“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” you growl, “figure out who’s responsible and we bring an end to it right here.”
Jack’s present leaps into your hand, but you aren’t the only one who thought to bring a gun today. In a heartbeat, everyone is armed. In this paranoid climate, nobody is really sure who to aim at and there is an awkward moment -a clumsy but deadly dance- during which the future, for all of you, is very unclear. Four days of hazy talk and over-eating has come down to this: seven stoners in a standoff that is literally Mexican. Quentin Terentino would be proud.
Sea-spray stings your eyes as you shift your aim from the biker to the chemist, from one familiar face to another. These men were like brothers to you less than a week ago. Now the only thing left to decide is who is going to kill who. All for the lousy southern market and a few million dollars. The only thing more powerful than your fear right now is your disgust at how far the mighty have fallen. Then, unexpectedly, someone starts laughing.
Gleefully, Bob pops the buttons on his shirt, revealing a bulletproof vest. “Looks like I won the arms race, you stupid fuckers.” His stance is casual, his grin cocky. He takes a long drink out of the beer he opened a few minutes ago before starting an arrogant speech that he never gets to finish. “Everybody always thinks to bring a gun, right? I knew it. So, this morning when I was…” His expression turns momentarily quizzical (
do you taste that?
) and then fearful. He gasps, staggers, and falls. Nobody sees the chemist smile but, a moment later, everyone sees him level an important third pistol on Dram.
“It’s clear you’re the one who sold us out,” the chemist says. “Hey Nico, you want to settle this for us?”
“My pleasure, boss,” the goon answers. The fourth gun isn’t just aimed, it’s fired. Dram’s back explodes and paints the sand red. That bullet is the first raindrop of a typhoon. Gunshots crackle like fireworks or the beats of a drum-roll. Despite the wind, a blue-gray haze of powder smoke hovers for a moment over the scene. Then, like the fleeting hope that a group of stoned pacifists would be able to overcome a real syndicate, it is gone.
Above you, the leering chemist is fading. Your life is quickly escaping onto the beach and your breath comes in ragged gasps but you manage to say, “You… bastard. How could… you… give in?”
“Give in? You think I we were pressured?” He laughs uproariously. Lightning flashes behind him on the horizon. “I
started
this war, amigo. And now I’ve finished it too.”
boberz has been poisoned. He was a
Bulletproof Townie
.
Dramonic has been lynched. He was a
Vanilla Townie
.
MehPlusRawr has been endgamed. He was the
town’s Vigilante
.
Chronopie has been endgamed. He was a
Vanilla Townie
.
Game over! Scum Wins! Congratulations to chnorek, Nicodemus, bv310, and CryMeARiver.
I’ll be posting night actions, role PMs, QT links, and commentary in a little while. Of course comments and criticisms are welcome from everyone.
