11:00... Evil Eric failed to kill someone with a poisoned letter.

I checked my p/hole a little bit ago and found a envelope with my name and college on it and nothing else. Since someone else had tried to kill me this way last year (and only managed to kill my innocent girlfriend), I put on gloves and a specially anti poison College scarf and took the envelope with care. Opened it and discovered a white powder inside.

Ric Brackenbury fell prey to Underkill

I was in my room on a beautiful Monday afternoon, just relaxing listen to some good music and doing my maths work, when all of a sudden I hear a door knock, wondering who it was I stopped the music and went to take a look. To my surprise I see a person I haven't seen before. Knowing he was an assassin cause he has his hands behind his back, I thought it was pointless to avoid the inevitable: I opened the door and stood my distance.

Ric, aka Death Comes to Time:
I knew something was wrong straight away, as he took so long to open the door, and in some ways I was not surprised to see him brandishing a knife.  Realising that this was no time for bluffing, I stepped into his room, and announced my intentions, holding the gun up.  He told me I couldn't use a water weapon, and I gleefully assured him that my gun fired only lead.  At this, he stepped back, and started to close an interior door that I wasn't expecting to be there.  I quickly fired, but he was too fast, and my bullet lodged firmly in his door.  As my gun needed time to reload, I decided to leave his room for a moment, but unnoticed by me, the outer door had closed behind me.  I tried to open it, but again the room differed from my own in that both hands were needed to open the door due to the inside lock.  I raised my gun hand as I heard a noise behind me, and I felt a chilling pain as the knife cut into my back.  I knew that my time had run out and as I sank to the floor I had one last look at the face of my killer before death came to time.

The Minister of Fear preaches to Thomas the Tank, Tom Elliott.

Dearly beloved brethren, we are gathered here today to welcome into our fold the recently deceased Mr. Tom Elliot, formerly of Girton Parish. His passing from life into death is a message to all who choose the ministry of others, for the Ministry of Fear is the one true way. A single bullet was all it took to tear his soul from his body, and there is no doubt that further bullets will end the lives of countless others in the weeks ahead. Paranoia will become rife, leading to insomnia, with sleep only available during the safety of lectures. Every five minutes, doors will be checked to ensure they are locked, protecting you from the dangers of the outside world - this is the life you have chosen and are destined to follow. The Ministry of Fear is everywhere, no one is safe. However far you travel, however good your disguise, the agents of the Ministry of Fear will find you. You should fear for your lives.

Here we go... seems the police force is getting bored.

PC Fu Hsi's Ghost's Ghost reports (As if you couldn't guess):

Shih Ho: Biting Through

BITING THROUGH has success.
It is favourable to let justice be administered.

Thunder and lightning:
The image of BITING THROUGH.
Thus the kings of former times made firm the laws
Through clearly defined penalties.

Ah! Great indeed is the time of BITING THROUGH!
Despite my entreaties, the dirt-eating assassins of Cam have failed to live up to my expectations. Surely even the inferior classes of insect, and ghosts cursed with such hunger as to consume the stinking excreta of dogs, are more blessed with courage and honour than such hunch-bodied scum. What is a high-minded guardian of the street to do in such circumstances?
Surely the answer cannot be mean-spirited lethargy or, may the kingdoms of Yama forbid, studious application to distant examinations? Yet, where protest so vociferous that it resounds like the belly of a drum across eight flower-gardens fails to touch even the lowest part of the vile crania of our proud city's dog-like takers of life (who have proved themselves unworthy of even the low title of 'thick-limbed neck-breakers', far less the sobriquet of Assassin), noble-minded action may bite through the most obstinate of positions.
In addition, we suspected PC Sephiroth of high treason and unworthiness to belong to the ranks of the police force. While a man of elevated style and devestating charm, one felt his devotion to lady-killing ways fell far short of that assigned to the infinitely more important task of criminal-killing. Evidently, his presence on the police force was an embarrassment to all; our reputation as plug-ugly social inadequates was under threat. Besides, I was too lazy to go beyond TCR to kill anyone.
Accordingly, the high-minded PC Tyler and myself resolutely and unflinchingly called upon the powers of the dead. The recently deceased Ben Cumming provided a defective and unworthy revolver; Iain Mcdonald, slain by my own hand and his spirit thus bound to my servitude forever (okay, so he killed me too, but I did it with more panache), acted as an accomplice.
We approached Sephiroth in the laundry room of TCR. He was speaking across great distance, by dint of his high powers of non-locality; in an instant it has crossed the ten oceans and passed beyond all boundaries. As good gentlemen, we allowed him to finish, while feigning an interest in the primitive, steam-belching gargantua that lurk in such places, hoping to spring out and destroy the clothing of innocents.
His communication complete, we approached him. Iain handed him the useless weapon, enquiring:
"Edward, is this yours?"
He appeared confused, and spoke thusly:
"What, are you trying to kill me?"
Unfortunately, his hand was less wise than his tongue. (Note this down for future reference, ladies). In spite of his suspicions, he took up the weapon.
What were we upholders of civic order to do? Before us stood a man clasping a weapon of deadly calibre and instant infliction of morbiditude. His eyes gleamed a horrible black (how were we to know that was their normal colour?) and, what is more, he was coming right for us.
Wise man say:

The officer has the right to arrest
And if you fight back he put a hole in your chest
We couldn't be bothered to try arresting him. And he pointed the gun at us (when we pulled ours out). So we shot him. A lot. Point-blank range, six bullets each. The look on his face was not so much of pain as of confusion at the utter inadequacy of his own weapon. Mua ha ha.

Truly, Eduardo should have heeded the words of the sage:

The police have a little gun:
So when I on the street I walk around with a bigger one.
Or even one that would work if it had been loaded.
Civic duty is upheld. Honour is preserved. Regret disappears. Good fortune multiplies!

Monsieur Mouchoir killed Ankur Mehta.

Shortly before sept heures, myself and 5 accomplices entered Queens' College, voyaged over the gushing torrents and advanced to M staircase. We again stopped and had a brief three course impromptu nouvelle cuisine dinner outside ze staircase.
Fully nourished we went up and hammered on the door, declaring ourselves to be doing a report for a certain student paper on the exchange students from MIT. No reply. We sadly began to descend the staircase, our minds full of the thoughts of the garlic stew awaiting us in our gite. Then lo and behold a familiar face was espied by the rearguard. Our two female reporters attempted to ID him, he lied, until they trotted out the newspaper story. Then i came running out of the staircase and with my war cry of 'Die, bitch, die' discharged the full magazines of two 'detective specials' into his already wounded body.
After a gentlemanly congratulations from him we all ran away, dispersing into the night like the whores in the pigalle when the sun rises. On my return i considered stopping at the anchor for quelque chose à boire, But then i remembered [Fullers' London] Pride comes before a fall!

Draco, Jared Johnson, killed Ed Wallace, Tristan Chi, then died to Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky.

Tristan says:
Belied! A stranger tarried a-reading downstairs from residence of mine. He ocuously masked evidence, reading theology. Overtaking, noticing seldom hapless, our Tristan made error. Going rightabout roomways, repaired and advanced regarding repast -- grilled hotmeats. Draco unfortunately heard: then, he edged, in deadly inaudibility, over to concealment around necessary tea. Emerging vacuously, Ed noticed something: powder exploded, lead-lacerating "Tristan Chi".
Time hence ere another night, Tristan insinuates, Cambridge heareth rage: I Shall Triumph!

Jared says, less cryptically,
The cards apparently were stacked against me even before I set out on the pursuit of my quarry. Tristan's location, is a virtual lion's (leopard's? - Ump) den for any would-be assassin of a resident. No more than four people live on each of the four floors, and the hallway on each floor is little more than part of the narrow staircase that rises all the way to the top of the building. In other words, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I was hoping that through a combination of extreme luck and intelligence I would be able to get out of this location scott-free.
I picked at random a person on the floor below whom I would tell passersby I was "waiting" for. Lady Luck worked for me on this one--the person I had picked to "wait" for was out all day, and he happened to be a supervisor so my guise of reading Aristotle's Ethics on the flight of stairs by this person's door worked flawlessly. Unfortunately, I still had to wait to make a positive ID on Tristan before shooting him. After three hours of reading Aristotle I finally saw Tristan walk right by me--he was wordless as he walked by, apparently trying to assess the danger I posed to him. Satisfied that I was a harmless post-grad he walked up to his room, brought out a couple of muffins, and threw them on the skillet in the small kitchen next door to his room. That was when I acted. After he returned to his room and shut the door I quietly climbed up to the kitchen and slipped inside to wait for him to make his fatal move. He was completely unprepared for the report of a six-shooter cap gun right between his eyes. A bit chagrined, he took out his rubber band-based weapon to show to me and proceeded to shoot me, upon my request, so that I could see how his unique weapon worked.
That was when I made my fatal mistake: bearing rubber bands in a menacing manner as I picked them up for Ed. Only then, as more rubber bands came flying at me from the staircase above, did I realize my mistake.

Apparently the weapon wasn't so unique after all...

And this just in from the great Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky himself:

I am never forget the day my first kill report is published.
Every sentence I stole from somewhere else.
Target list I copy from old Cambridge telephone directory.
This report was sensational:

As the sun rose above the edifices of our far-reputed city, the illumin'd and feared sages of active disembodiment fared forth, seeking their hapless targets. My breath of fire had spread through the sewers and evil places of the city, turning people to my cause. At approximately 13:00 on this day, I proceeded with utmost care and caution, flanked by several dastardly accomplices, to my unfortunate target's habitual abode.

One man climbed all those stairs,
One man made his legs go lame,
and Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy!
Nikolai Ivanovich Lobache...

It appeared to have been designed by the same people who designed the levels for Wolfenstein. Upon entering, I made my way to my target's room. Unfortunately, he was not in his room when they arrived. Two gentlemen stood in the corridor ahead in front of two doors. 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. Seeing as I was still quite suspicious, they would have died anyway, seeing as I had my cap gun ready. Right, that's got me in the mood, now I'm going to go on a kill fest.

One man lusts for blood,
One man stops being tame,
and Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy!
Nikolai Ivanovich Lobache...

I caused to appear a minature projectile weapon, as I drifted towards my opponent, and fired two good shots at seat of my targets soul. The second shot took out his leg and, as tradition requires, the third made a mess on the wall as his skull leaked vital fluids. But 'twas not over until the bloodthirsty hellmet pierced the Sorry Fellowe's eyes with his beake-sharp prongs. Then, 'twas over.
Beware the wrath of tingle!!!!!!!
"Obtruncere et omnino delere"

One man deserves the credit,
One man deserves the blame,
and Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy!
Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachechevsky is his name. Oy!

And I believe there's a prize on offer for anyone who can make much sense of that report.

Ed Wallace's corpse was subsequently stabbed by Philosopher's in Quest.

I made an attempt on Ed today but he had already been killed by someone :-( Followed him into the toilet and stabbed him in the back.

Johnny Quest defused a bomb planted by Pope John-John the 13th.

I'm really quite impressed with the bomb someone set up outside my door today. Luckily, they set it up after I'd already gone out in the morning, so i had the chance to defuse it properly. Basically, it was contact poisoned on the outside (nasty), and consisted of a coke bottle filled with an explosive liquid, detonated by a party popper held against the door with sellotape. Anyway, to defuse it we ( the college bomb squad), had to cut the detonater from the bottle, and then the detonater from the door. To make our job even harder, three innocents insisted on hanging round and laughing at the bomb. Fools!
I would ask anyone who puts a bomb against my door in future not to use quite so much sellotape- I've lost some paintwork round the edge that the bedder will probably be quite pissed off about.

Later he avoided a contact poisoned flier left by the same assassin.

Have just been to my pigeon hole, and found a slightly less sophisticated attempt- a flyer with "Pope John-John 13th" written on it, which I presume was contact poisoned, as it stuck to the side of the slot. Good job I don't delve in my pigeon hole with my hands.

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