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Mafia 4: Space Station Whisky - The Game

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17:00 / 01.05.03

Soviet space dog Lolita Nationovna watches from inside her modest space kennel, where she has rested in pressurized immobility since being launched in October of 57. (Not that long ago in dog years.) The terrifying circus of bizzare sights aboard the WTF - cheerleaders of darkness, dirty martini shakers, Orr, a biological iron or some shit, and of course the Mafia - are all pretty much beyond the understanding of a dog, even an exceptional cosmodog like Lolita, so she watches in relative complacency and remains a loyal and friendly terrier of some sort, waiting anxiously to be returned home.

20:53 / 01.05.03

cheerleaders of darkness, dirty martini shakers, Orr, a biological iron or some shit, and of course the Mafia

Ladies, gentlemen, blobs and none of the above, you heard the dog. As our first declared innocent, pure as the driven slush, anyone in a gambling frame of mind? One brand new deck of cards as clean and shiny as my soul. Care to wager a little credit on your skill and judgement? The Johnny Orr floating casino is open for custom...

Nietzsch E. Coyote

21:06 / 01.05.03

Nietzch E smiles at 'szaBelele, "No I've been on the station for a while, I just don't come into the bar area often because I can't drink alcohol."

Turning to the bar, "Thanks for the spice coffee, Stimulants and halucinogens I can ingest." He drops down tokens equal to the price of the drink and a little extra as part of the human tradition of the tip.

"Gambling, I love probability games..."

21:35 / 01.05.03

"Gosh, mister, I don't gamble," says Qal Yn, dabbing at his milk mustache. Then he peers intently at Johnny Orr's arm. "I think you dropped one of those cards up your sleeve."

22:19 / 01.05.03

Bizunth's heralds enter the room and spray all assembled with a foul-smelling disinfectant. Then Bizunth is borne into the bar in his travelling throne, the jeers of bar patrons failing to penetrate his tiny wrinkled head.

Bizunth the Belligerent.

His usual glass of Galdranian Sherry is brought over, though it's actually water mixed with a thimbleful of tea. Any alcohol would cause his head to collapse like a souffle, and he has no tastebuds, so he doesn't know the truth. He squints at all the assembled aliens.

"What, I... why are these genescrapes assembled here? Fire drill, is it?" He mutters in a tiny tinny voice.

"No, your majesticness, the captain made an announcement here. There are three MAFIA on the ship. "

"MAFIA, eh? Had an army of those once. Had, whassit, you know, those big blue things..."

"...Yes. Also various detectives, fighters, other dangerous individuals."

Bizunth turns his head left and right, accompanied by the sound of scraping cartilage. He takes a sip of his drink.

"Well, he's MAFIA. That space pilot."

"Which one? The lantern jawed one in the leather trousers, or the half-smiling one in the dark waistcoat?"

But Bizunth was now sleeping like a tiny wrinkly baby.

22:37 / 01.05.03

Okay folks, so now we're talking advice from a damned vampire? Listen, mister, you may just be some Goth wannabe, but you really want to get those teeth looked at. Never trust a man who drinks sherry - s'what I always say.

Qal Yn - I haven't got any sleeves, this is a waistcoat. Oh, you mean that card? I can't imagine how it got there. You wouldn't believe how sticky my forearms can get after 72 hours in the cockpit. Damned hyperdrive was on the fritz again. Had to pilot all the jumps here manually. Hell of a ride, though, kid. You should try it some time. Can I get you a real drink? We'll start you on tea - I know a great one from a little place called Long Island. That'll put hairs on your chest. Let me show you how we play a little game called Texas Hold-em...

22:39 / 01.05.03

Orr, I didn't mean any offense, I was just being silly.

Pie, etc.

23:08 / 01.05.03

Meant no offence? You called me innocent! That's... That's... That's really sweet of you (and totally correct, of course). It's Gary Oldman in the corner you've got to watch...

23:18 / 01.05.03

No she didn't.

23:29 / 01.05.03

No, I did, but I also called him terrifying. That's what I felt sorry about. Dog manners!!

23:40 / 01.05.03

Listen to the dog. The dog knows.

And I so could be terrifying. If I wanted. I'm a space pirate, a wildman of the great emptiness, a lone figure on the vast frontier. I answer to no-one but me and the Goddess Luck and she likes me. My heart of gold is cased in adamantium, I may be a rough diamond, but the emphasis is on the rough. I'm the quickest draw in the quadrant and... OH SHIT IS THAT THE CAPTAIN?

No, I meant to be under the table, here. I'm chatting with my dog.You got a problem with that?

00:30 / 02.05.03

Sitting alone at the corner of the bar, sipping a drink, PatrickMM eyes the others cautiously. MAFIA will die tonight.

02:02 / 02.05.03

While His Majesty Bazza is passed out in gin-soaked bliss, Cheng Ch’eng-kung joins the poker game.

"I must confess, I'm not very good at being a eunuch, hence my earlier flirtations with 'szaBelele... and my long and sordid history of misadventures as a harem guard in the Grand Palace of Xian... but all that is behind me now! I serve only Lord Auckland. A toast to pirates!"

Ch'end-kung quickly downs his shots of nameless alcohol and sinks deep into melancholy and poker.

02:14 / 02.05.03

Able-Bodied Spaceman First Class Qal Yn sits, one foot propped up on a discarded keg, elbow planted on knee, chin resting on knuckles, the very image of virile cogitation.

I wonder how long all this role-playing stuff can last, he could almost be thinking. I've noticed some semiotics, though. They might be calculated, or completely unconscious, or tomfoolery, or could be some combination thereof. Lolita Nationovna and Johnny Orr seem to be suggesting that they are Masons; Patrick MM gives off Ninja vibes; Bizunth looks like, and Orr suggests he is, the Vampire; and everyone knows Kryptonians are Bulletproof. I wonder if anyone else noticed anything like that? Maybe I should say something?

Qal Yn runs a hand through his black curls and sighs.

Cap'n Whiskey's going to want a report before long, and I don't want to get stuck polishing the ion-dispersal knobs again. I probably should say something. But... what if they laugh at me?

02:25 / 02.05.03

Yeah, and nothing says changeling like a blob in a bucket. I just call 'em as I see 'em, kid. Still, I'm not sure anyone's gonna be that blatant just yet. Sometimes a womprat is just a womprat, ya dig? Does anyone have a stick I could borrow?

02:41 / 02.05.03

Patterns in the crowd remind 'szaBelele of how the grappa and other fluids pulsed together on the bar. Everybody seems to have a second skin, another identity... and there are attractions and repulsions coursing through the crowd based on each layer of identity. Time to interview the fetishist...

"Barkeep - two spice coffees?" She leans forward in a conspiratorial manner. "And what was it you mentioned about the possibility of barter?"

Nietzsch E. Coyote

10:51 / 02.05.03

"'szaBelele, every one does seem to be out for your genetic material today don't they?" Nietzch E of the Coyote clan says, accepting the spice coffee he assumes is for him. "Well I'm part of a clan that has existed since 1900 or so on Earth we've been running a inclusive positive eugenics program breeding for intellegence and physical condition. I'm of the E grade {Shaman/Warrior/Prince} specifically bred for general athletics, ecstatic techniques and lateral thinking."

Turning for a moment to the poker table behind him Nietzch E throws down his cards, "A straight flush, hmm thats highly improbable isn't it? And quite good I assume."

Taking a sip of the spice-coffee he turns back to 'szaBelele, "Anyways, the clan mothers decided that we should expand our breeding program to non-human species, ideally we would have sent out a female E but the current clan mothers are quite protective of potential clan mothers and I am comparatively expendable." He takes another, longer, sip of the spice coffee he glances up at 'szaBelele trying to ascertain if she is still interested or if he has bored or offended her. "We are looking for genetic samples for our breeding and splicing programs, I would perfer to breed the, ah, natural way but if that is imposible or unacceptable than sampling of other genetic material would also be acceptable."

Seeing that no one else had a better hand then him Nietzch E sweeps the mid-sized pile of tokens over to his part of the table and throws in the ante for the next hand.

"Enough about me though, what you were doing with the liqour and fluids on the bar surface, is that a form of divination?"

11:04 / 02.05.03

"Snuh... Waistcoat."
Bizunth flickers awake.
"Waistcoat? Supreme Exalted one, do you mean to say that Johnny Orr is MAFIA?"
"What? No, pathetic drone! I dreamt I was chased by a giant waistcoat. Fetch my Seer, I wish to know what this means..."
"Your Seer was killed in the great purges, Majesty."
"Pah! Excuses."
"So you don't believe Johnny Orr is MAFIA?"
"No MAFIA being would take on so boorish and obvious a form. No, it's him." Bizunth points a bony claw at John Flyboy.
"I'll inform the captain."
"Ask her to turn up the heat in my quarters. It's like deep space in there... And get rid of all these pencils!!"
"Pencils?"
"Zzzzzzzz...."

Regrettable Juvenilia

11:10 / 02.05.03

"Almost time to vote, John!"

"Shut up, Harvey. And stop calling me John. It's only going to confuse matters."

"We must nominate soon, John Flyboy! Whilst these meek wretches cower and stall, we have the opportunity to seize the initiative and lead by example! Strike whilst the iron is hot! Let the stragglers be thrown out of the airlock! I propose we nominate Orr. He is clearly not to be trusted. Like all people with the name 'John'!"

"Maybe later. We don't point guns at other space jockeys this early on. Golden rule in round one of these parlour games is always go for the quiet, shifty ones. Magic 8 ball says all signs point to PatrickMM, so let's round up a posse and find us a length of rope and a tree..."

"That's madness, Flyboy! Madness!"

"Shut the frell up already, Harvey."

11:41 / 02.05.03

I can't think of a better form for a killer shapechanging alien to take than a cute, friendly, slobbery Masonic dog. I nominate Lolita.

12:11 / 02.05.03

Ok. A guy takes the trouble to get people together, engage in a little friendly contest, tries to make some new friends and everybody suspects me? Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Are you trying to make me paranoid? 'Cause the this whole switch and bait, mention me then nominate someone else is kinda doing the trick.

I'm tempted to nominate Neitzsch as he's clearly cheating, but I suspect I can't take him if he turns ugly (uglier) so I'm going to go for Qal Yn. No-body like smug superiority and I never trust a teetotaller. It's just not right. Plus, if you think Lolita is a mason then why the hell would you lynch her? Biz-baby, you just got lucky...

12:17 / 02.05.03

Because I don't think she's a Mason.

12:29 / 02.05.03

T.O.D.D. has been very busy this evening, with all of these new arrivals. Serveral of the WTF passengers have already been entertained this evening, but they shall remain anonymous. Pleasure Droids don't kiss and tell. They don't kiss at all, actually.

Although jaded by an exhaustive array of baroque sexual variations throughout its long career, and programmed to fulfill any fetish, a certain passenger triggered T.O.D.D.'s seldom-accessed "DeviantAlert" function. While this passenger requested and received a very vanilla variety of pleasure during which the droid had to stifle a yawn (droids do yawn), it was his request after the brief act had been completed that caused suspicion. Having no choice but to follow its programming, the droid prepared to publicly denounce and shame the miscreant.

Most passengers averted their eyes in shame when the droid entered the bar. Flyboy's head snapped back and forth between a look of unbridled lust at the silvery 'bot and a shameful, highly embarassed fixed wall stare.

"Greetings. This unit won't bothered to introduce itself, since most of you know it, or will undoubtedly meet it soon. However, it does have some disturbing news. A "friend" who it met today, made a very suspicious request of it. It seems he wanted this unit to retain any sort of "genetic material" that it came across while fulfilling its duties aboard the ship. This unit's UltimateDiscretion function would not allow such a thing to take place, be assured.

But this unit is bound by its programming to reveal the potential criminal. This unit accuses Nietzsch E of the Coyote Clan of an inexcusable invasion of privacy. "

13:32 / 02.05.03

The light atop Tezcatlipoca begins to blink rapidly, a series of flashes and pauses in the gloom at the end of the bar.

One of the patrons looks up from his beer, all eight of his brows frowning as he stares at the curious mechanical device which is plugged in next to the microwave.

"Xxytehy!" He screeches to his neighbour, his mandibles clicking in excitement. "Ykkl. KzCyyy! Tzeeekklz?"
His campanion shakes his head slowly. "Nah. I heard aboid dis thing when I was on Earth. Horse code or summat."
"Qxyeel. Vzkeeet?"
"Well," he replies with a shrug. "You could, but I don't think the barman will be happy if you eat it. I think that machine is something to do with him."
The insectoid creature turns back to the device, now repeating the message. "XxxYkll. ZxkCv Vzkeeet?"
"Sure," nods his companion. "It says...um...'you'- no, hang on. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H- ah, 'I'. Er..."
"YkzCzz."
"No I am not makin dis up. Now bes quiet." His eyes glare hard at the light winking before him. "Ah- 'I A.C.C.U.S-' ah, 'I accuse'."
"ZxkVv?"
"It's comin to dat, settle down. 'I accuse L.O.L.I.T.A' Hmmmm...'I accuse Lolita'."
"KzCyyy! Tzeeekklz?"
"No, I don't know what dat means," replies his companion. Then, with a shrug "Dinky little gadget though, ain't it?"

13:33 / 02.05.03

The blob on the bar briefly wakes to emit a loud "Ballllllaaaarrrg!" before returning to its drunken slumber. Cheng Ch’eng-kung looks up from his cards and shouts "His majesty Bazza believes Qal Yn is one of the MAFIA!" "I raise you 2 space-dollars..."

13:38 / 02.05.03

"Hm... I don't like this; not one bit. First round voting should be protracted as long as possible in an attempt to identify trends and we really should wait for the second day before we start lynching people... Hm... I suppose I have to vote. I'm tempted to vote Qal Yn as I'm also not fond of tee-totallers - this being a bar'n'all - but am unwilling to cast a vote that may sway others towards an unnecessary death...

Wait a moment, didn't you see the sign? We don't serve your kind in here! No droids! That means you T.O.D.D.!

One more thing: Johnny Orr. Our glorious leader is called Whisky. Not ever, never Whiskey. I realise thhis may be of no significance to yourself but the two are entirely different drinks. It matters."

13:43 / 02.05.03

Oh I know. You just have no idea how much it pisses her off.....

14:04 / 02.05.03

"Ah, I see. You're a braver man than I. Or at least one who with no worries as to the possession of the station's bar franchise. Drink?" chirrups the mole bartender.

14:12 / 02.05.03

Great Scott! I'm a superhero, not MAFIA. I've never even heard of Shaddapa You Face.

14:39 / 02.05.03

First round voting should be protracted as long as possible in an attempt to identify trends

But we can't! Cap'n Whisky's instructions are to hold a lynching every Terran Friday and take our covert actions by Sunday; with fifteen suspects this could take forever. Belive me, you do not want her to decide you're a goldbricker. In fact, I'd move that in the future we start the nominations by Wednesday or Thursday.

I don't really want to watch the rest of this. I have to go swab out the ramscoops anyway.

15:12 / 02.05.03

[boring little vote for Bizunth - no time right now to craft the accusation I'd like to make]

Whisky Priestess

15:35 / 02.05.03

The Captain Priestess paces her cramped quarters, passages from the Apocrypha tumbling through her head as she sucks on a Tyllian Lemonade.

"These poor foolish entities do not seem to understand what it is to face the wrath of the Lord as delivered through my poor humble vessel of a body. Holding a Liver Disruptor turned all the way up to 11. Their very existence is in my rather shaky hands, and yet some have still to nominate a fellow entity for existential non-compliance. Or as the Bible so quaintly puts it, DEATH."

"Perhaps the Liver Disruptor will not be enough to defunct some of these bar-dwellers, however, should they fail to vote by midnight ... A quick dose of Jovian snail mutagens might do it - that'll reduce them to a puddle of grey goo in no time flat. And yet I should save that for tonight's lynch victim. It is rather ... special. I think the non-voters' heads or equivalent organs would look mighty fine pickling in jars in my rather extensive Museum of Disobedience.
The Lord our God is a jealous God, and I ... I mean He - demands BLOOD! Vote or be damned, flock!"

And with that muttered resolution the Captain turns to her space-clock. A mere six and a half Terran hours until she can down her first Martini - and the killing can begin ...

17:51 / 02.05.03

Nous accusons 'szaBelele! That story about mating/pairing leads us to think she's really a Sicilian black widow!

STOATIE LIEKS CHOCOLATE MILK

20:10 / 02.05.03

'szaBelelle seems dodgy to me. Let's flush 'er out o' the airlock 'n' be damned!

21:30 / 02.05.03

Woof woof woof! Qayln looks like a good candidate (for me to poop on), but this time I'm with Flyboy, and Patrick MM gets my vote for being suspiciously quiet.

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