The Shadow reports:
This evening, The Shadow was dismayed to learn of the existence in Emmanuel of incompetents, and resolved to rid Cambridge of this disgrace to the name of assassins everywhere. As soon as the list came out, I searched the college high and low but it seems that this incompetent Whoopie has a social life that extends beyond the college bar. I also tried his mobile number, with a well-rehearsed excuse prepared (details censored), but it seems he has changed his number and i couldn't connect. Racking my brain for a suitable method of destruction, I returned to my headquarters and prepared a highly devious bomb. As I happened to know his neighbour quite well, I asked him to stay on msn and tell me when the bomb went off. This was not a problem, because he regularly stays up until the early morning. I also checked the bomb a couple of times myself. At 1:45am I arrived at M2 staircase to find the bomb detonated and small chunks of burnt meat scattered liberally over the floor. Some of his friends were outside his door and were looking slightly concerned at the human remains around them. Michael stuck his head round the door and said the bomb had gone off just a minute before I got there. However, Whoopie's ghost was unresponsive when I knocked on his door. I heard him moving around inside and suspected he was slightly the worse for wear after a long night. I pushed a note through his door, so he didn't think it was all a dream, and left him to sleep.
Jenny Chase reports:
Aaaargh, too late going to bed for a decently early start. 4ams are not good. Blame the Umpire (the Crippsian one). Yawning, I staggered to Downing and shot the inco there.
One more to the career bodycount, and more significantly one more to the "people shot when hungover and half-naked in bed" tally. I don't think this is a major contributor to the scary reputation I'm hoping for.
The Jaguar reports:
A plentiful list of incompetents looked like an easy source of kills for the Jaguar, and with a fateful coin toss, my target was selected. Other business took up the early part of my morning, and it was 11.30, before I first entered my intended victims abode. I found it abandoned, and without the means to create an inventive trap I vowed to return later in the day...
Arriving at his door for the second time today, I again gave a sharp knock on the door... This time a response! I was invited in and found two people sat on the floor playing with a turntable. "Am I right in thinking one of you would be a DJ," I enquired? "Yes, I am" replied Ross (for it was he),"Oh excellent", I said, "I work for college ents, and we're looking for new DJs to be warm up acts..."
"No, I'm an assassin!" I cried gleefully as I stabbed him in the stomach. But to my horror my knife passed straight through him, there was no substance to his being. I fled from this foul demon, and on returning to my room discovered that the flesh and bones of Ross McElwain had died three hours earlier! This revelation of the supernatural has left me a broken man, and it is only after composing myself in my lair (as opposed to decomposing as Ross should be) that I have gathered the courage to write this report.
Be afraid, be very afraid, for ghosts are stalking this fair city!
Rampant Plagiarism reports:
Having heard about an attack by the infamous Ground on Matthew Garrett, I betook it upon myself to bring this nefarious criminal to justice. Long we duelled, but just when it was beginning to look hopeless, I succeeded in hitting it with my RBG. Ice, however, got away to fight another day.
Arthur Ludorum reports:
I, David Roberts (aka Arthur Ludorum) have been killed. Checking my pidgeon-hole ihn the dead of night means that people can less-readily identify you, but it also means that your brain is a little befuddled.
Ah-ha, a suspicious package! Well, I'll put on some gloves and pick it up veery carefully. =click= Oh. am I dead? No, the trap mechanism has jammed, I am safe. But what's this, a cunningly-designed bomb... hmm this could be useful. now I just need to disarm it. Inspecting the trigger, however, was a bad move as I removed whatever was obstructing it, blowing my face off, and killing an innocent bystander who happened to be standing near me. Lucky I can touch-type, eh?
Looks like my time is up. Farewell, cruel world!
Happy birthday dear Arthur Ludorum. I hope you enjoyed such an explosively good present!
Arthur Ludorum reports:
As I went to the buttery to get my first meal of the evening (no doubt there will be others), I saw a familiar face walk through the door. It was Michaelator II (aka Edward Levene) - an incompetent. I approached him and said "Are you Ed Levene?" to which he replied "Urm... yes... uuuurg!" as he fell froward, sprawled on the floor, my dagger in his back. After retrieving the dagger, I made my way back to my friends in the queue, to the surprise of all around.
Another one down, courtesy of Arthur Ludorum.
Edith T. Hutt reports:
At approximatly 20:00 on Saturday 1st Febuary 2003 a pubmeet did occur in the premises of The Eagle, a public house of known repute. Several "Assassins" were spotted in attendence at this pubmeet including Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt, Special Agent Handwash Only and The Bastard Officer from Hell. These individuals were observed to talk for approximatly one hour before proceeding to the known establishment of Christ's College lead by Special Officer for finding the Way Around, Handwash Only.
After Gaining access through to the second floor of the accomodation block by acosting a passing member of the clergy, Special Agent Handwash Only was observed to wander around in a random manner before being observed to direct the other two to the door of one Micheal Inkson, an incompetant of some noteriety. The three officers then retreated, led by Chief of Police to a toilet area, where the Chief was observed to lock himself into said toilet area for approximatly two minutes.
Upon emergence from the toilet area described in the previous paragraph Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt was observed to be dressed in a manner which can only be described "like a member of the village people". After rendevouing with The Bastard Officer from Hell (Special Agent Handwash Only was observed to be finding the way about at the time). They did proceed to revisit the door of Micheal Inkson (the same Micheal Inkson mentiuoned in the previous paragraph) and converse with a young person of the female gender observed to be on the same corridor. Said Female was reported to have asked "Are you looking for John?" Said officers replied "Does he live in this room?" upon which said officers pointed at the said door of said Micheal Inkson. Said Female was observed to have replyed "No" upon which said officers were reported to have issued the statement "No" in response to said statement from said female to said officers outside the door in question.
Following the departure of said female from the previous paragraph Special Agent Handwash Only was observed to return and hide around one corner of the corridor mentioned in the previous paragraph while The Bastard Officer from Hell hid aound an opposite corner of said corridor. Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt (dressed in his now infamous Village People outfit) did stand outside the door mentioned in the previous paragraph and the one previous to that of the Incompetant Micheal Inkson (being the same Micheal Inkson mentioned in the previous paragraph and the one before that). Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt did then knock upon said door of said incompetant Micheal Inkson and did stand back from said door with Riot Shield in place.
Upon recieving no response from the door of Micheal Inkson (being both the same door as mentioned in the previous 3 paragraphs and the same incompetant Micheal Inkson as mentioned in the previous 3 paragraphs) Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt was observed to try again and did recieve the same response as occured upon his previous attempt (said being no reponse at all).
It was at approximatly this point the Female observed first in the 3rd previous paragraph did re-enter the corridor, said corridor being the same corridor as mentioned in the previous two paragraphs to the previous paragraph, with one more person of male appearence and did lead said male to another room upon said corridor. Later examination of this event did conclude that the officers in question may had inadvertantly missed the possibility that said male was in fact the Incompetant Micheal Inkson (being the same Micheal Inkson mentioned in the previous four paragraphs) in person. However a futher risk assessment deemed that the officers did the correct actions in not shooting said male on sight.
Following the departure of the unidentified Male and Female from the corridor of the room of Micheal Inkson (Being the same Male as mentioned in the previous paragraph, the same Female as mentioned in both the previous paragraph and in the third previous paragraph to the previous paragraph. Also being the same corridor as mentioned in the previous paragraph and the previous two paragraphs previous to the paragraph previous to the previous paragraph. Also being the previous Micheal Inkson mentioned in the Previous five paragraphs.) Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt did knock on the door of said Incompetant Micheal Inkson and recieved the same response as knocking upon said door had illiceted upon the previous two occasions (said door being the same door as mentioned in the four paragraphs previous to the previous paragraph), said response being no response whatsoever.
Following this lack of response from the door of Micheal Inkson (said Micheal Inkson being the same incompetant Micheal Inkson as mentioned in the previous six paragraphs and said door being the same door as in the previous paragraph and as mentioned in the previous four paragraphs previous to the paragraph previous to the previous paragraph) Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt was observed to write a note upon a piece of paper located conveniently closely to said door of said incompetant Micheal Inkson. Said not was reported to have read: "We called, will get you later". Said note was reported to have been signed "The SWAT team".
Following the writing of the note (said note being the same note as mentioned in the previous paragraph) the officers: Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt, Special Agent Handwash Only and The Bastard Officer From Hell were observed to leave Christs College (Said Christs College being the same Christs College as mentioned in the inital paragraph) and proceed towards the known establishment of "The Van of Death" where said officers were observed to both eat chips and show great restraint in not opening fire on a bunch of drunken innocents who were causing a public nuisience.
Following this said officers went home.
Signed Chief of Police Edith T. Hutt, 1/2/2003
Made the long slog to Quiet's residence, but alas i could not gain entry through the very large, locked doors. Have no fear, i shall try again.....Quiet, your time is nearing :p
A random assassin reports:
I noticed that one of the incompetents was a first year at Christ's. As I have a friend who is also a first year at Christ's, I thought I would do some inco-bashing... After a quick discussion on msn, we agreed to meet in the Christ's plodge at 5:15, giving me only 3 minutes to assemble my weapons. Not really a problem, as they were all in my bag anyway. We met on time, and walked towards Unipidity's abode while I explained the accomplicing rules to my friend, Mark. We came up with a cunning plan, but as it turns out, it wasn't needed. As we were about to enter his staircase (which has glass walls), someone was walking down. Mark said, "That's him!". I entered the staircase and quickly whipped out my cosh. Walked up past him then hit him in the back with it. Told him he was immobilised for 5 minutes, and had wonderful visions of slowly torturing him to death. But he pleaded that he had to hand in his work (or something) so I was merciful and dispatched him with a shot to the chest, leaving his spirit to deliver the (bloodstained) work.
A Lousy Poison Letter reports:
I'm confused. I thought that *I* was the lousy poison letter, but it seems there's another one hiding somewhere. Because when I got to my pigeonhole this afternoon, I saw an envelope with all the signs of one. I took it back to my room, opened it carefully, and there was just enough poison inside to kill. As the note said, "Even trace amounts.......can kill you" I have to agree with that. "You are dead. Hope you enjoyed the game." I have people to poison yet, I'm afraid.....
A Lousy Poison Letter reports:
Kakariki suggested that we head up to try to kill his target A man called Martin, and who was I to disagree? So we traversed the space-time continuum, and eventually landed in the region of hyperspace where most students would fear to tread. We headed up to the upper reaches, to where the nefarious target was residing. We went up to his door, but there was no sound. We then decided to check out another set of stairs near his room, but as we started to descend, a door opened, and a gun was quickly followed by the devilish grin of A man called Martin. We ran down the stairs for our lives, and regrouped at the bottom. We walked along to the base of the first flight of stairs, and sure enough, our good friend graciuously came into our firing range a minute later, and we had an inconclusive shootout, before he ran back up the stairs. We cautiously made it back up to his room using both staircases, but there was no sign of him. Kakariki came up with a plan to lure him out, by me pretending that we were both going downstairs, and with him waiting. It only succeeded in us losing each other, we eventually found each other again on the first floor. We realised we weren't onto a winner, and tried to negotiate a safe escape. We got down to the ground floor, and tried to find our way out, but we got a bit lost. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my side, I heard Kakariki scream in pain, and it all went black. Choices. Consequences. Decisions. Down or up the stairs? Go your own way or follow the trail blazed by others. But is the marked way the best? The straight staircase or the spiral? If you ask me, the interesting thing about the journey is not the route selected, nor even the destination, but the things you see along the way. The journey can be hard, the journey may be long, but the final destination is rarely worth arriving at if you didn't look out of the window on the way there. Jump before you're pushed, take the leap of faith, but whatever you do, remember this, oh please remember this, never ever play leapfrog with a giraffe. And remember where you heard it from. Wisdom like mine is rare. And thanks to A man called Martin, it just got a lot rarer.
A random assassin reports:
After I got intelligence of Crazy Bob's lecture list, I decided on a time and place for an attack. The time: 12:55pm. The place: as he leaves lectures. After cycling through headwinds and crosswinds that at times reduced my speed to nearly zero, I finally arrived, not early as I had hoped, but quite late.
I entered the building, using an imaginary mobile phone conversation and a wooly hat as my disguise, and looked around for my target. I spotted him (wearing the same coat as always), standing around chatting to friends not 3m from the door of his lecture theatre. After retiring into a corner to select a weapon, I walked up behind him and shot him from point-blank range with my trusty RPG.
But what is this? My RPG, jammed?! This has only ever happened once before - just my luck! Quickly, I cocked the gun again and fired. This time, there were no such problems and I blew most of his face off. I left the lecture theatre, safe in the knowledge that all those headwinds would now be behind me :)
It really was surprising that he didn't react at all to the first click, but I guess he didn't expect to be attacked that far outside town...
Crazy Bob reports:
Alas, all good things must come to an end; in my case this was a rather unpleasant and messy end. My senses already dulled by an unbelievably tedious Computational Theory lecture, I made my way into the hive of scum and villany known only as "The Street" in the CL. On meeting members of my project group I began talking about the highly stimulating aspects of our work; and I never even heard the shot that killed me as I slumped to the ground. Ah well, c'est la mort.
Dr. Watson reports:
The days which immediately succeeded the start of term were made memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had the privilege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the headings of "The Matriculation Dinner" and "The Adventure of the Letter Bomb." The first of these, however, deals with interests of such importance and implicates so many of the first families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubugue of the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to be side-issues. New food will have been served at hall, however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time to be of national importance and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite unique character. We were back in Baker Street together; but it was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the thought of a walk through Cambridge was full of attractions to me also. An old friend, who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Regent Street and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and just days after our return to Cambridge we were under the my friend's roof, sitting in the living room. Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
"Which is it today," I asked disapprovingly, "morphine or cocaine?" He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened and smiled at my vehemence.
"Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment." My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, or fascinating vector calculus, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. "I am the only unofficial consulting assassin," he continued. "I am the last and highest court of appeal in assassination. When Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths-which, by the way, is their normal state-a target list is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialists opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My real name figures not in any report. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."
"Yes, indeed," said I cordially. "I was never so struck by anything in my life. I have even prepared a poisoned letter of my own." He shook his head sadly.
"I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Assassination is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid. Some facts should be suppressed, or, at least, a just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them."
He sank his head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again I was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with colour, and his eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy. "Ah, my dear Watson, I hope," he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair, "that your studies have not entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in making bombs." "On the contrary," I answered, "it was only last night that I prepared one suitable for pigeon holes." "I trust that you have it with you?" "Of course." "You are ready to come with me, then?"
The post room of my target's college opened by a long, low, latticed window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. There were some really curious pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one from me, and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own. It was already twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the pigeon hole. Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into it. As we placed the bomb inside I was aware, from some little rigidity and alertness of his attitude, that Holmes was prepared for an emergency, but nothing happened. My friend shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation and we left.
The Jaguar reports:
It always happens when you expect it least. You carefully keep an eye on the suspicious guy in the black coat luring outside your lectures, you always wear gloves when checking your pigeon hole, you always lock your door and windows. You are sorted, you have things under control. But the one moment when you're not perpared and think you're save, someone will walk past you and stab a knife right into your heart. No sneaky approach from behind, no running off after the crime is committed. He just walks past you and stabs you like saying hello to a distant friend. Life's not fair, is it?
The Umpire reports:
Ric Brackenbury was also present at the kill, but in a non-player sense, having been resurrected as such. Any involvement is surely coincidental.
Bald Rabit reports:
The plan was simple; knock and stab, but the target was absent. Ten minutes suspicious lurking achieved nothing so the attempt was declared useless and breakfast was suggested.
Rosemary Warner reports:
Piece of luck number one: he parked his bike under my window.
Piece of luck number two: Ralph saw this from his office.
Piece of luck number three: Ralph saw him return to his bike
I sniped at him out of the window. I think we both rather enjoyed it, as he seems to play so he can die in a silly way.
Handwash Only reports:
The Chief had been at me for days to "do some real work" as he put it. I hadn't been taking much notice, but today he laid down his ultimatum.
"No!" I cried, "You can't do that!", but he was determined.
"If you're not going to be out there on the job I'll just have to halve your doughnut allowance till I see some results."
Sulking, I fished the case list from my inbox where it lay hidden under piles of doughnut cartons. I took my trusty Colt .45 from the drawer and went down to the garage to sign out a squad car.
It took me some time to find the suspects hide-out, hidden as it is in the center of a block, but I finally found the right place. Knocking, I muttered, "Open in the name of the Law!" softly so as not to disturb the neighbours. He opened the door and I shot him.
Pleased with myself I returned to the office and demanded my doughnut allowance for the day, only to be told I needed to file "paperwork". So here it is.
Handwash Only reports:
Unfortunately my previous efforts seem to have the opposite effect to what I desired. The Chief now views me as a competent officer to hand out the tricky cases to. I wouldn't mind so much but he expects quick results too.
This afternoon, for instance, he handed me a file. "Handwash, this just came in. I need you to get in there fast and sort it out. And just in case you're even considering slacking, I now keep all doughnuts in the cupboard in my office."
. o O ("Damn, foiled again")
So I got out my gun, got a car, etc.
This guy's place was easy to find, but when I got there it was abandoned. I radioed back and was told that news just in indicated he may be staying with friends just a couple of blocks away. So I got back in my car and spent half-an-hour looking for a parking space. I mean, they can hardly expect me to walk that distance. Me the champion doughnut eater of 34th precinct 2 years running.
Well I got to the friends place and had a quick look around. There was loud music on, so no-one answered my rings. I tried the handle instead and the door turned out to be open. I walked in and asked a likely looking guy if he'd seen the suspect. He helpfully pointed him out so I just strolled on over and nicked him. As soon as they realised I was a cop though they all started looking kind of hostile, so I thought, "to hell with it." I drew my gun and shot the suspect. It just means an extra form to fill out after all.
As Dangermouse relaxed back into his chair, with the world once again saved, I busied myself with tasks which, although they were minor, were in fact of great importance to the smooth running of this world-saving operation.
"Crumbs, chief!" I said in alarm, "Did you realise that one of the creases in your trousers - your sp-p-pecially designed white superhero trousers - is a whole millimetre out of line! What are we going to do sir, what are we going to do?"
In his typical cool, calm and collected way, DM replied, "I'm sure you'll manage to fix it, Penfold... eventually." For I am Penfold, sidekick of Dangermouse. My codename is Jigsaw. It has been insinuated in the past that this is due to my ability to fall to pieces in difficult circumstances, but this is all a myth. I am Jigsaw because I hold together all the differentpieces of the puzzle... or something like that, anyway.
After re-pressing DM's suit, I flipped through his diary to check for appointments. What I saw had me shaking for a whole minute before I could bring myself to tell him.
"Crikey, chief! Did you forget that you have an appointment with the Spanish Inquisition tonight? It-t-t-t's not my handwriting and it's not yours either. And... eugh!" At this point I dropped the diary. Picking it up again, gingerly, I continued, "I-i-it seems to be written in blood! There's a note below, too. C-c-can't quite m-m-ake it out: i-it's a bit smudged." And then, everything went black.
I woke up to find Dangermouse standing over me, pouring water on my face. He said, quite matter-of-factly, "The note says, '9pm at The Eagle Tavern - be late at your peril!'" I looked at my extremely large silver pocket-watch that (only just) fits into my pocket. "Flippin' 'eck! It's 9:10! You'd better get moving, chief! Hope you don't mind if I... er... stay here and... er... straighten some things."
"Shush, Penfold! Today, I have once again saved the world from Baron Greenback and his minions. And I saved your life today as well, don't forget it!" I could see what was coming, and started to lie down on the floor again so I didn't have so far to fall. "Penfold, I want you to go and talk to these Spanish Inquisition people." My vision was narrowing and I started to hyperventilate - I could feel another faint coming on. "After all, it'll be good experience for you and, from what I've heard, the Spanish Inquisition is nothing to be feared. It's all just an act." My vision widened again and my breathing started returning to normal. I straightened up, dusted myself down and prepared to leave (but not before checking fifty times over that I hadn't forgotten anything).
Just as I was leaving, DM held something out in his hand, saying "Just in case...". "Oooo-er! A gun! But I thought you said it was all an act!", I said with some surprise. "I did," he replied, calm as always, "but 'No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!', so it is best to be prepared." Pocketing the gun, I headed towards The Eagle.
"Towards" is perhaps a bad way of describing it. I found that it was very easy to get lost in the back streets of Cambridge. All those dead ends and sudden, unexpected twists and turns! It took me over half an hour to get to the rendezvous from our secret hideout, which is only a short distance away on the map.
By this time I was nearly an hour late, and despite the reassurances of DM, I began to shake with fear at the horrible things that could happen to me. I had heard reports that in their most devious tortures, instruments such as a clothes-rack were used. I trembled at the thought. Nevertheless, I entered the pub and tentatively introduced myself to the only people in the tavern who were wearing funny hats (it must be them, I thought to myself).
At this point I was shaking so much that my spectacles fell off. I can't see further than the end of my nose without them, so I fell to the ground, searching for them. Somewhere above me, I heard the report of a gun. All of a sudden, I felt the anger coursing through my veins as I realised that this was in fact an assassination attempt on my dear master. I determined to avenge this cruel attack. By chance, my hand fell on the spectacles and I fumbled around inside my coat for the gun. It was in the first pocket I checked! Completely taken aback, I felt the rage seeping out of me as I examined the gun with surprise. Hang on, this can't be right, something is going well!
I my bewildered state I didn't notice that my finger was on the trigger, and a second loud bang next to me gave me such a shock that i squeezed it. The gun went off (giving me a nasty sprained wrist, by the way) and I noticed someone collapsing out of the corner of my eye. It turned out that this was PolarTiger, a renegade member of the Spanish Inquisition (they are a nice bunch really), who had set up this meeting in order to assassinate Dangermouse.
With the attempt on my master's avenged, I joined my hosts in a drink... or two... or I suppose it might possibly have been three... Anyway, by the time I got back to the secret hideout, my vision was blurry, and I was pretty incoherent when I tried to explain the incident to Dangermouse. This is why I am writing this report - the first (and probably the last) heroic deed to grace the Penfold family in well over a millennium!
Wandering through the plodge... what does the eye of myself spot in the hole of the pigeon? A letter! But wait... The bill of the College has already been delivered to my hole of the pigeon many a day ago and the annual day of remembrance of birth of myself has also passed already. Noonesbody likes me, so why would the minions of them place a letter in the hole of the pigeon of myself?
Retrieval of the letter from the hole of the pigeon of myself by means of gloves made of rubber and subsequent cutting open sideways by sissors was to expose a horrible sight to my blind eye! Enough flour to make a loaf of bread!!!
Rosemary Warner reports:
After he failed to turn up to a "compulsory" seminar, I decided a poisoned
letter was the best way to go. And it worked!
Never had that happen before....
The leper messiah reports:
Steven Cooper was murdered in his room at approx 13:15 today. He recieved a single gunshot wound to the chest and died almost immediatly. He offered no resistance or defence. His assasin gained access through the open door. No trace evidence was found, only a faint odour of decay...
the only time i bother to check my pigion hole and whats there? an over due libary notice and even more annoying a bomb. Unfortunately my pigion hole was to high up for me to have anticipated this cunning as a fox bomb and so i report that i have been killed by Mat Cauthon
Mat Cauthon reports:
After much tea-drinking, bath-taking and sitting around watching events of tremendous moment unfold and going "what?", the members of the Randland Team decided we should actually do something. This took us several books to decide, of course, and such was our shock at the plot advancement that we were forced to sit around another week.
Having decided this, various members of the Team had petty squabbles, which occupied another two books and introduced several hundred new characters, most of whom had names beginning with S, some of whom were actually weevils. New techniques for braid-tugging were invented, a whole new variety of self-creasing skirt developed, and several of the female characters flaming taken prisoner for a change.
At last, since Rand had decided he didn't trust anybody at all (paranoid woolhead) and was complaining about feeling ill or some such triviality, I left without him and discovered gunpowder. Cunning as a Fox, I set about bringing this series to a close by planting a nasty little bomb in speedy's pigeonhole.
I am delighted and surprised at its success. Maybe if some other plotlines resolve, we could see an end to this silliness before we all die of old age.
Mighty Pej reports:
Met at usual place usual time with Constable 5 o'clock folly. Realised we had one gun between us with five rubber bands, plus some grenades. Oh, and no incompetants list. Never mind, new museums soon sorted *that* out, and it was off to fitz (passing one umpire en route).
Much discussion about to get Jim to open his door, aborted when we discovered it was open. We went in. Excellent, voices down the corridor, empty room and space behind the door to hide. We quickly established a plan "you stand there and say jim and if he reacts throw your grenade at him and I'll leap out and shoot him if he gets you first....". Perfect.
Said plan went into operation. Sure enough a man's voice was heard approaching the room. "Are you Jim?" 5 O'clock folly enquired.
"No, shall I get him for you?" was the response. "Jim! Someone here for you!". Okay, well not how I would have chosen it to happen, but take you take your breaks.
"What do you want to see him for?"
"here, you're an assassin: Jim - there's an assassin in your room!". Oh dear.
Queue between five and seven friends queueing up to see that rare sight - a cornered assassin. Things looking distinctly less-than-good.
All start claiming to be Jim, and one walks in. Was very satisfied by their reaction when they discover me hiding behind the door, less well satisfied by the fact we were now stuck in a small room with no cover and a corridor filled with innocents and an assassin at the other end. Things definately *not* going to plan.
Ping! My brave comrade takes a rubber band to the chest and falls down gasping for breath. Panic starts to set in.
Jim's friends now back off slightly, letting me risk a glance down the corridor. Ping! - I've lost my gun arm....
Pick up gun wiht other hand, procede to exchange fire down corridor. Jim advances from room to room, using friends for cover. Eventually we meet - darting round an innocent. Ping-ping! We both fire. I get shot in my *other* arm, leaving me 'armless (if you'll forgive the pun). Jim says he didn't feel himself hit, so decided that since he was a player and I was only a policeman I didn't argue the point. Since I had no arms left and was cornered in a room at the end of a long corridor I was quickly shot, and both our corpses I would imagine are now floating down the cam.....
5 o'clock folly reports:
Back up to strength after their failure last week our forces set out after an enemy detachment identified by continual messages urging them to action. While waiting in ambush our men were surprised by a civilian or two and this gave the enemy the chance they needed. Sniping down the blocking force they rushed through the ambush before air support could be called in.
Enemy: Unknown but at lest 2.
Hubert Arctures of Trilonia Prime reports:
My third visit to the abode of the incompetent Saruman was more eventful than my first two. On this occasion, the ringing of the fourth doorbell from the bottom duly brought her to the door. Now my plan had originally been to shoot through the letterbox when I heard someone coming, but when I heard said person, in the heat of the moment, I panicked and didn't have time. So instead I waited for the door to open and then shot. I hit my target.
Realising that Pippa was not as feminine as I had expected her to be, I said (and quite correctly too) "you're not Pippa". No, it was in fact Constable Smeadle. He explained that her doorbell was the fourth one from the bottom, EXCLUDING THE ONE WHICH WAS QUITE CLEARLY LABELLED "BASEMENT". I had suspected that this might be the case, but there was no way of knowing as the doorbells were labelled with nicknames and unnumbered.
Anyway, Constable Smeadle said he had a vendetta against Saruman, who had betrayed him, and we hatched a plot to end her life. He would tell her that her boyfriend was in his room, and she would come in to meet her death by my hand. It was only while he was away enacting his part in this conspiracy that I realised that, as a dead player, he was forbidden to interfere with the game, and therefore the kill would be invalidated. But I shot her anyway, before pointing this out.
After this, I became anxious as to my safe exit from the building. I knew that she had a first floor room overlooking the front door and considered the fire exit, but didn't go that way as I would have had to leave it unlocked. Constable Smeadle reappeared and said that the fire exit led only into the garden and no further, and that Saruman was not planning to cut off my exit (how nice of her!). But he was lying, and on my way out she shot at me from above. I managed to duck safely back into the doorway (I think) and then, after briefly waiting around and glancing nervously behind me, sprinted for the nearest cover, a small car parked outside the house. As far as I know, this had the desired effect of avoiding gunfire, and I was safe.
Edith T. Hutt reports:
Guardian Angel was carrying more guns than I expected. We Dueled, I lost.
Former CoP, Edith T. Hutt
Guardian Angel reports:
Ah, it is a vexing question.
What is a Guardian Angel to do, when there are none who need to be guarded against?
The answer, it seems, is nothing; it scarcely befits one sworn to guard against the evil to remove the merely lazy, after all.
And so I find I am designated incompetent. Well, I have a good deal to say about that. It is conduct that holds my arm, not incompetence.
This tag would, I foresaw, be a problem. Not least because I was due to attend a society meeting with the illustrious Chief of Police. During the meeting, he repeatedly produced a very lethal-looking weapon, and whilst he did not threaten me, I felt certain that I was the intended target.
Thus, I left the meeting very quickly, looking behind me. Sure enough, the CoP was following. As he came into ranged, in a fluid motion, he dismounted from his bicycle, gun appearing in hand. I drew my own weapon, firing and diving for what little cover was available. Our shots rang out across Jesus lane. Finally, my foe spoke:
"Have either of us been killed yet?"
"I don't think you've got me. Settle it with a duel?"
We did. Reloaded our RBGs, walked ten paces, turned and fired. Or that was the plan. Actually after we'd walked ten paces we were out of range. I charged him; dodging to the left as I did so; his shots went wide. Reaching (bad) cover, I gunned him down as he tried to flank me.
I told you I wasn't incompetent. Unfortunately, I have a suspicion that killing the Chief of Police may cause some attention to be directed my way....
Blessed Is He Who reports:
Patrolling the streets of Cambridge this afternoon, Constable "Officer For Finding The Way Around" Handwash Only and myself took it upon ourselves to visit the notorious incompetent Fidel Castro. Arriving in his lodgings, and mindful of previous police action against the aforementioned Castro, we checked that the shower was clear and proceeded to the door of his room. Constable Handwash knocked on Castro's door, the conversation proceeding as follows:
"Ross?" "mumblemumblewhoisit?" "It's Ed." "Ok, let me get dressed."
An extended period of silence then followed as Constable Handwash and myself attempted to guess Castro's plan of action. After several minutes, the door into the corridor, which I had been guarding, was opened and we were questioned as to our intent by an ostensible civilian who we recognised from previous encounters as being sympathetic to Castro's nefarious schemes. Unconvinced that we were merely enquiring as to his state of health, she expressed intention to warn Castro of our presence.
However, at this point, the door at the opposite end of the corridor, where Constable Handwash was standing, was flung open by Castro, who it later transpired had climbed out of his window and re-entered the building via an alternate route. A brief exchange of gunfire between Castro, Constable Handwash and myself ensued, before Castro took refuge once again behind the door.
A brief discussion with the incompetent determined that he and Constable Handwash were both unsure as to whether they had been hit by the other. They resolved to settle the issue by means of a duel. Having first-hand experience of Constable Handwash's duelling ability, I was in no doubt that he would be victorious, and so lent Castro my gun in order that the duellists be on equal footing.
The pair retired to opposite ends of the corridor, whence, upon the cry of "Banoffe pie!", they commenced shooting at one another. Both were wounded in their right arms but neither succeeded in scoring a successful hit before their ammunition was exhausted.
After a brief pause, the duellists reloaded their weapons and commenced battle once more. This time, while Castro was hiding in the doorway of his room, Constable Handwash made a brave sprint halfway down the corridor into a small alcove. The distance between the combatants having thereby been considerably reduced, it was only a matter of seconds before Castro sustained a mortal wound. Watching his corpse fall to the ground, I turned to congratulate Constable Handwash on his success, only to see him collapsed against the side of the alcove with a bullet through his neck. Fortunately, I have always been of the opinion that Constable Handwash is a thoroughly untrustworthy character and suspected him of being corrupt in any case, so I felt no sadness as I retrieved my gun from Castro's dead hands and left the scene.
Fidel Castro reports:
Being disturbed by a knock on my door, I thought it best not to actually open the door as I knew the identity of the caller to be a police officer. Taking an alternative route out of my room, I came round and attempted to flank the two officers unexpectedly. Unfortunately, I was spotted as I headed towards them and a bloody duel ended in both of our deaths....
Rand al'Thor reports:
After attempts to kill me yesterday ended in Medusa ignominous hiding in a toilet after a failed ambush on the way to dinner, I thought that Medusa would be unlikely to try again so soon. Also, I was visited today and so was not really in the assassins mindset. So I was a little more relaxed than usual, failing to scan Hall for them before sitting, and then sitting with my back to the door. This, of course resulted in my being shot from behind shortly afterwards, with only a posthumous "Sorry" to show for it. Somewhat spoiled the enjoyment of my dinner, being dead.
So there you are, Mat - a woolhead I may be, but clearly I am not paranoid enough (anyway, it's not paranoia if they're really after you). Shouldn't you be rescuing Moiraine sometime soon, anyway? Especially if you've invented the cannon already...
They will put me in a box, but I must come back harder... The dragon will ride again on the winds of time...
Hi Ho Silver reports:
4 litre bomb on door with explosive cap, blew me into little shreds down the hallway. Bugger.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.....It's my job and I know I should have known better, but she was incompetent scum: I guess it was too tempting when I saw her just standing there in the market place all helpless and....*sob*.... But I am really sorry. really *really* sorry. I'll be good, I promise. Please ask Felix not to hurt me.
Hi Ho Silver reports:
Bomb in pigeon hole underneath book. Kills me, again. Kills 5 people in the post room. Bugger.
Hi Ho Silver reports:
Guy in coat at door, I forget the name now. Shoots me, silly silly me for opening the door. Bugger.
Rosemary Warner reports:
I got my first poisoned letter today! It was all very exciting!
It was rather professionally printed. unfortunately the rustling and the presence of my room number on the address gave it away for what it was.
Sorry, Death Count, but I'm not dead, thanks to my "trusty" latex gloves.
Hi Ho Silver reports:
Rampant Plagiarism at door, being very unsubtle. Told them i was dead before i opened the door. Shot through the heart with a gun. Some people have no respect for the dead. Bugger.
Bald Rabit reports:
It was a long hot summer and there was a bad drought and to make matters worse, our homes were being destroyed by 'incompetents' and their machines building new homes to live in right over our home in 'Farthing Wood'. Then they filled in our pond and we had no water. We had to do something before the remaining few of us were wiped out. I decided to hold a meeting with all the remaining animals and got Badger (our oldest Farthing Wood resident) to gather all of them together.
Toad had just returned to us from a long journey after being taken away from the pond by Human kids. He had come across a place called 'Cambridge', a nature reserve dedicated to protecting animals like us. We decided to head for this place, anything was better than facing man's destruction. When we got there we found the incompetents had got there first.
Red Cat and I, Bald Rabbit, got together and put aside our natural emnity to destroy the evil incompetents for the good of Cambridge. We set off on a long journey, first calling on The Doctor in a swamp. He was out. Then MI$ER, in his tree top dray. He was out digging up nuts according to a yellow Tit. Despite ringing all visible doorbells on the door of Saruman the pigeons refused to leave their cote. Then onto Death Count, cowering in his burrow - we know - we saw your bedroom light go off.
Onto the large badger sett where Hi Ho Silver was rumoured to be hiding out. His door was opened with a simple ploy and I shot him with an RBG held between two paws at about 23:20. Unfortunately his body turned out to be decaying gradually. I was the fifth animal to kill him in two days.
Our next visit was more sucessful. Red Cat used all of her feline charm to get into the old breeze block full of mice. Then she let me in as well. We ascended to the room of Greebo. At roughly 00:15 I knocked, he answered and I let rip with about 5 shots through the door. None of them hit his torso and his mousy paw drew out a pistol. Not wishing to become rabbit pie I jumped off down the corridor and the dormouse followed me out, only to be shot in the back by the Red Cat.
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Produced at Sat Mar 8 16:07:35 2003