things to Devoure in the Out-side. He followed Nor-T-Hat's slimy trail as
it oozed naughtily across the floor, downstairs, out of the Parl-Or
window, and into Places Unknown.
Greedily the mischievous vesst-ments scurry'd t'Dow'ning. Within mere moments, they spotted the Exotic Sighte of an Betrumpeted Rascal, and leap't 'pon him with an great Fervour. Greed-E-Shoe, clothen tongue lolling in agony, swivel'd about on Colin Dowse's caved-in Cheste, protruding all manner of Probosc'i and absorbing the goodness within.
One Danny Kong returned then with an great Sack of Spoils, but fled upon seeing Nor-T-Hat, flailing his Encoiled Taile impotently. Nor-T-Hat gleefully gave chase, and was rewarded as his prey suffered an "SPLEEN ATTACK". But 'twas not over until the bloodthirsty hellmet pierced the Sorry Fellowe's eyes with his beake-sharp prongs. Then, 'twas over.
Hmmmmm. I wonder whom these items of clothing could be.
The Master went out to Tea to-day with Mrs. J.X. Talbott. He told his
bumler that she had been having problems evacuating her Bowman's Cap'sule.
Bumler was only too glad to help, judging from the way his boneless Armes
slither'd splendidly about in the confines of the Master's bloo-mers.
None of the clothes like Bumler. One unfortunate Bowe-Tie is forced to
spend night and Day living in fearful misery around Bumler's bulbous
Primary Nodule. But it was Bumler who today provided the serfs of
Worr-Drobe Villadge with an Great Boone, when his fleshy arms clumsily
left the Door un-Locked! Bumler saw from the corner of his vision pustule
two mis-shapen shapes scurry out across the plush floor of the
Cloister, but the Master had already begun to walk into the Hall of
Wasting Away, and Bumler could do nothing but weep an single, moist
Dumpling.
Like an shoal of sausages, Nor-T-Hat and Greed-E-Shoe flew to the
befilthened swampland of Queens' College, Esq. For 'twas there that the
peasant had foretold the Ghastly Undoing of Mr. Alex Scordellis, BS. Even
as the Master's Turncoat Hat n' Shoe (TM) slid into their tweed Combat
Sheathes, Scordellis pounced with an scowl into the Chamber of the
Throne-O-Shame. There he toiled for forty stenchful days and forty
curse-fil'd nights. The brave garments endured all, dreaming of an White
Christmas spent on the Islets of Langerhans. Eventually the cad in the
Bestain'd Throneroom could stand his own beastly Howls no more, and he
burst out of the Chamber with a hideous War-Crye and an "PLOWMAN'S LUNCH".
Nor-T-Hat beat the Knave to death with his own sin-stained nappy. But
'twas not over until Greed-E-Shoe, egg sacs swivelling
fearfully, scuttled to the safety of an nearby Bathing Lounge. Then, 'twas
over.
Wahey! More hiding in toilets :) - Umpire
In their infancy, Greed-E-Shoe and Nor-T-Hat had been told never to stay out past the Hour of Twelvety. The Master had said, with an cruel Gleame in his bemonocled eye, 'For if thou dost, thou shalt surely Trans-Forme into an hideous Pillar of Salt!'
But in the Master's absence, the unworthy McVestments grew bulbous in their naughty defiance. If one were to peep with'in the betentacled doors of Worr-Drobe at precisely Twelvety, one would find naught a-Stirring but an obedient Fine Tricorne and an certain Pair of Poulaines.
For with an hop and an skip, Nor-T-Hat and Greed-E-Shoe had put on their shoes and pounced through the back of Worr-Drobe - into the Wondrous Land of Narbumnia! As they peeped greedily about in wonder, an fellowe of cloven-hoofe did arrogantly Trot t'ward them through't'snowe. "Pray tell, abomination ye! Where is the Nuclear Wessell?", crowed yon Hat. "An stone wall shall stop an Blind Hagg as surely as one who sees!", exclamavit. "So say I, Ged Ridgway, and ne'er the twain shall meet!" This appalling impertinence filled Greed-E-Shoe with an Rage the likes of which he had never dream'd, e'en in his wildest dreams of Rage. subito, Greed-E-Shoe knavum superavit, et "FOR NARBUMNIA" ululavit. et Ged "pestis! furcifer!" cantavit. sed 'twas not over until multus sanguis fluit, et knavus "eheu!" sussuravit, et Greed-E-Shoe multes pisces in corpum nudum knavo diffundit. deinde, 'twas over.
But suddenly, an jolly rap scallion burst through the undergrowth. The Hat n' Shoe could only Tapp-dance in terror! Thinking it was the hideous Bumler, Greed-E-Shoe fled, tongue b'twixt an ill-fated Twix he had been nauseatingly gobbling. But, knowing it was Polly Meeks, Nor-T-Hat bravely faced the n'er do well. Using its own peristalsis against it, Nor-T-Hat gallantly dived into the gaping maw of the Beaste and bloodily munched his way through its very Soule! I have never seen such courage! But 'twas not over 'til Greed-E-Shoe danced an "DANCE OF MERRIMENT" the likes of which no man should ever see. Then, 'twas over.
I've finally killed somebody! I dispatched Matthew Bennett with two shots to the neck. Apparently, he's been avoiding lectures for the last week, came to one today, and was inhumed with extreme impoliteness. *chuckle*
Having discovered a wanted criminal in my college I set out to redeem the name of Trinity Hall, and cleanse us of this. I enlisted the help of my college dad (studying the same subject as him) to put the target off his guard. It obviously worked, since the first words spoke when he opened the door, having seen who it was, were "thank goodness, I thought you were assassins".
--- BANG ---
oops.
The hat's last words:
Weeping with naughtiness, Nor-T-Hat scraped the beautiful barnacles off his wizened Uberhatt with his besoiled Proboscis. Peering greed'ly at the Soleless corpse of the heroic Greed-E-Shoe, the wonderful Hat heard an hideous tap-tapping in the central Vest-O-Bule. He slipped into his Uberhatt with an slimy slither and scuttled a'Quick to investigate.
"Glory be!" cried the excited Hat. For lying 'pon carpet was an Glistening Egg the likes of which Nor-T-Hat had ne'er seen, e'en in his wildest dreams of Eggs. It looked verily like an hat. Covetousness in his vermin-laced Harte, Nor-T-Hat coveted the ovine treasure. O, would that it were that He could sit a'top this won'drous jewell! I daresay his buttocks fairly quivered with anticipation. Unable to contain his selfish desires, the brave Hat leap't 'pon t' Spoile with all his might.
But ho! 'Twas no simple Egg, but an "TRAP OF FECULENCE"! As Nor-T-Hat's silken buttocks slid gleefully around the jewell, an hatless Rat-boy scuttled out of the shadows with an squeak! And afore the Hat was able to deliver his ovine sermon, the sickening rodent had buried his writhing teeth into Nor-T-Hat, and torn it brim from brim. But 'twas not over until Rat-boy performed the ancient Ritual of Onan 'pon poor Hat's befouled corpse. Then, 'twas over.
So endeth the tale of Nor-T-Hat and Greed-E-Shoe. They ended life in shame; the shoe aged 49, the hat 13.
I stabbed Neil Morrison in the back as punishment for the heinous crime of being corrupted without giving me a share of the profits.
Gleefully did the knave reside,
In the Mill Lane rooms they hide,
waiting to pounce on prey corrupted
for their fiendish joyous glory
bestowed on them with details gory.
As we did recover from boredom due
after a lecture of calculus new,
myself and Benoit F. Vicedo-smythe were struck
with a bout of unmanfully self-wrought bad luck.
For twixt the chalked alleys and cobwebb'd heights
an foe lay with us in his sights.
He danced a merry dance of glee,
and mercilessly deposed of us officers three.
As with myself and the follious Dr. Benoit
lurked a third, John Shaft in Africa.
Now on sale at Borders on DVD
Hurry, its only 12 pounds and 99 p.
His thrusting dagger pocket departed
and odiously thrust into flesh good-hearted,
spleens dismember and appendices debowel;
an egregious look upon his jowl,
while the fallen comrades lay bleeding and lost
he announced:
"You were wanted. But you're not now."
And Oh! such a cruel way to learn
that momentarily we were the subject of yearn,
and cruelly relieved of this thankless task
so ruthless killer could in glory bask.
As his last breath did resound,
a glimpse we caught of the maimer's frown;
and recognition was bestow'dst upon us,
that we had been slain by none but Zlorf, who had the power most rare,
to treacherously remove unwanted fare
from the holy creed of the Guild;
three more fresh graves must now be fill'd.
Once upon an bean, there twas an invincible cavalier named Sir Sven O'Bjornchester Samuel J. McHolzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahoy! Wilson. He was known across the land as the bravest knight ever to wield a carrot.
One day, he woke up, and ate a hearty breakfast. The next day, he ate two breakfasts of only slightly above average size.
Three weeks later, he ate a cumbersome brunch of unneccessarily many contents, and spent the afternoon feeling ill, and chundering into an bucket. He then ate an wholesome dinner, and went to bed without first removing his breakfasting knife from his secret Pouche, cunningly bestashed behind his left Shoe.
As he noisily slept, the knife cut a small hollow into his golden skin; by serendipitious tedium, a wicked witch chose that very morn to bestow her heinous hex uponst our Lord. The warted mistress of tomfoolery came down from Denmark and placed a pinch of magical BBQ sauce upon his brow. When the gallant warrior arose, he promptly ate a hearty breakfast, and then munched his way through a baked stool. I don't know why he did this.
After he had washed down the stool remnants with an goblet of freshly mead, he got out of bed, and partook in the digestion of some Chicken McNuggets. He then showered, and returned to his chamber to feast upon a bag of onion rings, with garlic bread and chives. Once he had eaten his fill, his buxom and matronly chambermaid was permitted to dress his Highness in readiness for the day's slaughtering. However, Sir Bjorn was most surprised, nay, surprised even, to observe the chambermaid shrieking in disgust and horror, and streaking off into the noon-day sun.
Our Master was perplexed, and twas not 'til he spied his reflectious McApparition in the mirrorious mirror. Yes, he had of course been mysteriously turned into a walking carrot. Fortunately for all of the true faith, his Excellency found that by spreading his orange flesh with Tabasco sauce, he became himself once more. Thank goodness!
Somewhat perturbed, but not behampered by the mornings events, he ate a hearty plate of waffles with syrup, and embarked on his first conquest. The first port of call for the day was the unfinished distended sphincter that is the maths department. Our Lord was of course able to pass by unnoticed, as he was cunningly disguised as a mere mortal. The corpses of Saint John Benoit Vicedo Shaft (special limited African edition) was still twitching in the throes of rigor mortis, and it was not long before his Barberousness spied this. He swiftly drew his Luger, and fired three elongated strands of searing rubber, one into each of the three bodies. However, he struck the body of John Shaft only once, and with his last motion, Shaft was able to claim the magnanimous glory of relating to His Eminence that he had come but too late, and had he not stopped to eat several hearty breakfasts, he may have been successful once more.
Disappointed, His Majesty strode back t'wards his Kingdom, and rued the day he first tasted waffles.
As he left Babylon to walk back to Africa, the sun set for John B. Enoitvicedo with a shaft hitting him in the back. However someone had zlorfed him before I did, which meant I wouldn't get any biscuits for that kill.
'Twas 1869, and the splendid gaylleon "Choad Of Choad Hall" sailed 'pon seas of old. Captain Gaybrush Threepchoad sat on the poop deck with his enslaved rear admiral The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk, two gilded badmington rackets protruding from the captain's mangled leg-stumps. The pirates were concentrating fiercely over a weeping pirate trapped in a barrel.
"Avast! I hate this accursed game!" cried LeChoadk. "Tis the work of Sir Nudelot!" Gnashing his buttocks, he heaved the barrel over the side of the wessel, causing a brown substance to coat the poop deck. "A har har har!" laughed the Captain, his badmington rackets gleaming in the twilight. "Ye shall never best me at Poop-Up Pirate! Now scrub the poop deck!"
"Never!" exclaimed the rear admiral. With that, he flicked a lever on his ruff and his false bum flew open, revealing two jewel-encursted blunderbi. He whirled round, squatted, and released a volley of buttshot at Gaybrush. But before the sinful pellets could reach their mark, a bulbous cry pierced the air.
"Ship a'hoy! Giant floater off the starboard poop deck!" cried the slave in the prawne's nest. Galvanised to action, the squabbling buccaneers slid frantically 'round the poop deck. Threepchoad, after stepping in the officer's mess, took his place proudly 'pon the chaplain's poop deck. Meanwhile, LeChoadk scrambled up the rigging and mounted the prawne's nest, cocking his mahogany firearms as he climbed. Peering through the stethoscope, he spied the HMS "Squatting Dutchman" and hoisted the Skull and Hot Cross Buns.
But when the two wessels drew near, the Choadst Pirgayte saw that the ship was abandoned. Threepchoad swung aboard onto the enemy poop deck, his badmington rackets bending under the impact, and descended into the ship's bowels. At last he came to a cabin whose door bore the legend "The Buttcracker Suite". Gaybrush heard a rhythmic creaking, but paid no heed, and slipped moistly inside.
The door shut with a hideous groan. The Captain quietly crept into the gloom, the creaking noise growing ever louder. Suddenly, he heard the groan again, but this time he realised it was coming from the same place as the creaking! For there, in the shadows, hunched double on a rocking horse, sat Richard Smith . He was nude.
Threepchoad unsheathed his trusty buttlass and stabbed the rascal in his swollen crotch. With a final burbling moan, Inverse Sprocket fell to the floor, nude. Gaybrush fetched some fine silken pantaloons from the dresser and clothed the corpse. And that was the end of Richard Smith's nudity. The Captain then gleefully extracted the parson's nose from the twitching body, wiped his buttlass on the stained rug and quit the nudechamber.
Later, after celebrating with sherry, baps and light chat on the poop deck, the two pirates drank pilfer'd rum from silver tankards and talked of misadventures past. When the sun had set, Threepchoad raised his mug in a toast to his companion.
"You know, LeChoadk, I couldn't have done it without you!" And the two pirates laughed long into the night.
'Twas a merry morn on the good ship "Choad of Choad Hall". The sun shone brilliantly on Rear Admiral LeChoadk, who was strolling arrogantly on the poop deck, hands behind his back. He sang a hearty hymn as he walked to accompany the frenzied hornpiping of the ship's prawne. What a fine hornpipe, thought LeChoadk, gazing upon the prawn in admiration. One might even say 'twas a prawnepipe! He allowed himself a moderate chuckle; then he stepped on the prawne. The prawne bleated as it was crushed.
"Aye, I thought as much," observed LeChoadk. "Now, back to the prawne's nest with ye!" The brave prawne hobbled to the base of the rigging, but was unable to ascend. Its many legs writhed in shame and it began crying. For it, of all prawnes, knew that the "Choad" had no room for crushedaceans.
LeChoadk peered at the sole of his starboard plimpsoll with distaste. Of all the foul things to bestain a gentleman's shoe, why were prawne innards bestaining his? Donning velveteen stirrups, he mounted the flattened prawne and galloped down to the finery poop deck. There, to his dismay, stood the ne'er-do-well captain, Gaybrush Threepchoad. Threepchoad was merrily beating a blindfolded slave about the pate with his left badmington racket, all the while lubricating him with a greased parson's nose.
"Cease yer embrowning!" cried LeChoadk, weeping at the sight of the captain's cruelty. "I've tolerated yer obsession with parson's noses for nearly three decades. But ye've embrowned every slave on the ship, and now naught but a crippled prawne mans the poop deck!" The captain glanced up at the Choadst Pirgayte. He shook his head slowly, then raised the parson's nose to his nostrils and inhaled deeply. But before he could say anything, a nude figure suddenly sprinted across the poop deck.
"Nude a'hoy!" bellowed the squashed prawne. "NUDESTATIONS! ALL HANDS TO NUDESTATIONS!" LeChoadk immediately activated his deadly bum and tried to draw a beard on the nude. The nude snatched away his crayon before he could finish. Undaunted, the admiral sprayed a fearful torrent of filth from his blunderbi, and in seconds the air was filled with his wrath. But the naughty nude ducked and weaved and managed to escape onto the dreaded haunted poop deck! LeChoadk gave chase, carefully treading on the now two-dimensional prawne.
The nude was cowering in the corner of the haunted poop deck, trapped on all sides by the ghosts of fallen prawnes. LeChoadk stood squarely, hands on hips, bum pointing at the cad. Summoning all his pow'r, he launched from the bum his treasured safety net! The net had been owned by his father's bum, and before that his father's bum's bum, who knitted it from a fine knapsack. Now it lived up to its soiled heritage as it flew true t'ward the nude, enweaving his flailing limbs and belacerating his cheeks. Quickly, the admiral removed the abomination's birthday suit, seeing that the label read "David Rufino". And that was the end of the nude's nudity. It was also the end of the nude.
Later, after a story and a nap, and a bap, LeChoadk and Threepchoad enjoyed a selection of vegetable dips on the poop deck. Gaybrush suggested they play hopscotch, but then he remembered they didn't have a hopscotch court. Then the two sat in silence, because it was quiet time. But when the eve finally drew to a close, LeChoadk stood up and raised his dipping sieve in a toast.
"You know, Ship's Prawne, I couldn't have done it without you!" And the two kindly pirates repeatedly trod on the prawne's corpse long into the night.
Or, as the corpse put it:
Has Lady luck has waved her hankerchief in my face? in my face!? Who can be sure in these times of confusion and woe? At 8:20, In a momentary lapse of self- preservatory instinct i left my humble abode unarmed (as i have no weapons) and walked straight into a gun weilding maniac. Dammit! He shot me repeatedly with an archaic device resembling a rubber band gun, although i sustained wounds only to the arms. Go me! The foolish young whipper-snapper then, (only THEN, ladies and gentlemen) asked me who i was. I retreated into my personal shrine (aka my room) mumbling the affirmative. Before i could call my colleagues to carbonardo his shanks the hoodlum had scarpered. so now i ask myself, erm and you, if i am a corpse or not? i dont feel hugely dead, in fact i enjoyed a drink just now and no juice came out of any holes and i feel no inclination to stagger around demanding to eat the brains of maidens.
He was a little confused at the time, but is quite comfortably dead now.
I'd like to report the tragic demise of a colleague. Matthew Bennett was a great assassin, widely loved by friends in many communities, not least the cambridge university flower-arranging club. His loss is a shock to us all, and his death at the hands of an axe-wielding maniac and his lunatic accomplice has struck terror into the hearts of those who knew him....
Ed Nokes and Ralph Owen then started writing in the same style, adopting the Sven... name.
It starts thus.
Last week I contacted Agent Icharus about he and I sharing target information. I was interested in anything he heard about me, and he was interested in anything I heard about he and his friends. Yesterday he mailed me suggesting we meet up at some point. I read this email today, after I'd heard that Ma Baker (whose song I can't get out of my head) had put a boubon bounty on my head. I had also been informed by another contact that Ed Clayton had also put a bounty on my head. I was wary as any assassin should be, of another assassin's craving for bourbons. Although I agreed to meet up, I felt that I would be walking into a trap, and decided that some other assassins living nearer to Great St Mary's (for that was the intended meeting place, at 9pm) would like to meet the Binford Mafia. Hence I wrote to some esteemed and freshly redeemed members of Caius College, one at Trinity, another at Emmanuel and General Colin Powell. I each gave a separate reason as to why they should go. I'm very interested in hearing what happened, as I myself was unable to attend. An attempt was made on my life this evening by someone who should have known better. That said, did I have any intention of going?
No.
Is this the end of ALOHA!? Possibly. In the meantime, Sir Sven Ø'Bjørnchester Samuel J. McHølzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahøy! Wilsøn's report:
Once upon a legume, there twas an infeasible cavalier named Sir Sven Ø'Bjørnchester Samuel J. McHølzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahøy! Wilsøn. He was not yet known across the land as the gravest knight ever to suffer from diseases of the carrot, for that hideous incurable had yet to b'fall his magnificent frame in these days 'afore the fall of fair Albion.
One day, he ate a McCardboard Nugget of unneccessarily convoluted form. The next day, he ate an other five McNuggets of Cardboard, of only slightly above average nobbl'ness. By this time, the golden gems were cold and tasteless, and bacterially infested. His Highness was most pleased with this improvement.
Three weeks later, he partook of a cumbersome aquatic dispenser, of unneccessarily much capacity, and spend the evening bewatering the varigated folliage of the Holy Flora in the Realm of Great St. Marye, bless her soles.
I don't know why he did this, since our Lord had been chittered upon by his minions McIntosh and Peter Storm many days before, and from this learned of an evil meeting b'twixt the Kingdom of Binforde and the Pieman of Ford, an wholesaler of automobiles. This on the very day of his digestion of the stale McNugget! An auspicious sign if ever there was one!
On the ordained night, therefore, the gallant warrior arose and promptly ate an hearty breakfast of Turnip and Lemon, and munched his way through a baked chair, washed down with an goblet of freshy anti-macassars. Then he rolled over to the Palace of Queen Mary, there to espy an collective of Discordant Binfordians protesting about the inevitability of taxation.
Somewhat perturbed, but not behampered by this protesting prolapse of perambulating pedestrians of Platonic predestination, he stood becloaked in all his magnanimous glory and offered his minions the opportunity of belaying down their otherwise miserable existences an his sake.
Our Saviour and his peons swiftly behid their weapons, and fired not three, not five, but none, verily, not one elongated strand of searing aqua vita towards each of the five-brace and one upstanding art student.
Then that great Keeper of the Peace, and indeed the King's pieces, and the Pieces of the King, and their Keeper, who upon earth was titled in the common tongue "That Mario Bloke", visited his becalming presence upon the gathered crowds, and did baste their root vegetables in a gesture of some importance, and did the heralds cry, "Where is that Naughty River Crossing?", whereupon the Keeper did reply, "He hath betrayed Us", and did our Lord declaim the waxing of his vexatitious wrath.
But 'twas not over until the Fat Lady sang. Then 'twas over.
My door to door peg selling brought me to the dark and dingy abode of a man. I knocked at the door, once, twice, thrice. "Dave?" I called, "Dave? I have many beautiful pegs for you, and even a goldfish if you are good." But the door remained closed so I amused myself by making my three-legged dog walk up and down the stairs for many a minute before leaving and taking my pegs with me.
We have just spent a disappointing night trawling round and round those bloomin' huge colleges and to no avail since everyone was out, or else hiding under their beds... I am a little ticked off that my target, one The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk, said that his address was 'BBC ***' when this fabled BBC was in fact in another location, not Trinity Hall the main bit, but a building quite a long way away. I think this a little unfair as we had no way of knowing this without going to Trinity Hall first and talking to porters, making inquiries etc. Grrr. Oh well.
Bishop Bateman court, in fact - oh well - you know for next time.
PC Bulldog reports:
Target #2: Sen~or Rambo F. Ollow-through
Waiting outside the *correct* door, there was the sound of frantic weapon loading after we knocked. I was standing in the kitchen when a spray of water shot out of the door, but a small orange bullet from General Powell's frighteningly realistic (ridiculously long-ranged) rifle ended this firefight. One down, 19 to go.
~~To the esteemed umpire, Friar S.Y.Hole in notification of an important happenstance.~~
Beneath the furrowed brow of Sir Reginald W. Bannister, lay eyes that have seen many exciting and gory maimings, in particular by small metal spheres and chainsaws. However, all of his hallowed experience in fighting the forces of spherical evil would not even begin to prepare him for the story of the extinction of the notorious F.Ollowthrough. And so beginneth the tale:
In Blue Boarian chambers did reside
a fiend of cunning bold.
He lived in shameful toast-filled ways,
his trousers were quite old.
Nefarious villains came and went
but he was none the wiser.
For he hid and played he wasn't there,
the deceitful rotten miser.
They came in packs of three, or none,
and pondered on their plans.
But Rambo squatted sulking in squalor
watching films of Jackie Chan's.
If only he had Jackie's lethal skill
and poise with weapons deadly.
He may not have had to endure the fate
that is now related by this medley.
For Sir Mario, a gallant knight had come,
with his squires, Luigi and Peter Frampton
to rid the land of this foul obscenity;
a stain on the good name of Cambridgehampton.
A voice of honour, blue and true
sounded, harking of the woe
that came of trusted colleagues dear
ignoring friend and foe.
The sermon preached as follows:
"Cousin Sven! He's here!"
"Cousin, come on in! Say something intelligent!"
Of course the reference to the chieftain Cousin Sven-Valhalla McO'Bjo/rnchester van der Wagondandy L'Ho''lzenhauer-On-Ass, was a clue all too revealing of the redneck's awful task.
The wise cad heeded not the call;
the cowboy was keen on duelling.
He tried to count the stools he'd curled,
but found it all too gruelling:
"One, Six, Yirteen, Eight!"
The insiduous remark was too much to take
and the dunce unsheathed his laser.
He reached for his trusty can of beans
and his trousers were quite old.
A further summoning did beget
the heathen's troubled trousers.
And stood did he on mountains bleak
and contemplated trousers.
The Trouser unsealed the gates of woe
and took a deadly chance.
But the Shoe be-soiled his trousers.
For in fact the Waistcoat had taken a cunning stance.
On one Bumcheek he squatted,
and his Trousers were cleverly pleated.
But his first shot was true, the aim was dandy
and the Bow-Tie was defeated.
The hillbilly stayed long enough to hear
the slain heretic's last wishes:
"That Tom Hanks be kicked repeatedly in the balls by Chevy Chase,
and send De Caprio to swim with the fishes."
And so endeth the tales of yore, the land is no longer troubled by evil Sasquatches.
Yours,
W.T.L?.A.T.Police.
On behalf of Arnold Q. "Peter Frampton is Fucking Shit" Groindoily.
~~~End of Report~~~
LeChoadk was an old man now, his days of plunder and naughtiness long past. As he painfully recalled the nude mutilation of his beloved Captain, Gaybrush Threepchoad, LeChoadk suddenly burst into song. The song was called, "When I needed a neighbour," and ran in the Common tongue.
Ho! I was cold, I was naked Were you there, were you there? I was cold, I was naked Were you nude?
He sang for many days, and many a prawne did nestle nearby to bear witness to the pirate's sinful howls. At last, when his beard had wither'd away so that merely the husk remained, the grizzled warrior pulled down his silken pantaloons and charged into battle.
LeChoadk knew he was unstoppable, for he wielded the mighty Buttlass of Gayskull, which he had beplucked from the twitching cadaver of Threepchoad. The enhusked rogue held the sabre aloft and cried, "By the power of Prawnelehem!" but could not remember the rest. He also did not know where to do battle.
He looked under bramble, o'er road, twixt ri'er and dale and beyond his own choad. But all he found was a pair of discarded lozenges. Finally, he looked in the one place he had heretofore feared - his own Sole!
After many dreary days in the doldrums, the fearsome pirate caught a glimpse of diseased Pigeon through the stethoscope. He ordered Ship's Prawne to load the cannon and light the wick. It did as 'twas told, fearing its master's baffling cruelty. The elderly cannon erupted in a vast, bloated cloud of sin.
Its task completed, Ship's Prawne looked up at its master with pride, tears of joy welling in its useless orbs. But then an eye belonging to the pigeon landed with a savoury plop on Threepchoad's corpse, which LeChoadk had brought with him for safekeeping.
"Avast! 'Tis Captain Birdseye! Tuck in!" shrieked the excited pirate, cackling madly at his hilarious jest. His bum caught fire in the confusion.
Later, after imbibing fine wines and watching Robin Williams' epic comedy Jumanji on the drawing room poop deck, LeChoadk and Ship's Prawne put their hands together and sang hymn number 50, "When A Knight Won His Spurs." After the rousing carol was over, LeChoadk raised his beaker in a toast to his faithful slave.
"A har har har! Thanks, me old Prawne!" shouted LeChoadk. The prawne tried to run, but his mangled limbs merely crumpled under his weight. The Choadst Pirgayte snatched him up in a bap, and, shivering his timbers, gobbled the squealing Ship's Prawne long into the night.
Earlier this afternoon, having called on kirika as the Dancing Moose, i met The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk leaving my building. We talked briefly about a "food for thought" evening we'd tried to invite him to earlier this, week, then i turned to leave, he pulled a water pistol and shot me. I take it that he's wanted (since he said i wasn't his target after he had shot me). I would like to take this opertunity to congratulate him on a very competant bit of back-stabbing ("I don't think it's fair to get people in your own college: it's too easy"- The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk one week ago) and wish him every success in the future. If he has one...
He wasn't your target, so I make The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk (James Wright) wanted for homocide.
You see, one of the good things about being a novice player (no puns intended?) is that ?veterans&lquot; don?t know you?re playing? Now, let me tell you a story of terror and suspense, of plottings and killings? in short, of assassins:
Main character/victim: James (alas not Bond) Wright, aka The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk, compsci, rower and blonde. He?s played a few times.
Anyway, he whom In The Dark and I alerted of a person outside his room with sinister intentions last May Week (search for ?dumpling people&lquot; in the May Week 2001 Assassins webpage), decided yesterday that life was too boring. So, he randomly killed Pigeon, making himself wanted in the process.
Now, apart from backstabbing, that was not clever, Pigeon belonging as do I to the Binford mafia, and James Wright not (and us all being in the same college).
But you see, resent runs deep through The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk. And revenge, is after all, only human. You see, we?ve got a bit of a history of getting James Wright killed. Last term, my now-dead-and-turned-cop boyfriend, In The Dark, lured James into opening the door, upon which In The Dark?s college son, Hamm, shot him.
James Wright were not happy. And Pigeon got James killed in a similar fashion.
Somewhat more foolishly, In The Dark and Pigeon had been ribbing James about this just before the current game started. So really, you can?t blame him for losing control. Quite a vendetta ?a la Cambridge&lquot; innit?
However, to the point of this report. Having crouched next to our monitors yesterday in wait for James to be put upon the wanted list so we could legally kill him, we awoke this morn to behold the happy news: he was wanted.
Sorry about the delay there - nobody pointed out to me that it had been illegal, so I just porcessed it with the rest.
There is another twist to this story, for he lives upon the same corridor as I. So, ensued an hour of me popping out of my room whenever I heard someone in the corridor (only four rooms, so it?s well worth it).
Finally, after many false alarms, I nipped out with my trusty RBG, to behold him returning from a shopping excursion. However, his RBG was drawn. I shot, but alas, missed. He shot and missed also. We both retreated to cover and he shouted ?you missed&lquot; whereupon I responded ?shit, I know&lquot;. Ensued more shooting, also to no avail. And so, the beast returned to its lair unharmed, and I retreated to my room before going (well armed) to have a shower. No doubt he will have a somewhat more lurid version of the facts, involving, if history is anything to go by, boats and obscure language.
However, this is not by far the end of the story! Justice will be done, Mr James, and the dumpling people will get you!
I attempted to kill James Wright, and managed to get myself shot and blown up at the same time. (around 12:30)
I went to his room, and attempted to bluff my way in with some story about having some notes for him, this unsurprisingly failed, and I went to get a detonator with the intention of placing it under his door, so I Could be informed when he opened it (I live very very nearby).
Unfortunately he opened the door and shot several rounds, hitting my shoulder, which is probably fatal, and also setting of the detonator, which is was extremely close to. I returned fire with my RBG, but don't' think I hit him.... So he maybe dead from the explosion, but probably not, as it was not meant to be a bomb......
Mr. Wright should realize that even though he won this battle the war is not over.
Please note tht according to the rules, police may not make indirect attacks against wanted criminals (but they may do so against incompetents). As a result, the bomb could not have worked.
Anyway - a detonator on it's own only kills those who are touching it - nobody in this case.
Finally, The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk did indeed kill (and then survive), and quite legally, too. It seems Trinity Hall have some housecleaning to do.
Apparatus
---------
- Beaker
- Bunsen Burner
- Glass rod
- Buttlass
Method
------
- LeChoadk looked through the poophole. Squatting outside his cabin door
was an Orificer of Her Majesty's Gayvy. Summoning the powers of Gayskull,
the aged pirate burst outside. With a devastating downwards jab, LeChoadk
drove his buttlass through Neill Smith's skull. Red blood gushed fourth.
The greedy pirate filled his beaker with the crimson splendour and heated
it gently with a Bunsen Burner, all the while stirring with his glass rod.
He did this for many days.
Results
-------
- A mess was made
Conclusion
----------
- I don't know
Potato and the Blonde Inquisitor recently placed a *HUGE* bomb on James Wright's door - 5L, approximately 6.5m radius. The bomb had two detonators attached to the door and a further one hidden underneath. With luck, this will leave the evil traitor in lots of little bits. The Binford Mafia will be revenged the loss of two of its members. Oh yes, we will.
However, said victim then proceeded to spot us as we left his abode and he shot and killed the Blonde Inquisitor with a concealed water weapon. I took it upon myself to destory this threat and so chased him down several side streets waving my RBG but he evaded me and so I returned to college.
Michael "Potato" Cripps.
P.S. I assume a bomb of this blast radius will make me just a *bit* wanted?
I was curious about the bit, and asked for clarification:
And what do you mean by "there's hope"? I only placed a bomb of this size in the aim of becoming wanted.
Your wish...
Oh, and the bomb didn't kill him:
Returned to my room to find a rather large bomb placed against my door. The obvious detonators consisted of party poppers taped to my door. However, I had been reading with interest the bomb attacks made earlier in the game and knew that there would be detonators underneath the explosives. I looked and saw a cap underneath one of the bottles. To defuse the device I purchased a ball of twine from the Newsagents. I then tied one end around one of the bottles. Next, I proceeded around the corner to the end of the corridor and pulled the string. The bottle fell over setting off the bomb. I was well out of range and there were two walls betwixt myself and the ghastly contraption.
There is indeed, a great need for housecleaning in Trinity Hall.
To this end Potato turned up this afternoon, bearing with him his great expertise in bomb-making (oh, and also the materials for it?). He proceded to set up a quite large bomb outside James Wright?s door while I stood by to cover him in case The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk was in. So far so good. Having finished safely we ventured outside, and were just amicably chatting with the corpse of PC In The Dark, when said PC said ?oh hello James&lquot;. At the same time I felt a rubber-band (sorry, bullet) wound me greatly in the arm!!! But lo, behold our stupidity, he who we wanted to bomb had shot me! But this in itself would have been ok, for I had yet 1 arm and a great thirst for vengeance left. But twas not to finish like this, no! thinking James Wright would have gone to his room I naively went off in the direction of my staircase, and as I was opening the door my unsuspecting ear was shot by James Wright with a water-pistol! So now I am dead, woe is me! However, with a little luck so is The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk, for Agent Icarus went off in hot pursuit, and the last I saw was James going round a corner with Agent Icarus on his tail. So I hope he is dead. And if not he is very wanted for shooting me twice when I was unarmed both times (well, not unarmed, but not wielding arms either).
The saga will continue?.
Weeping tears of Madness, the Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk transformed into a Laundromat Pirate. Greedily, he raided the Inquisitor's Laundromat before slaughtering her with an piece O' eight.
Kindly LeChoadk had just nestled in the Port of Gaymbrige. He was squatting on a barrell, merrily playing Hornepipe when a soiled Rat-Boy scuttled out of a nearby crate of Cheese. Unnerved by Rat-Boy's unwholesome appearance, LeChoadk fled into the sewers. But Rat-Boys like sewers. 'Twas here that LeChoadk spent many days learning the Ancient Art of Ninjitsu from a kindly, but hideous, Rat named McSplinter. Then, after Rat-Boy had slipped on some Orificer's Mess, LeChoadk pounced into a local tavern - The Gaypole. Rat-Boy did not follow. He was too haughty to be let in.
At aobut 12 O'Clock today, I, PC Dove did engage in a running gun battle with infamus criminal master-mind James Wright. Having sat through two lectures eyeing each other up I proceded to follow him out to the bike park. Alas! when i did pass through the double doors and see him standing there, smug grin in place, hand in pocket. Fearlessly did i draw my weapon and a gun battle did ensue around the pillars of the lab, however the strong wind conspired against us, and though we both came close, neither hit. The Choadst Pirgayte LeChoadk, knowing a better pistol shot when he sees one tried to flee, so i pursued. He stopped, and i fired. There was an awful 'click' noise, and i realised i was out of ammo. Flight seemed my best optoin, so we did run back the way ew'd come, with him in pursuit of me this time. I dodged into the bike shed, and reloaded, while we circled each other slowly. He did reneter the building, muttering something about an 'explosion', and i followed. I did try to solicate the help of Miss Gnomial-or the person i thought was miss gnoomial - but (unsuprising) they denied all knowledge. Mr Wright did then leave, and seizing a second pistol i chased him down the road, until i could see that a cycle is a faster mode of transport than my legs. So i did return to write this report.
Following a lengthy gunfight with PC Dove at the William Gates Building, LeChoadk soiled his pants. But his pants were not the only things that were soiled.
Today at 16:45 I killed PC Neil Morrison. It was quite easy. I knocked on his door, he opened, I asked him if he is Neil Morrison, he said yes and then I shot him.
I'd make you wanted, but...
(Well - just see below.)
Once again, the honour of the guild has been destroyed by the murder of Benoit Vicedo, the legendary international football maestro. In truth, Sunset G. Bablyon was unaware of his police role, having been appointed pseudo-posthumously. Thankfully, Juan Ramiresh was on hand to take control, smoothly opening the chamber entrance whence some cad appeared with a water boglin (although the villain should note that officially, immortal Highlanders can only be killed by chopping off their heads.)
And so they died (except Sammo Hung, who was too invincible to be killed).
In those days Tony Blair issued a decree that an education should be made of the entire British world. So many went up to East Anglia, to Cambridge, the town of the Cam, because they'd done well in their exams.
And lo! at the time of the birth of Michael, a great terror settled on the people of Camry and the Umpire sent many a brave warrior to do battle. Most perished, but the evil was destroyed in a final great battle (which had to be moved to appease the porters), and there was much rejoicing!
And the time came when again the people of Cambridge were threatened. But the Umpire had foreseen this, and became flesh incarnate to show the path of righteousness to those walking in the valley of the shadow of death.
He brought unto him a group of followers which was called the Caius Mafia. The greatest of these followers included Ma Baker and The Fluffy Pufferfish, but this is not their story.
In the time of the birth of Michael, there had been a brave knight by the name of Sir Sven O'Bjornchester Samuel J. McHolzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahoy! Wilson, whom some called the bravest e'er to wield a carrot. Now it came to pass that one of the Caius Mafia was also known by this name, it being a common name at those times. This follower was usually known as Sir Sven O'Bjornchester Samuel J. McHolzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahoy! Wilson the not-quite-so-brave-as-his-namesake, who had nearly fought the Lane of Queens', who had nearly stood up to the vicious Pufferfish in one of her irritable moods and who had personally wet himself at the Battle of Queens' roof. This is his story.
The story begins one bright day in February. It wasn't a particularly unusual day, save perhaps that it was one on which Sir Sven was to attend lectures. Hence he had woken up early the day before and had eaten a hearty breakfast of lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats. On the next day, the day of this account, he ate two breakfasts; one was of crumpet, the other of interestingly-cinnamon-flavoured 'apple, raisin and oat snack bar', these two breakfasts each being of only slightly-above-average size.
And so, having eaten heartily, he embarked on his first conquest. He then went to stand outside one entrance to the court of St. Mary, which has unnecessarily many entrances, an honour one of its occupants was unaware of having. Sir Sven was pleased he had chosen to decline the syrupy waffles for breakfast, as he was only just in time to spy a certain Mort attempting to leave his room. After several tries, the valiant Mort 'scaped its clutches and left the staircase. Sir Sven spent several moments plucking up courage and confirming his own identity then drew his Walther and fired one small lump of searing rubber into the very Soule of the Beaste. With his last moments, Mort was able to claim the overrated glory of relating to His Not-quite-so-braveness that he was indeed Peter and was glad that someone had finally decided to end his life. "aha!" exclamavit, et "mort mortuus est!" cantavit. But 'twas not not over 'til Sir Sven had had chance to change his soiled armour. Then, 'twas over.
An incompetent assassin named Mort,
This morning by his room was caught.
His assailant drew
a murd'rous .22
And blew him away with a "splort".
As the clock struck for the twenty-first time this day, Sir Sven O'Bjornchester Samuel J. McHolzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahoy! Wilson had just completed a hearty repast of not more than seventeen courses and decided he could stand no longer the current pollution of incompetents. One in particular claimed the status of a Knight, when clearly she was but a sea mammal, and naught but an slippery Seal at that.
Sir Sven spent some time in his room consuming a large flan, some fruit and a baked stool whilst preparing his deadly trap. 'Twas an trap ne'er dreamt of by mere mortals e'en in their wildest dreams of traps, and was cunningly, nay, cunningly even, disguised as an innocent packet of Bourbon Creams.
Resplendent in his Caius gown Sir Sven paraded along Trinity Street unto the blemish of St. John's where he deposited his trap in the appropriate pigeonhole and departed with ne'er the honking of a seal to disturb his work.
Hi, someone put a bomb in my pigeon hole. however because of my knee Kristina has been picking up my mail for me and was thus killed. I think it was labelled from the gonville and caius mafia. There was another one outside my door today but it was picked up and thrown away (it was a coke bottle) before I knew it was there, I saw it in Kristina's bin this afternoon, she thought someone was just being messy. She's now been killed twice. Also Raga and Rachel were a bit annoyed when they were threatened with guns in the kitchen/staircase/toilet. I being an ASNAC keep a slightly different timetable to people in more mainstream subjects which may explain why I tend not to be around when they are.
I'm afraid I shall have to thunderbolt you if any more non-players are killed collecting your mail.
Oh yes, the coke bottle; Styx:
Await dark fate her does. Unaware of her fate she is.
Her faith in her mafia her weakness is.
A lucky Spystalker on a solo mission to lay her bomb left a few paper
cut-out clones along with it. Labelled the bomb 'Diet Virgin Killer' is.
But as he was retreating through the garbage crusher, a voice
spoke:"Don't be too proud of this techological terror you've constructed..."
Then the bomb exploded prematurely. Still, if everything else develops as
foreseen, then the last of the incompetents Rosemary Fletcher will be.
But remember: "The Umpire is not as forgiving as I am.
Having been somewhere, and on my way to elsewhere, I stopped by Caius College to leave Sir Sven O'Bjornchester Samuel J. McHolzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahoy! Wilson a somewhat explosive present (but only after soliciting help in finding the frankly ludicrously placed pigeonholes), which I hope he enjoys in a rather terminal manner. I then disappeared inconspicuously into the night.
In the middle of the afternoon, Sir Sven O'Bjornchester Samuel J. McHolzhauer Yirteen-blimps-ahoy! Wilson finally left his breakfasting room. Concorde, his trusty page, had earlier interrupted Sir Sven's gustation of a platter of orangutan sweetbreads to tell him he had received several messages, so our valiant hero now walked quickly to the Ivory Tower where he spent several minutes in the China Throne room looking forth from the windows to determine that no one was watching his castle.
He soon ventured to the dovecotes, sure that he would be almost as safe there as in the throne room. His messages included several annoying pieces of paper (which he promptly discarded) and one CD case, delivered by his favourite stool pigeon, Speckled Jim.
"Ahoy!" said Sir Sven, "I suspect only the evil and devious Inconspicuous would send me a CD," and he promptly retreated to the throne room for several hours, where he devised a way to deal with the potential threat.
When he emerged, he felt in need of a brief repast. His choice of the Hall of Keys was possibly a bad one, but Sir Sven's stomach was inured to its rigours after many a visit there.
Once more fortified, Sir Sven drew a discarded epistle from the floor of the dovecotes and folded it into the shape of a crocodile. I don't know why he did this. He then found a discarded missive and folded it to form a triangular prism. With this cunning implement, he carefully moved the CD case. Nothing happened. He tried again, this time lifting the case and dropping it about an inch. Again nothing happened.
Rapidly becoming worried about this interesting device, he tried one more test: he dropped it from the window of the dovecote. Our hero was in luck as when the case hit the floor many chains below it fragmented into many pieces with a loud cracking sound.
But "Alack!" he cried, for Sir Sven discovered that the fabled Speckled Jim had been eating from his favourite tree, immediately beneath the dovecote, and had been crushed by the falling case.
But 'twas not not over 'til Sir Sven had vowed revenge on Inconspicuous for the death of his feathered friend. Then 'twas over.
Master of the Loom reports:
Loom. Precious Loom.
Hated Loom! Why must you always leak your oils? This is the third
secretion of the hour!
The Master of the Loom shook his withered head and sighed in dismay. He
was honoured to tend the Loom of Lost Souls, but he feared its baffling
cruelty. And this latest rash of oil spilling was causing the weavings to
emerge as mere husks! There was nothing to do but brave the Weeping Forest
and ensnare some more oil. The Master buckled his sandals, and pried open
the door of his wicker hovel.
"I warn you, Loom! If you have made oilet again when I return, you shall
have no supper!" They were strong words, but the Master's heart was full
of fear. Who knows what ancient strength lay in the Loom's bejewell'd
registers? With trousers pulled up as high as they would go, he exited the
hovel and entered the dark forest, heading to the Forbidden Tent. He
prayed that the oil dwarves had become slick.
He hobbled for many days through the ever-black forest. On his way, he was
accosted by piglets, gnawed by a toothless ghoul, and harrowed by the
sight of the Man With No Beard. But finally he spied the Forbidden Tent,
its filthy flaps billowing awfullly. ENTER ALL YE WHO WEAVE, said the
sign. Enter he did.
What ensued, no man should ever know. Indeed, the Master himself did not
know. All he knew was that his shoes were full of the finest oil he had
e'er tasted! Pleased, he rode the bus back to the hovel.
Loom! Precious Loom!
Violated Loom? Nestled 'twixt hovel door and frame... an abhorrence! An
ripened egg sac, pulsating with succulence, fit to burst! Had strangers
been? The Master sniffed the sac. Yes. They had been. But he knew what to
do. Snatching the Mystery Harness from its peg, he engaged it, and the
Remote Incubation Sheathe descended from the sky to hatch the
mucous-covered dumpling...
The Master wept. Loom was safe.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
Whaddaya mean, no evidence?! What about the goddamn shoehorns, ass wipe?"
I slammed my fist on the D.A.'s desk. "I get you Johnny the Hammer and you
let him walk? What kinda cop are you?". The DA just looked at me and
pointed to the door.
I strolled out into the rain and lit up a Lucky Strike. One thing I didn't
need was the pigs messing me around. What I did need was leads. And fast.
But all I had was a coat, a hat, a man, a plan, a canal, Panama, and
Prudence, my six-shooter. I'm Dick Bumston, P.I.
The rain was getting worse, so I hailed a passing cab and got in. The
cabbie was fat. Real fat. If he was the President, his name would be Fatty
Obesevelt. Good thing he wasn't President.
"31st and Quality. And step on it, chubby."
My office was in the seedy part of town, at the top of a rundown tenement
sandwiched between radiator repair shops and all-night liquor stores.
"That'll be five bucks, mac." I gave him ten, and told him to keep the
change. "Hey, thanks, buddy!" He flipped me the bird and drove off,
laughing. I stepped inside the building and took the elevator to the
seventy-eighth floor. What a day.
The letters on my door window said I was a private investigator for hire.
Or at least they used to. Some asshole had smashed my window while I was
at the police station. I pushed open the door and flicked the light
switch. Shit! The place was ransacked. Through the haze of cigarette smoke
I could see they'd done a pretty thorough job. The desk was overturned, my
files were everywhere, and they'd even found my illegal stash of 1920's
rolling pin erotica. I was dealing with a pro.
It figured. I poured myself a bourbon and collapsed into the easy chair.
What did those bastards want? I didn't come up with much before I heard a
knock on what was left of the door.
"Mr. Bumston?" It was a dame. A blonde. The kind of blonde that would make
the Pope crack one off. Me too, for that matter. And if I'd still had
those rolling pin mags, who knows?
"Yeah, that's me. But I'm closed, lady. I don't care if it's an
emergency."
"But it's an emergency! My shoes have been kidnapped!"
I froze. There was only one cat in town who'd do a low-down thing like
that, and he went by the name of Minister of Moonwalking. "An emergency?
Why didn't you say?"
"I was too scared to tell the Shoe Squad. You're the only person I can
trust." She was in tears. If I knew then what I know now, I never would've
taken the case. But like I said, my mags were gone, and this was my
one-way ticket to Shoesville.
Long story short, I plugged the Minister with some gun I found on the sidewalk. The dame turned out to be a hobo in disguise, and I never did make it into showbiz. But whattaya gonna do? Me, I just play the odds like any other sucker and keep hoping my number comes up.
I'm Dick Bumston, P.I.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
Jack "The Stool" Vickeridge looked a lot worse than when I last saw him.
Slumped over the bar, unwashed hair in a tangle, he could hardly move his
engorged tonsils to swear when I prodded him with a pool stick. It was all
I could do to stop myself ramming the stick into the treacherous lowlife's
eye.
"Vickeridge? You're under arrest, for the flushing of Dr Xavier Browne." He ignored me, so I pumped him full of lead. It was only then that I realised I'd made the whole thing up and he wasn't playing at all.
Burns reports:
After being shot by "The Shaman", I was rushed to a nearby hospital where I was pronounced dead. After being transferred to a better hospital, doctors upgraded my condition to "alive". Excellent. I'd just discovered that The Loom of Lost Souls had decimated the Trinity assassins the previous evening, so I decided to set out to remove him. Pish, posh, it would be like taking candy from a baby. Say, that sounds like a laugh. Let's try it right now. As I was leaving, a criminal attacked me. Stricken, I lurched forth in search of aid, but finding only slack-jawed gawkers, I gave up and collapsed on the Great Court sundial.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
"Results? What kind of results do you call this?" The D.A. was bright red
with fury. He held up a crime scene photo with a dead police officer and
his manlover. "You've killed your last cop, Bumston. Now because I'm such
a nice guy, I'm giving you five seconds to get outta here before I blow
your motherfuckin head off. One. Two."
I skedaddled out into the rain and lit up a Lucky Strike. My methods
might've been tough, but I got results, dammit! The D.A. and his cronies
were more concerned with bullshit like "following the law" and "not
killing cops for no reason" than they were with the safety of this town.
Well, not me. It was time to dish out justice the only way I knew how -
putting a slug through the head of David "Overused Pseudonym" Chow.
Good thing I knew his favorite haunt. "The Filthy Handbasket" was a
rundown hellhole of a bar, full of the dirtiest, sleaziest
mitten-snatchers this side of Westbury, and if I wasn't mistaken, that
included Chow on a Saturday afternoon. I stepped through the saloon doors
and checked out the patrons. Sure enough, there he was, bulging gut barely
fitting into his sweat-stained blue shirt, drinking oil from a beaker. A
hideously obese man in a tuxedo was playing Scott Joplin on a honky-tonk
piano in the corner.
I might have plugged him then, but the music was giving me a headache, so
I ordered a Gruesome Equation to go and waited outside. Then he came
outside, and I plugged him. Then I went back home, and had an inconclusive
shootout with some guy.
The Loom of Lost Souls reports:
Things happen downtown at four o'clock. Cars fill the streets, signs light
up, and Tommy the Hat starts to do business. Me, I start drinking. Now if
there's one thing I know, it's never mix drinking and hats, but I had to
learn that the hard way.
Let me tell you about Tommy. He was a midget with no legs who made the
best hats you ever saw. His specialty was taking a diamond and making a
sombrero out of it. Of course, this was in the middle of prohibition, so
getting an appointment with Tommy was next to impossible, but I was so
drunk one afternoon I didn't care.
His parlor was in the seedy part of town, disguised as a novelty shoehorn
store. I knocked and the peepslot opened. "Yeah? Who the fuck are you?"
Tommy stared at me like I'd just plugged his grandma. He smelled like
hats.
"I'm Bum Dickston, Q.C." I slurred. "I wannna a hat. The best hat you've
everr made. M-make it out of little gambling cubes."
He sneered. "No dice. Now get the fuck outta here before I call the cops."
Well, that di -- cops, eh? I might not've had a hat, but I knew who did.
'Sister of Darkness,' the other pigs called her. Scary name, not-so-scary
dame. She was an old crone who'd slept her way into the force and kept the
D.A. off her back by organising the annual prawn derby. What made her
interesting, though, was her taste in priceless Ming hats, and by my count
she was overdue for a donation to the Dick Bumston Priceless Ming Hat
Fund.
I put some pants on and whistled for a cab. "Take me to the cop shop,
asswagon. And make it snappy." Yeah, that'd sound good. A taxi pulled up
and I got in. "24th and Easy." Shit. Oh well. Maybe if I was lucky I'd see
the Sister on the way...
Well whaddaya know? She was limping down 24th Street, clutching a bag of
prawns. "Hey, mac! Follow that broad!" I shrieked. The cabbie shrugged and
ran over her. I got out and picked up the hat. Ah, crap. It was made out
of cardboard after all, and the cabbie ran over me later when I didn't
pay. But at least the orphans were safe, and I had a hunch I'd be seeing a
lot more hats, real soon. A ha! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!
(Fade out, roll credits.)
I stumbled upon Neil Morrison today. Unfortunately he dodged my holy hand-grenade and ninja-roped out of range of the ming vase and the homing pigeon crashed en-route but the cool precision of the RBG was too much.
"Oh dear!"
* pop *
Worm of the match: an earthworm
Most kills: an earthworm
Least dangerous worm: Neil Morrison
Once, upon the barnacled brow of an unkempt dwarf, there dwelt a foolish tardiloquent oaf named Nokes, whose utterly unserendipitous fate, woeful though it may be, concerning, as it does, the diminishment of breakfasting privileges, yet justified and correct, as it certainly is, was, and ever will be, considering his quidditative jobbernowlism, is now, as it must be, for the enlightenment, pseuchomachy, and general harmonious effervescence of the soul, related.
For indeed, Nokes was at one time blessed with an abundance of breakfastly fare, and flaunted his wealth; he often rode upon a giant muffin, drawn by a phalanx of boiled eggs and ever was he garbed in the likeness of a waffle: a mound of cream and strawberries crowned his hair, each strand of which was individually glazed in maple syrup. All of his most elegant jewellery was forged from various sweetbreads of the scone-quarries, and speckled with precious marmalades and jams.
This was verily a time of great prosperity for the frolicsome Nokes, and the village peasants revered him as a noble lord, but in truth he was a charlatan, an impotent harvester of spelæan bacon-mines, and bountiful sausage-orchards, a mindless plunderer of pancake-hives and crumpet-grottos. He drove the enslaved breakfasteers before him, callously showering them with evil jets of grapefruit juice, and bitter cranberry poison, should they momentarily cease their selfless futilitarian toil.
One day, an unimportant local croissant-farmer by name of A.N. Earthworme, frustrated by the incompossible and continual demands of the tyrannical Nokes, conceived of a cunning plan with which to depose the evil rogue. Knowing that, above all, greed and desire for glory gnawed Nokes's mind like the steely jaws of a cornflake-baited mantrap, Earthworme reported that he had heard tell of an enchanted stalagmitic leprechaun, dwelling amongst the filth in the darkest hollows of the cavernous Lucky Charm labyrinth, and that any man who should capture it would be granted eternal bliss, in the form of a bottomless bowl of chocolate Weetos, and an infinite jug of milk.
On hearing this news, Nokes finished his Gogmagotical plate of hash browns, donned his finest leprechaun-hunting apron, and strode confidently into the snarling mouth of the cave. He journeyed to and fro among the catacumbal recesses; deeper and darker led his path, until after not two, not three, but one month of his search, he spied a strangely luminiferous but unidentifiable beast, nestled in a bagel-thicket cackling to itself about the joys of carrots. Thitherward crept Nokes, and pausing only to loaf labefactatiously against a mountainous heap of buttered toast, he proceeded forth into the glade, proclaiming in a deep margarine-enhanced voice "I am come to claim thee, thou sinister and preposterous advertising gimmick." However, he was, at first, surprised, and later, surprised, to find that the scallywag he had discovered was not a leprechaun at all.
And so it was that Nokes came upon that which is most feared, the Teutono-umbelliflorous creature Holzhauer the Diphthongal (or perhaps Triphthongal), who dwelt there in clandestine squalor, cowering from the sunlight which had cursed him. His tale was known to few, and rife with woe-begoneness: he was once a common carrot-herder, but over time he became addicted to his crop, constantly fondling and caressing the digitlike fruits. Gradually he started to inherit an orange tinge, and the other carrot-herdsmen reviled him with disdain, and thence he hid, far below the cruel unforgiving world that could not respect his distinctly more than pastoral love for his flock.
Despite his sad story, Holzhauer was a cruel and heartless villain, caring only for his carrots, which were now dry and withered due to the stale dank air of the cavern, which was an atmosphere wholly inconducive to photosynthesis. He spat, growled, and defecated at Nokes, who disgustedly mopped away the sputum and fæces with his toastkerchief; Nokes did not pity the wretch in his degradation, as he too was an unrepentant cad. Instead, he began to strike Holzhauer savagely with his most sturdy git-beating wand, which was in retrospect a mistake, as this evoked a hideous and lethal reaction from the Caian outcast, who promptly forced a deadly sharpened carrot up Nokes's left-nostril. Snorting and spluttering, the corpse fell to the rocky floor, where it lies to this day.
Nevermore shall the disgraced Nokes torment the people of Breakfasthampton, and always, his fate will stand as a warning to would-be crumpet-hoarders, to desist, lest they be struck down by a cynically wielded malicious carrot, albeit withered.