This morning, getting bored and hungry, I went to check out a target,
Muhammad Esa (wanted). After ascertaining that he is small and dark and
his roommate is tall and blond, I walked in through the open door, armed,
with an accomplice. A short dark person came out of the bedroom unarmed
when he heard mecall "Muhammad..". I shot at him twice.
So far, so good.
I would have shot him more times to make sure but the expression of
extreme innocent surprise on his face took me aback. I am a nice person
and do not like killing people who appear to have no idea what is going
on. Also I was rather embarrassed by my psychopath behaviour, and have a
naturally trusting nature. "Are you looking for Muhammad?" he said.
"Uh, yes" I replied, keeping my gun on him.
"He's gone out with his parents for the day. I'm Dennis, his roommate. What is this about?"
"Did I hit you?" I asked, with genuine concern for the welfare of an innocent.
"No, you missed" he said (entirely possible since it was a large room, towards the limit of my range).
"Oh good" I said happily, and attempted to explain the game to him well enough to excuse my behaviour. My accomplice kept quiet.
He then picked up my stray rubber bands reflectively. "Put them down or I shoot you" I said with a smile (only display of appropriate paranoia exhibited in this episode. Why did I not shoot him?) He did, so I reclaimed them.
Then I explained that Muhammad was my target, apologised for interrupting the "roommate" at his work, asked him not to tell the target I had called and left.
As I walked out of the building, my accomplice, who is now under
suspicion of having been siphoning off my brains for weeks, said "That was
definitely him. He was lying. You should have shot him."
A quick recap confirmed that this was almost certainly the case. So I went
back. But he had locked his door.
This does not reflect well on me. I am rather annoyed and all the people I went looking for to assuage the annoyance with a kill were out. Could assassins start making a habit of being in now and again? Some of them have not been conclusively proven to exist.
The poor innocent Stuart Moore was cut down:
Today I was showing my Aunt and Uncle round St Johns, and we went to look at the punts in the punt pool, which are somewhat reminiscent of a scene from titanic. As I was standing on the wall, I recognised a 2nd year mathmo (think I met him at some society or other, can't remember which) called Muhammad Esa. He said hi, then came up behind me and stabbed me in the small of my back, then asking "are you playing?" to which I replied, "No, but I'll report it anyway" - he then said "Oh well, doesn't matter, I'm on the wanted list anyway". He also mentioned something about seeing me in his room earlier, didn't quite get that - my aunt and uncle hadn't noticed any of this, but I couldn't talk to him properly. Oh, can I thank him for killing me in such a way that I didn't need to explain the whole assassins game to them, would've been quite a challenge.
I am never forget the day I first meet my instructor in ze computer room of Smersh training camp - In two words he tell me secret of success in assassination: Be paranoid!
Be paranoid, let no black coat evade your eyes,
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,
So don't shade your eyes,
But be paranoid, paranoid, paranoid...
Only be sure always to call it, please, looking out for friends.
And ever since I meet this man my life is not the same,
And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is my name.
Oy! Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache...
Cambridovsk police force hampered by ze liberal British laws is very inefficient in clearing ze wanted list, only officer with promise is comradski Fu Hsi's Ghost's Ghost, who has at least shot a suspect without trial. But Back in Russia we know how to deal with their kind, so I say to myself, Nicolai Ivanovich, you have to help poor city of Cambridovsk. And indeed, as I walk along street and think of great instructor, I see distasteful Hawaian shirt only capitalist criminal would wear. This man I identify with photo stolen from ze MI6 as Steven Cooper.
And who chases round market square,
and who takes careful aim?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is my name.
Oy! Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache...
With rifle stolen from nearby military depot, I machinegun ze
words:"Tolerance ends when it comes to Hawaian shirts." into his back.
Out of the corner of my eyes I see some American tourist quickly changing
clothes, but I do already think of making money out of this and
I get idea, haha!
Events of this day I make into book. 20th Century Frog buys the movie rights for 6 million roubles, changing title to "The Eternal Market Square", with Bob Holness playing part of Steven Cooper.
And who gets lots of credits,
and who gets wealth and fame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.
Having finished off two souls in one night, I thought I'd take the killing easy for a while, behind the impenetrable fortress of St. Mary's none dared approach - only one, pitiful attempt had been made on my life in the last couple of weeks. Of course, outside of St. Mary's I was fair game, that explained why a letter bomb was placed in my pigeon hole. Life is a funny thing though; having met resistance whilst removing my mail I insisted that my, then live, friends collect if for me whilst I "go check the noticeboard". A pop and assault of loose digits later reminded me why i don't check my pigeon hole.
Consequently, Whoospie, Chung Hey Wang, is wanted in relation to the deaths of his friends. Whoopsie.
THE CORNERS OF THE MOUTH.
Perseverance brings good fortune.
Pay heed to the providing of nourishment
And to what a man seeks
To fill his mouth with.
Today, my search for transcending the wanted list continued. Since the
overbearing yang of King's dead had still yet to be tempered, I proceeded
to the yin-like colleges of New Hall and Queens'. However, while their
passive receptivity was so pronounced as to make, ahem, gaining access to
their innards a matter of no importance, their inhabitants had foolishly
elected not to remain in their rooms and be shot. Olivia Sanderson was
out, although her door had been left incompetently unlocked; I did not
wait there, however, since a suspicious-looking male such as myself would
have been too obvious in the progesterone-laden atmosphere of New Hall,
and it is ungentlemanly to wait within an absent lady's room unless one is
Alan Harper and Sam Youdan of Queens', on the other hand, had locked their doors firmly, and even though their noticeboards declared them to be in, it did not appear that this was the case.
On checking my mailbox at the hour of about four, I discovered a solitary candied sweetmeat of feminine hue, known commonly as a Love Heart; it bore the cryptic message BE MY IDOL. I am unaware as to whether this refers to the Serene Idol of Western Sichuan, or the Wide-bellied Laughing Idol with Many Feet; I was also ignorant as to whether this had been left by an assassin (how do you poison a Love Heart?) or by that wierd second-year girl who keeps jumping out at people and stroking their arms. In either case, I sought to avoid calamity by disposing of it without allowing my well-manicured fingers to rest on its surface.
A word to those who would poison me via my pigeonhole in future; I am not one who is much enraptured with meagre candies and other feeble fripflappery. At the weekend, I may be poisoned by capacious bottles of amarula, mescal spirit or really good Scotch; in the week, however, I grow more resilient, and can only be caught off guard by banoffee pie soaked in liberal quantities of gin. In such a way, spiritual transcendence may truly be acquired.
The brave and valiant penelope pitstop stalked by night and by day... having locating the dwelling of tingle, cunningly laid a poison parcel in a match box. However, unaware that tingle isn't tingly due to smoking screwing up his arteries, she inadvertently poisoned someone for whom the cravings were too much. Much to their avail, the substantial poison that is petroleum jelly proved too much and with their dying gasp, the unwitting innocent victim utterred, "seek vengeance in my name and make penelope's pitstop permanent!!!!"
PC Stumo reports:
Saw Mohammed Esa in Johns Dining room, knifed him in back of the neck. Whilst chatting, his neighbour Sam Birch stabbed me with knife off tray. I pointed out my weapon was concealed by this time, he said "Yes, but I was wanted for incompetance anyway, sorry". So I was now dead.
Martin O'Leary, Fellow policeman, then slashed Sam Birch in the back of the neck, avenging my death. Sam later made the point that being dead I might not have been able to communicate to Martin my death; to which I would argue that I asked Martin to witness my killing of Mohammed, and he would have noticed me failing to return, spurred into action.
So today I died twice, became a policeman and made one kill, but not in that order. Suppose I'm out of the game, although I would appeal for ressurection as no other policeman can claim a consistent 1 kill every 3 hours of their career...
Sam Birch has been declared dead because I believe that PC Eminence acted
fairly in the above incident.
Oh yes, Mr Moore... you're out of the game for the time being. I might consider you for resurrection if the police force is sufficiently decimated.
Chris Floyd, Chris Floyd. A 1st year medic who's now quite annoyed.
Chris Floyd. Oh, Chris Floyd.
Chris Floyd went home to Bristol for the weekend.
Chris Floyd stayed there all Saturday when I was knocking on his door.
Chris Floyd was third from the right on the third row down on his matriculation photo.
Chris Floyd lived on my old corridor.
Chris Floyd, Chris Floyd. A 1st year medic who's now quite annoyed.
Chris Floyd. Oh, Chris Floyd
Chris Floyd didn't have a clue what hit him.
Chris Floyd was unprepared walking in the corridor
Chris Floyd was off to hide in the library where he thought he could be was safe.
Chris Floyd's brains are now splattered across the floor.
In short, knowing that he'd gone home for the weekend, I waited til his slider said "in" (how dim is this guy?) and then arranged for some of his staircase to knock on his door. Only they didn't need to, cos he was in his corridor - my old corridor. Ignoring the nostalgia buzz, I walked towards him, heavily armed, like a well laden storm trooper. Flame thrower? No, might damage the new paint. Grenade? No -it's outside my old room (Hallowed ground). Knife? Get outa here, he's holding a squash raquet. My hands clasped around the 9mm beretta and colt .45 in my pockets. I asked for ickle Ben, who lives in my old room, Chris pointed and stepped aside as I proceeded towards him. Two handguns levelled on his head at pointblank range and a hearty 6 bullets caused his head to explode like a watermelon - his brains splattered the wall behind his misfigured corpse. The onlookers cheered in delight as I told his corpse the obvious "You're outa there!" lest he not have felt the meaty rounds penetrate his skull.
I left with my motly crew of accomplices. And there was much rejoicing!
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