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Mafia2: The Game Thread

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17:58 / 06.02.03

On the windward side of mighty Mt. Huggles, a two-hour train journey from the quaint village of Toddsylvania, is the factory town of Granton, the thriving industrial heart of the region known as Barbelith.

When the sun is shining, Granton is a pleasant, sun-dappled burg, a place where honest men and women know the value of a good day's work, sweating and toiling for their daily wage at the McGrant Brick and Mortar Foundry, converting surplus pudding slurry into the building materials used all over Barbelith.

It's hard work, but fair, and there's never been any sign of grumbling or discontent... until lately. For now, when the sun sets, and the simple Grantonians cease their labors for the day...

... a shadow falls over the town.

A shadow made of fear.

Yes, fear and death have come to Granton. But wait -- here's the mayor!
Yes, it's good old Mayor Obed McGrant, the sole business owner in Granton, known familiarly as "Old O.M. -- Our Mayor, bless his flinty heart."

"Ahem.
"My dear citizens and employees. I've just gotten a cable from my affiliates in Toddsylvania... it seems they've just rooted out a chapter of the cosa nostra. Yes, that's right - our main pudding slurry supplier was in fact a hotbed of mafia activity. Apparently, even my own cousin was involved.
"Well, I don't know how they do things in Toddsylvania, but I won't stand for it! I won't!
"And that's where you come in, good citizens. It's only with your help that we can uproot this murderous menace for once and for all. I need each of you to keep your eyes open. Turn your minds back. Think about your friends. Think about your neighbors. Have you seen anything suspicious? Anything... potentially incriminating?
"My town will be a peaceful town - and I won't stop killing citizens until every last murdering mafioso has been judged and executed!
"Now, let's get to work! I'm calling a town meeting tonight and I expect a suspect to be named and dealt with by a majority of votes!
"As a special incentive, every voter who helps nab a mafioso gets an extra ration of slurry with the dinner gruel allotment.

Mmm! Slurry!

"Let's get rid of these rats for once and for all! Everyone, back to business!"

19:19 / 06.02.03

A heavily bearded fellow, dressed severely in black clothing, slowly drives his horse drawn buggy into the center of town. After halting the trotting horse, the stout man alights the car and surveys the scene.

"Is this Scranton?" he bellows, politely. "I'm here for the barn-raising."

He raises a horn to his ear and cocks his head, waiting for an answer.

20:43 / 06.02.03

"Yep, iss'Granton," barks old Col. Qalyn as he hobbles cross the square. He's lost his peg-leg again, just as he lost his real one in a mine collapse lo these many years gone.

22:18 / 06.02.03

That darn Colonel Qalyn, he did it, does it and will always do it.

Inside the observatorium, Bendt Chromeo observes the newcomer with keen interest. Hmm, he seems mighty queer, his internal monologue informs him. I sense something with this fella, the monologue continues, could he be ... a Dogon? A vile, cold-blooded, scaly Dogon in human disguise? Those darn Dogons are among us, have infiltrated our cleancut societies since ... who knows, really? But infiltrated us, they have, perverting our godgiven ways for their gain. I will have none of it ...

He goes out, hair a mess as per usual, clothes wrinkly and unwashed for what could conceivably be a decade, but nonetheless his handsome look failed to be extinguished by such untidyness.

"Hell-o Stranger, new in town?" he said having caught up with Todd, "and you," glare on Colonel Qalyn, "what happened to your third leg?"

23:08 / 06.02.03

"Third one got dry-rot at Bangalore, youngster. Here's a nickel, clean yourself up."

No star here laces

07:53 / 07.02.03

An inconspicuous and innocent looking villager nearby continues working inconspicuously and innocently at his inconspicuous profession. That will be all.

STOATIE LIEKS CHOCOLATE MILK

08:23 / 07.02.03

And sat on his porch, rocking backwards and forwards like a madwoman, old Mr Maominstoat surveys the scene. They call him the Chairman, though nobody remembers what of anymore. A harmless enough sort, he's known to be a little suspicious of strangers, and, sure enough, soon he's staggering over to the newcomer, focusing through a moonshine haze. "Barn-raising? Barn-raising?"
He leans in closely. "Are you Amish ? I hear the Amish have strong links with organised crime in these parts. You can't trust anyone these days, you know."
He looks Todd up and down, before barking "Pah. Maybe you're okay. But I'll be keeping an eye on you, boy."

Regrettable Juvenilia

11:51 / 07.02.03

Some of the citizens of Granton had their suspicions about Dr Flyboy, the handsome young physician who had arrived from the City a few months previously. They didn't particularly care for his slick suits and fancy City ways - like prescribing those high-falutin' modern medicines that came in little plastic packs, rather than the honest, traditional course of leeches that had always been favoured by the town's beloved old Dr Mendleson (God rest his soul). Also, many of the good men of the town were unimpressed with the way their wives always
looked forward to Dr Flyboy making his rounds with the greatest anticipation and enthusiasm...

"God-darned city boy", they muttered. "He'sm Mafia for sure, or I'm a candy-assed Red!"

But in fact, they were much mistaken, for Dr Flyboy was in no way connected with the Mafia, and his only criminality was a tendency to prescibe himself large doses of medicinal-quality MDMA.

No star here laces

12:10 / 07.02.03

But where did he get it from? He might not be mafia, but he's definitely friends with 'em.

Said a nondescript passer-by.

Whisky Priestess

13:00 / 07.02.03

Tossing her auburn-ish sort-of curls impetuously, a bit like Vivien Leigh in Gone With The Wind (who had no connection to the Mafia, by the way), Whisky Priestess steps out of a handsome hansom, carpet-bag in hand.

She surveys the mean streets of Granton, sniffs the slurry-scented air as though it was perfumed with pure freedom, and stares keenly at an innocent and inconspicuous worker who's doing something vague with pipes.

"It's funny," she murmurs to herself "He reminds me a little of someone back in Toddsylvania - that nest of vipers! I barely escaped that Village of Death with my life!"

Striding confidently towards the town's only hotel, And/Orr's Welcum Inn!, run by the town's ex-jailbird-made-good, reader of historical romances and confidante of all who get a little too merry in the hotel bar, she comforts herself with the thought that at least there won't be any gnocchi-gnawing Mafia dregs in this peaceful little town.

OR WILL THERE?!?

14:52 / 07.02.03

The Widow Iszabelle watches the influx of new people with a combination of amusement and irritation from the sidewalk. This morning started out as a simple grocery run, and the baskets on her bicycle are full of fresh veggies and sundry delicacies. It might be nice to host a dinner for the new people, get to know them a little bit, but first she has to get home. The choice is between the ruts and rocks of the back roads or the fresh hazards of the main roads - buggies and hansoms and more horses on the way, from the sounds etc wafting in on the breeze. Putting "diapers" on horses don't look good, but dammit, it's courteous!

16:29 / 07.02.03

Wiping a nonchalunt cloth across the bar counter, the grizzled, dyslexic landlord of the Welcum Inn stared out through the large picture window that opened out onto the town square. Things sure were getting busy around here. All them durned Toddsylvanians were going to ruin the town with their pudding-addled ways. They'd better not be wanting any of their fancy cocktails and what if they'd brought the mafia with them? Wipe and watch. Wipe and watch. They'll show their true colours soon enough. Eventually everyone spills their guts to a barman.

16:49 / 07.02.03

"What's up Doc," Chromeo asked Dr. Flyboy, "still maintaining your innocence?"

For Chromeo it was simple: anyone who were defensive from the getgo deserved a closer scrutiny and not less than a little bit of unfounded suspecion. After all, Chromeo's wife, Juliet, had whispered something peculiar in his ear once regarding the doctor. It was a wellkept secret that the marriage was a sham, as both were deeply homosexual and saw no shame in it. The doctor had come round to do a physical on fair Juliet and not once did he make a pass at her.

What was wrong with her? She was beautiful, slim and had a great sense of humour, not to mention wellversed in any pop related venue.

Hmmm, Chromeo once more mused to himself.

And now this Whisky Priestess - an anagram for IRKS SWEET-ISH SPY - another newcomer! What did she say? Escaped Toddsylvania? Escaped what? Has she something to hide? And why did she stare so keenly at an innocent?

This was most troubling, indeed.

17:17 / 07.02.03

Bright-eyed and dim-witted young lolita nation sits on the curb, exhausted after her shift at the All-Night Slurry Buffet. Since the mysterious deaths of her parents, Agnes and Isaiah Nation, just a few months back, she's had to give up her dream of studying linguistics at Slurry Community College and work full time to support her siblings and grandparents. "Why doesn't someone find the mafia and get rid of them?" she asks mournfully as she limps back to her hovel. "Granton used to be so safe."

"And all these newcomers don't tip for shit..."

Whisky Priestess

17:33 / 07.02.03

Gazing out of the window of the Welcum Inn through the rose-coloured glasses of a couple of gin martinis, Whisky Priestess takes pity on the orphan girl and tosses her some money. On second thought, she races out of the door and snatches the silver from the child's slurry-smeared hand, replacing the coins with a pack of Camels.

"You'll need these more. Trust me." she says, ruffling the infant's hair, before going back to her room to embark on a weekend-long binge from which she may awake only occasionally to spy on the doings of Granton.

(translation - I'm in Oxford this weekend and won't have much internet access, so y'all be good now and don't go suspecting me just because I'm "drunk" up in my "room".)

18:00 / 07.02.03

Watching the Priestess' act of charity is the wily young Tezcatlipoca, his thin face curled into a smirk, his eyes glittering as softly as funeral tapers. For years the young scamp had been the town rat catcher, hiring his extermination services to those who required them. Now his eyes narrowed as he watched her snatch the coin and substitute it for the cigarettes.

"Looks like we might have some new vermin in town," he mutters...

19:55 / 07.02.03

"Hell with the newcomers. It's you townies I don't trust. Just where was you when I languished in that man's POW camp?"

Col. Qalyn, waggling his big mutton-shoppy whiskers, glares at the Grantonites about, but fails to notice Skippy, the town's contractually required three-legged dog.

"Oh yiss. I know where y'hid m'wife. I do."

Skippy cocks his leg on the Col.'s crutch.

21:10 / 07.02.03

And/Orr places a final careful chalk-stroke on the blackboard and steps back to admire his work.

"Happi Howr tonight!! Buy a half of slurry shandy - get a pint!"

Maybe that'll bring them in he thinks. Maybe this will finally bring the happy clatter of hobnails across the barroom floor. Placing the notice in the corner of the window his eyes are caught by the sight of the colonel waving a dog on a stick around the town square. Skippy was unusually tenacious today lasting a full three minutes before disappearing over the roof of the local apothecary. But wait, why was the colonel wearing a right brogue when it was the right leg that had been so cruelly removed all those years ago?

Goodness Gracious Meme

00:32 / 08.02.03

Bengali lifts her head up from the oh-so-comfortable floorboards of Orr's shalubri--, er, classy, eshstablishment and checks out the latest special...

Barkeep, a pint of yer finesht shlurry, when you have a moment.

I may be drunk, but at leasht I'm honesht, she thinks.

Not sho shure about that Doctor chappie, though. Heard things about him that'd make your hair curl. And *thats* without his home remedies...

Regrettable Juvenilia

11:17 / 08.02.03

After a revealing conversation with Mr Bitchlaces yesterday evening (I think he's one of us, villagers), I felt the need to explain that I'm not actually *that* kind of Doctor (the kind who can save your life if the Mafia kill you).

And don't believe a word bengali tells you, I'm not *that* kind of Doctor either...

12:32 / 08.02.03

So just what kind of doctor are you, Flyboy?

Regrettable Juvenilia

13:18 / 08.02.03

Criminal Psychology is my speciality, Mr Tezcatlikpoka.

Or should I call you... Guido?

13:41 / 08.02.03

Oh, a criminal psychologist, you say? Makes sense a criminal psychologist would make so many housecalls...

I smell something here. And it ain't pretty.

15:49 / 08.02.03

Don't mind the smell, Bendt. It's just my chemicals.

*Narrows eyes at Flyboy*

I use them for catching rats...

Goodness Gracious Meme

11:46 / 09.02.03

Just rats, Tez?

Or should I be more careful to address you properly? With all those chemicals at home....

No offence, I'm sure Mr Tezcatlipoca.

The doc and the bitch seem to be in close contact. hmm

No star here laces

11:54 / 09.02.03

Why would a simple villager want to seem taller, eh? That's all I'm saying. Beware of elevated footwear...

15:04 / 09.02.03

I heard Doc Flyboy was connected to some kind of Clan from Staten Island, someplace even worse than Toddsylvania. You know the subway don't even go there....

15:08 / 09.02.03

Lionheart sits behind his dinner table reading the local newspaper while wondering "Was there a war? What's up with these refugees?"

15:25 / 09.02.03

The Widow Iszabelle watches the careful circling, the rise and fall of metaphorical hackles as villagers and newcomers and unknowns sniff around each other, and decides it's time to stir the pot a little. She steps forward and clears her throat....

"Ladies, gentlemen - I'd like to invite you to an impromptu get-together at my house. We can all get to know each other under more civilized circumstances than wind and dust and horse-shit.

"Cocktails and light snacks will be at [checks watch] 5:30, which will give me a little time at the house to prepare, and dinner will be at 7 sharp.

"For those of you who are new in town, I live out near the creek. Take this road out about a mile and a half, then turn left at the scarecrow and go another half a mile. You should be able to see the house from where you turn, but I'll make sure the scarecrow is wearing something festive just to make it obvious."

And the Widow Iszabelle sets off down the main road on her bicycle, gracefully weaving between various fly-covered obstacles...

16:09 / 09.02.03

"Bloody amateurs stealin' ma trade" mutters And/Orr bitterly. That widow Iszabelle had never been the same since her sister was flattened by a passing haus, but what was with that scarecrow? And why did it always appear to be screaming silently?

Resigned to another evening of solitary introspection, his mind wanders to the strange actions of the Whiskey Priestess earlier. Sure, he'd had customers drink themselves into oblivion before. One or two had even bothered to pay for a room to sleep it off in before they climbed into a barrel of apple martinis. So far, in his long career behind the bar, no-one else had, just as the last slurry chaser carried them off into a horizontal state of conciousness, grabbed him by his styishly handstiched galoshes and slurred incoherently about their family. What could have scared the mysterious woman so badly?

As for B.I.P. ze'd seen hir share of ridicule for years from the other children in Toddsylvania until they'd realised that ze couldn't be wearing orthopedic shoes on both feet. Another round of slurs would just sail over hir head.

Bugger. That sounded like movement down in the cellar. Where had Tez got to?

Whisky Priestess

18:20 / 09.02.03

Whisky Priestess opens her gummed eyes and stares blearily at the ceiling.

"Did I really sing "Evergreen" in the style of Dolly Parton at last night's Orl-Nite Karry-Okey? she wondered, before dismissing it all as a hideous nightmare.

She staggers to the window, pausing only to stare long and hard at everyone, narrowing her pinhole pupils even further.

"Y're all suspects" .. she mutters, Cassandra-like, before sinking into a deep sleep. "Trust no-one. Just like last time".

Hell of a hangover awaits the Priestess on Monday morning. And that's just when she gets to work.

19:05 / 09.02.03

Chromeo concurred silently with And / Orr, that scarecrow had long been a dead ringer for something putrid. Gossip dictated that all was not what it seemed with the Widow Iszabelle; how had she murdered her husband? And why did her children insist on calling her the Black Widow Iszabelle?

Chromeo politely declined poisonous junk, rather, he went home to fair Juliet and they managed a Scrabble allnighter. Naked. And aroused. In a deeply homosexual way.

No star here laces

06:50 / 10.02.03

The nondescript masses want to lynch someone today.

09:15 / 10.02.03

[Morbidly]Yeah, let's.[/Morbidly]

11:52 / 10.02.03

Bjacques returns from a long weekend in The Big City, seat of the empire that slurry built. Didja know they've got buildings made entirely out of packed slurry, the latest fashions made from flexible slurry crust, and a smash hit musical about slurry? God smiles on me that I should live at the height of the Slurry Age! Yes, back to work at the 6am bell, tasting the slurry before it goes out to quality control. Mmm, that's good slurry. My heart beats with pride. May it continue to do so tomorrow morning...who are these "maggia" people anyhow?

I wouldn't trust my own grandmother in this place!

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