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Mafia - The Game

  
  

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Tezcatlipoca
11:36 / 15.05.06
Note: This is the game thread for Mafia. Anyone is free to watch, but please only post here if you are a player. Thank you.




Fats' Barber Shop. Chicago. 1927.

Don Catlipoca, self-appointed mayor of Little Catlipocia, reclines in his seat, a hot flannel draped over his face as Fats himself works at the hair. There is a polite cough from behind the Don, and a hand reaches up lazily to grasp Fats’ wrist.
"That’s short enough."
The barber gives a nod, then steps back. The great leather seat, flecked here and there with old blood from ancient feuds swings ponderously around to face the back of the shop and the small crowd that has gathered there. A hand raises up and removes the flannel, and Don Catlipoca stares at the most eminent members of the community.



"My fellow citizens of Little Catlipocia," he begins. "We have a problem. For some time now, the vicious and immoral Barbelith Family have been trying to take this town. They tried corruption, and we resisted. They tried bribery, and we threw them out. They tried to attack us, and we beat them down." The Don's voice grows deeper, and a menace creeps into his tone. "But now," he snarls. "Now they're trying something else. Something worse than ordinary decent corruption. Worse than bribery. And much, much worse than a straight-up dust up."
There is a long pause. The air is tense with expectation.
"It is my duty to inform you all that we got us a rat in town. Actually, we got three of them."
The townsfolk, a close-knit community who have known each other for years, exchange glances.
"Now I have known you all for a year or two," continues Don Catlipoca, "and I don't want to believe that any of you is capable of betraying this community. So I'm gonna tell you all straight, if I knew who these wise guys were they'd be swinging from the lamp-post on 24th street by now. But I don't. I also don't know whether these guys have been turned by the Barbelith Family, or whether they was part of them from the very start. You see-" Don Catlipoca pushes himself up out of the barber's chair with a grunt, then stands before the crowd with his eyes flaming, "there's a lot of stuff I don't know. But I'll tell you what I do know. I know that when we first came here we was nothing. We built this community from the ground up, and no cheap-skate, gin-joint, piece-hugging Family is going to push us out. So here's what we are going to do. I want you all to go back out into that community what we built and talk to each other, watch each other, and watch over each other. I want to know who has been acting suspicious and who ain't, and
then I want you each to come back to Fats' and give me a name. One name each mind, and I don't want no joke-cracking wise-guy voting for himself. The name I hear the most gets whacked. If I hear two or more names the same number of times, the first one to get that many votes gets whacked."

Don Catlipoca glances over at the clock on Fats' wall, then gives a grim nod.
"Fats. What day is it today?"
"Monday, boss," replies the Barber.
Don Catlipoca nods again. "Monday," he says to himself. Then he looks up at the crowd once more. "Ok you guys. The sooner you give me the votes, the better. Any wise-guy who ain't come and seen me by Friday will be assumed to be guilty either of being one of the Barbelith Family, or of not wanting to hunt them, so will also get whacked. Now, get back out there and find me a traitor."



The crowd files out of the barber shop, and a stillness once more fills the air. Don Catlipoca stands before the leather chair, staring out of the window as the crowd disperses. For a time there is no sound, save for the clock ticking idly by and a fly smashing itself repeatedly against the window in an attempt to escape.
"You know who they is, boss?" asks Fats.
Don Catlipoca shakes his head. "Nope, Fats, I don't. But we got ourselves a couple of loyal-Dicks from the PD in there somewhere. No idea who they are, but I sure hope they find the Barbelith Family members before we have to lynch too many of our own people."
"What happens if they all get lynched, boss?"
Don Catlipoca eases himself back into the chair, then swings around to face the mirror. "Then, Fats," he replies with a shrug, "we find ourselves a new career."
 
 
Elijah, Freelance Rabbi
16:04 / 15.05.06
"The Barbelith Family, in our neighborhood? I find this very disturbing!"

eLijah wipes his brow and replaces his fedora on the top of his head at a rougish angle.

"I will be at the bar, if anyone would like to discuss this over cocktails I would be delighted to do so"
 
 
Feverfew
16:18 / 15.05.06
Johnathan "Feverfew" Thompson stands by his fruit stall, on the opposite corner to the Barbers, and peels an orange, considering the news.

What with this Louis Armstrong turning up and playing this new "Jazz", and talk of a new airport on the way, it's shaping up to be a strange year in Chicago.

Still, Feverfew is happy enough to work out the days selling fruit from the top of the stall to the familys, and Private Bottled Stock to the more discerning customer from crates under the stall, and he's considering getting in some blocks of ice to make 'juices' for the summer; it feels like it's going to be a hot one, all right.

Feverfew hears all sorts of rumours from all sorts of people, selling fruit, and things could be about to get interesting, especially since several people have asked if he ever has olives, or some strange drink called 'Limoncello', for sale over the last week.

Finally, the fruit-selling day draws to an end, and Feverfew wipes his brow and adjourns to the bar, following an invitation for cocktails.
 
 
Elijah, Freelance Rabbi
18:11 / 15.05.06
(I seem to have forgotten prohibition, so I suppose these are non-alcoholic cocktails)
 
 
Elijah, Freelance Rabbi
19:26 / 15.05.06
eLijah gives the secret handsign to the bartender, along with a nice tip, and is soon sipping bourbon on the rocks.



"So gentlemen, regarding the intrusion on our territory by these Barbelithers, do you have any inkling who might be working for the enemy?"
 
 
maneki neko
19:31 / 15.05.06
Maneki arranges the cigarettes and candy on her tray and adjusts her little cap. A sense of unease has gripped her since she heard Don Catlipocia speaking at the barber shop. She thought her luck had changed when she left the laundry and started working as a cigarette girl but now she feels uncertain. She is a stranger in town and Little Catlipocia suddenly feels dangerous.

Slowly she approaches the three gentlemen at the bar - one of them looks like the fruit seller who often smiles at her when she buys some apples. "Cigars, Cigarettes, Candy..." she stops, realizing that she would rather discuss the threat of the Barbelith family than hawking her tray of goodies.
 
 
Eloi Tsabaoth
20:23 / 15.05.06
Giovanni 'Johnny Biz' Bizunthiano chewed a tooth-pick sullenly. He was eating whole packets of them every day, havoc on the innards, but he just loved that woody taste. People in his racket called him 'The Wood-chipper' behind his back, as well as 'The Wood-pecker', 'The Beaver', and 'That psychotic son of a...'. A man of few words, all of them not permitted on the radio, he was in line to be made by the end of the year, provided he could avoid killing everyone in the entire city.
 
 
■
20:45 / 15.05.06
It had been a long day, thought little Johnny as he grubbed another lump of polish out of his cuticles. Trade had been good, he'd put a good shine on the last guy's winklepickers and avoided messing up the spats of that big shot from Milwaukee. Something strange was going on, though. He'd pressed his ear against the glass - which is any easy thing to do when you're afflicted with square head syndrome - as the Don had explained there were wise guys around.
He took out the nickels and dimes he'd made during the day and found that in among them was a silver dollar. Someone had been tipping big, and he hadn't noticed who. It could have been the one who oozed his way into the soda fountain as if he was looking for something harder than a coke float, or perhaps that guy on the corner whose breath smelled of pine. Could it even be that the honey who'd passed him a cheroot from her tray was a gangster? Hully gee! The more he thought about it the more excited he got. He dusted off his yellow smock and straightened his hair flat against his scalp. On all four sides. He wasn't gonna let no hooch into his town as long as his name was Johnny "Cube" Boyd.
 
 
Regrettable Juvenilia
22:12 / 15.05.06
1927. Ludwig Von Mises is 46 years old. Chief economic adviser to the Austrian government, he has already become famous for his intransigence in insisting on a non-inflationary gold standard. He has recently set forth his political philosophy of laissez-faire liberalism in the form of a book, snappily entitled Liberalism. This is the sequel to Socialism (1922), his comprehensive philosophical and sociological, as well as economic critique of said political philosophy, which five years later still stands as the most thorough and devastating demolition of socialism ever written.

He is currently on a lecture tour of US universities, under the sponsorship of the Rockefeller Foundation.

What nobody knows, except his most trusted friends in Vienna, and certain members of Don Catlipoca's family, is that Ludwig is also a part-time adventurer and amateur sleuth. He has heard the far-left Socialist Cabal known as the Barbelith Family is attempting to take over the town of Little Catlipocia.



He will find them out.
 
 
P. Horus Rhacoid
22:48 / 15.05.06
Over in a corner booth, a small, dapper figure is dozing with his forehead resting on the table, an empty glass in front of him and a bowler hat in his pinstriped lap. It's Freddy W. Pantoliano, twentysomething son of the local lumber baron, affectionately nicknamed 'Fiver'. Fiver snores softly, almost inaudible over the low drone of conversation at the bar, and drools slightly on the table. His hand, resting on the table next to his head, clenches and unclenches as he sleeps.

With a wild yell, Fiver leaps to his feet, banging his knees on the table and falling sideways out of the booth in the process. Getting to his feet (again), he wipes the drool from his mouth and glances around, eyes wide. This is nothing new; his eyes are always wide. He looks perpetually startled.

"Horsefeathers!" he says to nobody in particular. "I missed the meeting!"

Fiver shuffles up to the bar, clamping his bowler hat over his well-coifed hair. The bartender answers his unspoken question.

"Crime family? Lynchings? Gol-"

Fiver's body seizes up in midsentence. His arms flail in an approximation of the first three movements of the 'Charleston' before he crumples to the floor, fast asleep. With a sigh the bartender comes out from behind the bar, grasps Fiver by the shoulders, and carries him back to his corner stall, depositing him on the bench.

"It's okay," the bartender tells Feverfew, Elijah, and Maneki. "He does this whenever he's stressed." He spits in a glass and wipes at it with a rag. "He's stressed out a lot. That's why we call him Fiver: it seems like he's only awake for five minutes before something gives him the heebie-jeebies and he's out like a light."
 
 
Jake, Colossus of Clout
23:36 / 15.05.06
Jacob "Yaz" Yastrzemski, hard drinkin', tobacco chewin', womanizin' center fielder for the Chicago Cubs, holds court at the speakeasy's bar. With a floozie on each arm and a bottle of bourbon and a beer at hand, Yaz regales a flock of baseball fans with his heroics in today's game.

"That fuckin' Jesse Haines, he thinks he's a hot potato, lemme tell ya! Little bastard tried to sneak a change past me on a 2-2 count with the bases loaded. The nerve'a that guy! I hit that fuckin' thing so hard it ain't never comin' down!"

The crowd cheers and claps him on the back, but someone pipes up: "Hey Yaz, you heard about dese goddamn rats we got in town? Whatcha think the Don's gonna do?"

He laughs, drains a shot and washes it down with a swig of beer. "S'got nuthin' ta do with Yaz, baby! As long as I'm whackin' 'em outta the park, everybody in Chicago loves me. And if these snitches think they can get ol' Yaz under their greasy thumbs, they oughta start thinking about what a man can hit a ball 500 feet can do to their fuckin' heads!"

The crowd gives a hearty cheer and settles in to hear more from the soused slugger.
 
 
Baz Auckland
01:10 / 16.05.06
Barry "Bazmo" Auckstrong legendary jazz prodigy and bootlegger stumbles into the speakeasy carrying a couple of cases.

One, his trumpet case, containing his golden baby, and the other a violin case filled to the brim with the finest Canadian rye.

Sliding up the bartender he asks "you ordered a Stradivarius of Scotch, Pops?" and proceeds to empty the case into some nearby bottles...
 
 
Joy Division Oven Gloves
01:21 / 16.05.06
‘One Mitt’ oven-gloves started out of his seat at the sudden burst of activity from the bar. He was jumpy. But it was just that looney-tunes Fivers having another turn and the big-shot ballplayer shooting his mouth off to impress the Dames again. It was a relief, One Mitt knew he couldn’t afford to be caught in another Juice Joint roundup. Last time he’d got off lightly because of his hand but he didn’t want to odds it a second time.

Sinking back into his chair, he remembered the looks of pity and revulsion on the faces of the cops as they let him go with a warning. He’d never quite got used to those looks, even though it’d been 2 years since the ‘accident’ that had mangled his right lower arm into the twisted wreckage of bone and flesh he now gazed at.
The pain was receding thanks to the hooch. Soon it would be gone, giving way to the unsettling feeling that the hand was still there. It was funny, the pain wore him down him, caused him to get mean to Betty and his brother Frank. But when it subsided, he would catch himself reaching for his rolling pin with his tattered stump. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Kinda like this new turf war. There was no love lost between him and the hoods who ran the neighbourhood, sure. But this new crew, they’d probably be no better. He looked around the bar. Another war wasn’t what this place needed, that was for certain and anyway, it’d be bad for business. Maybe he should keep his eyes open.

But not tonight. Frank would need his help in the bakery tomorrow morning. Although some days it seemed Frank would do fine without him. Quick learner his brother, got the hang of the ovens real fast. And pally with the customers too, more than he’d ever managed. Maybe he’d got time for one more after all. Betty wouldn’t care if he was late home and besides it would give him time to think about what the Don had said.
‘Butt me’ he murmured to the passing cigarette girl, and sat back to light up a Joe and watch the crowds.
 
 
Triplets
04:01 / 16.05.06
The bartender has been busy tonight with so many familiar faces. This man is Benny Ramble, known to the knowing as Benny Triple, part-owner of the Big Coin bar.

Ramble hears a lot of things. Folks say that when you're down a triple will do you good.

He grabs Auckstrong in a friendly headlock, "Bazmo you bastard, you still peddling that old gutrot? Ha!" He slips some tin into his breast-pocket and lets him go. "How's tricks?"
 
 
Baz Auckland
04:42 / 16.05.06
Barry brushes himself off and grabs a pint of gin.

"Things are swell.... except of course the talk of that Barbelith family moving in on my turf... Bastards better keep clear of my business or... you know..."

"Have you heard any rumours as to who those rats might be?"
 
 
The Strobe
06:23 / 16.05.06
Everybody thought that something was up with a scrawny guy from the south with skin that white, but John di Mestre never let that bother him. Nor did he begrudge them the nickname they gave him, "Paleface".

Sitting on the street corner, whilst he gets his shoes shined, he peers over the top of his newspaper, piercing eyes darting around the street. Something's in the air, which is never good for people like himself. Need to be alert. Need to be on the look-out for these rats. And then see to them.

His hands grip the newspaper tighter. Tattooed on the knuckles of di Mestre's left hand is the word "hate".

The same is tattooed on his right. Much like his nickname, Paleface makes sure that this doesn't bother the locals.
 
 
STOATIE LIEKS CHOCOLATE MILK
11:32 / 16.05.06
Stoatface Capaldi sits in the speakeasy nursing a king-sized hangover, and a mouthful of broken teeth. That was the last time he was gonna lose a fight for anyone. Sure, he still needed the money, but the whole thing had left him feeling rather guilty, and he determined that from now on he would lose fair and square.

He knew he was no great shakes as a boxer, but it just wasn't worth it. Sure, they could (and indeed would, judging on his past form) beat the living bejesus out of him, but at least maybe now he could crawl away from the ring with his dignity intact.

"I coulda been a contender", he said to nobody in particular. It didn't even sound convincing to him.
 
 
Elijah, Freelance Rabbi
14:00 / 16.05.06
Elijah sipped his bourbon and watched the room. The spastic Fiver was back in his corner, looking calm again, which was fine by Elijah.

He had been a big shot on the west coast. They had called him the money man, the idea man, the man with the plan. Eventually someone settled on the apt nickname Elijah the Profit, because if he was with you you were sure to come out ahead.

That had been a long time age. He had come to Chicago to settle down and live off his considerable stockpile of cash. Recent developments seemed to point to one fact for Elijah, every time he tries to get out, they pull him back in.

"Son of a bitch" he muttered, ordering another bourbon.
 
 
rising and revolving
14:12 / 16.05.06
The floor was rising and I was revolving. Or I was revolving and the floor was rising. Wait a minute ... that's the same thing, isn't it?

Felt like I'd been drinking petrol mixed with washing up liquid. But this wasn't a Sunday, so that was out of the question. What had happened to me? The lump on the back of my head screamed a sonata of pain that answered my question.

Looks like I was getting too close to the people behind this. The Barbelith Family. Damn their eyes. They'd taken everything I held dear, and now it was time to claim my revenge. Not with a .45 - they'd be expecting that.

No, I was going to destroy them in the only court that counted. The court of public opinion. Because nothing hurts more than being shunned by your community. Having people look at you like you're mad. Having them cross the street to avoid you.

Well, perhaps being hung by the neck would hurt more. We'd just have to find out, wouldn't we?

As soon as I worked out who they were.
 
 
Feverfew
16:47 / 16.05.06
Feverfew stayed for a little while to watch the others drink and chat, but there was an ugly feeling about the place. A feeling of mistrust, that pervaded the room.

Making his goodbyes, he drank his last cocktail, rueing the relatively smooth taste of Baz's Bathtub Gin, and stumbled across the road to his room, above and to the right of the barbers, where only a bed, a solitary candle, and a copy of Lawrence's Revolt in the Desert, recommended to him by a customer, awaited him.

"What a strange bunch of people", he thought, as the room slowly stopped spinning while he lay on the bed, waiting for sleep that did not come. Sighing, he sat up, lit a cigarette, and idly thought over who among a Mysterious Money Man, a Battered Boxer, a Pallid Paleface, a Balled-Up Barman, "Frenetic" Fivers (everyone knew him), and Big Six Bas, the bootleg booze baron, could possibly be working for the Barbelith Family.

Not to mention "Yaz", the hotsy-totsy hitter, that strange Von Mises fellow with all that political jazz, Woodbine the Toothpick eater - and there was even talk of old 'Rising' coming to town, angry as usual. Then there were the two people no-one seemed to notice; the copacetic cigarette chick and little Johnny with the strange-shaped head.

So much to think about, Feverfew mused, and who knows what tomorrow might bring - Although with all these new people around, I'm definitely getting in a few blocks of ice. Juices are the way forward, with these city-folk...
 
 
Shrug
20:36 / 16.05.06
Beneath the eaves of Little Catlipocia's theatre house Rupert Dalliance cools his heels on a bench absent mindedly scattering grain and clucking delightedly to some of the town's many pigeons. He stops, only for a moment, and watches as the townsfolk hurriedly filter out of the Fats' Barbershop, looking at eachother with darting insinuative glances.
His green eyes narrow but he continues his daily routine stretching out another grain-full hand to his feathered friends. As an impulsive little pigeon waddles up, his eyes on the prize, Rupert bends down and whispers,

"Ah mon petit oiseau, I'll tell you a secret. People think to get somewhere in this town, you have to use a gun, run some nickel and dime racket, be a wiseguy, show the world how big your balls are. I'll tell you something, little friend, you don't, think that way, you'll make a mistake, end up lying in the gutter.

All you have to do is find an angle. Keep your head. Watch. Listen. Follow my advice mon petit oiseau. You'll go far."

Well that or be very lucky, Dalliance never had any luck, though, and it would seem the town's had just run out too.
 
 
maneki neko
22:44 / 16.05.06
Maneki yawned and stretched her aching muscles. It had been a long night and everyone had seemed on edge. Even little Johnny with the funny head had given her the once over when she passed him a cigar.

It had been too busy to do more than to eavesdrop on bits of conversation, but what she had heard just seemed gossip and ruminations, nobody seemed to know anything yet.

Oh well, tomorrow would be another day. Now she was in need of a drink. "Gimme a brandy, Benny, before you lock up" Maneki said, while at the same time wondering if the barman had overheard anything more specific about the Barbelith family.
 
 
Baz Auckland
02:49 / 17.05.06

I think we're all wondering what the barman thinks, but he seems to be keeping his trap shut... I guess no one wants to be the first to point fingers in this joint.

We better start figuring it out before the boss gets on our case...
 
 
Eloi Tsabaoth
09:28 / 17.05.06
Mm-hm.
 
 
Tezcatlipoca
12:19 / 17.05.06


The door to Fat’s Barber Shop opens, and Don Catlipoca steps out onto the sidewalk. He surveys the street before him, his dark eyes – shaded by a broad rimmed hat – drinking in the scene. He gives a brief nod, as though deciding something, then steps back into the shade of the shop.

A few minutes later, Fats walks out into the sunshine, a roll of paper under his arm. He walks steadily to the notice board that adorns the island in the centre of the street, then unfurls the paper and fixes it to the board.
He stares at it critically for a few moments, makes a quick adjustment, then, with a satisfied smile, walks back to the cool shade of his shop.

Curious townsfolk begin to gather around the board, staring at the paper...

"My fellow Catlipocians,

Fats tells me we is now at Wednesday, so it's time to start with the accusations.
I wanna know who you suspect, and I wanna know soon. One vote each, and I don't want no wise-guys trying to whisper me his choice; you vote nice and loud in public, so as everybody can hear.

You have until the end of Friday - Don Catlipoca."
 
 
Joy Division Oven Gloves
12:26 / 17.05.06
One-Mitt lay down on the grass in Little Catlipocia cemetery. Sheesh.. what a morning.

He'd spent to long at the Big Coin bar last night, was late for work at the bakery and then messed up the proportions for first batch of rolls - they could have had crusts, they could have been ciabattas instead of just crumbs, which is what they were.

Frank had gotten angry and wouldn't let him back in the kitchen, so he'd spent the rest of the morning out front serving the customers. The suspicion and mistrust he’d noticed at the bar last night was still there in the faces of the neighbourhood this morning. Everyone was thinking about the rats but no one seemed to want to be the first to stick their neck out and say what they thought.

Can’t really blame ‘em though, mused One-Mitt, could be anyone. There were a lot of new folk in town but that didn’t mean squat, could just as easy be some of the locals turned by promises of being a made-mod in the Barbelith gang. Hell, it could even be that funny German soundin’ fella who’d been griping how’s we were the only bakery in the neighbourhood selling Zwiebelbrot and something about his Aunty Competitiveness’s practices, although exactly what she was practicing and why she had anything to do with us seemed to confused him when asked. Frank had to come out from the back and give him the bums-rush onto the pavement when he wouldn’t pay.

But he seemed a little obvious, would a rat draw attention to themselves by standing out from the crowd? One-Mitt didn’t think so, but then One-Mitt didn’t know anything really. It wasn’t just them though, there were a couple of Pinkertons the Don had got sniffing around as well, maybe they would turn up something useful if they lasted long enough. In the meanwhile it was gonna be a free-for-all.

One-Mitt picked himself up off the grass, looked around at the graveyard and wondered how many innocents would end up here before this thing was over. He decided if he was gonna be part of a blind witch-hunt, he damn well wasn’t gonna be sober when he did it and sloped off towards the Big Coin.
 
 
Eloi Tsabaoth
13:48 / 17.05.06
"First shot's always gotta be in the dark, but someone's gotta pull the trigger. Johnny 'Cube' Boyd. Why? He gave me a lousy shine last week."
 
 
Elijah, Freelance Rabbi
14:39 / 17.05.06
"He does have that square head thing going on. Wasn't there a rumor that the Barbelith Royalty was inbreeding, that could lead to defects"

Elijah sat on the stoop drinking a bottle of orange juice to fight the fog in his head from the night before.

"I suppose it isn't out of the question that a kid would be swayed by the promise of big time mod money, but I am undecided so far"
 
 
maneki neko
16:48 / 17.05.06
"Jeepers" Maneki thought when she saw the notice Fats put up. "It doesn't seem as if I have boocoo time to make my mind up.

Her grand-mother had given her an earful about Little Catlipocia when she had decided to leave the Chinese Quarter, hoping to start work at a ritzy uptown nightclub. She hadn't expected to end up in Benny's joint and maybe it was time to hit the road again...

Maneki had no beef with no one - there was Feverfew, who seemed to carry a torch for her and who always gave her his best fruit. One mitt, the baker, who's mangled arm gave her the heebie-jeebies, but still, he was one of her best customers - and if she'd accused Benny the barman she would be out of a job and who would pay for little Jimmy's school fees then? There was his friend Bazmo, but surely someone who could play the trumpet like he did couldn't be a bad man.

There was bananas Beaver and slap-happy Paleface - but Maneki felt intimidated by both of them and didn't want to draw their attention to herself by being a blabbermouth. That strange German doctor just seemed to talk a lot of baloney and she didn't know Rupert Dalliance from nothing as he just seemed to speak to pidgeons.

Yaz the cake eater Yastrzemski seemed more interested in women and the sound of his own voice and she had rarely seen Fiver awake. Stoatface Capaldi spent a lot of time in the speakeasy but Maneki always felt sorry for him as he just looked battered and fried. Little Johnny was an odd ball with his weird head and Maneki wondered if he would become the first fall guy.

And then there was Elijah, the big shot from out of town but surely that would be too obvious? She had heard rumours that hard boiled rising and revolving had once survived the hot seat and he didn't sound like a man she could accuse lightly.

Maneki decided to keep her ears open tonight and with a heavy sigh, lifted her sales tray. Time to start work.
 
 
Joy Division Oven Gloves
18:23 / 17.05.06
The joint was too quiet for One-Mitt's liking. There had been some excitement earlier when little Johnny had calmly broken his shoe-shine box over Bizunthiano's head, but now the tense silence had returned. One-Mitt looked over at the still prone body and evaluated the question 'Now who's the Patsy, big man?' daubed in polish on the goon's expansive forehead.

It was a good question.

But what was there to go on? Thinking back to the previous night, One-Mitt wondered about what was said and what could be made of it. Maybe these rats weren't as smart as the Don feared. Maybe one of the saps had slipped up somewhere, giddy on the jazz-cigarette of secrecy and deception they were smoking, maybe one of them had pushed their luck a little, dangling opaque clues in front of Catlipoca's citizens for kicks?

One-Mitt remembered Yastrzemski's soused "As long as I'm whackin' 'em outta the park, everybody in Chicago loves me schtick. And the grocer's desire to get the the citizens 'iced up'. This could be so much hooey, but at this point hooey seemed as good a reason as any for accusations.
 
 
rising and revolving
18:54 / 17.05.06
It looked like the time had come for confrontation, and if there was anything that got my motor running, it was confrontation. That and the sound of a mans choking sobs as he tried to weep through what was left of his shattered self esteem. Pantyhose, too. A good cheeseburger goes a long way.

In any case, it was confrontation that was on the menu for today. I was pretty confident I knew what was up here. Not only was everyone else in town suspect, they were all guilty. Unfortunately we'd only be able to hang 'em one at a time. After all, no-one else seemed to share my point of view. That was the clue I needed.

Before all that, though, I had a score to settle. Someone had rattled my brainpan earlier in the piece, and near as I could tell that narrows the field. Stoatface, for sure. He used to be a hard man, even if it's all running to fat and low self esteem these days. Coulda been him, easy.

Coulda been The Beaver, too. Mind, I'd heard things about him that raised the question - would he have left me to get back up again? Maybe, if he had a message to send.

Yaz now, that sounds more like it. In fact, the more I say it the more I like it. People always say it'd take a baseball bat to the head to stop me goin' on - and who round here wields a bat? Only the Yaz. Yep. I like the way that cookie crumbles.
 
 
Feverfew
19:35 / 17.05.06
Ruefully, Feverfew considered Don's proclamation.

"Well, if I'm going to make an accusation, I'm going to do it quickly, and get it over and done with. None of this shilly-shallying around. I may be second to 'Johnny Biz', but I'll be third to no-one."

"I vote, nice and loud, for that strange Ludwig Von Mises, with his odd political ideas and thin veneer of being a 'part-time adventurer'. It's the oldest cover in the book, that one."

And with that, Feverfew goes back to accepting a delivery of apples from the fruit truck, shakes his head remorsefully at the sadness of it all, and stoicly lights up another cigarette.
 
 
Jake, Colossus of Clout
20:01 / 17.05.06
Yaz shakes his head ruefully. After all he's done for this town, and this is the thanks he gets? This Rising character is from out of town, anyway, so what do you expect? Still, at least he isn't foreign, like that Von Mises joker. Yaz might have Polish roots, but he's an American, through and through. And real Americans don't trust creepy foreign people.
 
 
Shrug
20:13 / 17.05.06
Rupert Dalliance ponders The Don's proclaimation too. The notice, already smudged with what seems like a thousand names written in and rubbed out again, has but two definitive choices; that odd Austrian "Von Mises" and the shoeshine boy Johnny, otherwise known as "The Cube".
"Terribly indecisive" he sneers as he forcefully jots down "Giovanni 'Johnny Biz' Bizunthiano", before quickly scribbling it out again. He makes his way to the bar, decision unmade even tapping his cane loudly against the cobble in frustration once or twice.
 
 
The Strobe
21:02 / 17.05.06
"Paleface" di Mestre had seen a few too many Mafia lynchings in his time, and had a sickening feeling as to how this would turn out. They end in fevered slaughter, almost invariably misguided; they start the only way they can, with random accusation.

He took stock of the crowd. Von Mises seemed to be getting a fair few votes already, but weren't we all foreigners when it came to the US? And Johnny Cube may give a lousy shoe-shine, but that ain't no reason to kill a guy. If anyone deserved a gut reaction, surely it'd be a one-armed baker?

Paleface considered the options. There was only one outcome: things were going to get nasty. Better to vote now, and see what comes up. He looked at his knuckles. Hate, hate. Strong words born in a dangerous time.

The boxer. If he goes, then that's one less big-hitter around here. If he doesn't, he's big enough to take care of himself. Paleface scrawls two words on a scrap of paper, his vote.

Stoatface Capaldi.
 
  

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