The Maltese Pigeon: Mafia wins.

[The Cheshire Man]

It’s Thursday. I hate Thursdays. They always mean bad luck for me.

Always have.

Right now I’m enjoying a nice glass of apple juice down at the Happy Cook Café, a little hole in the wall just a few blocks from Chinatown. The food’s an acquired taste, and the service is lousy ever since Clarence “Happy” Cook got served up to the worms two years ago, but it’s still the best place to get an apple juice with an olive in it, and probably will be until they repeal that stupid amendment. Besides, I know all the regulars. Right now there’s only an even dozen of us here, if you count the DiCaffinati boys over in the corner. They’re small-timers as far as organized crime go, but always looking for any opportunity to hit the big-time. We all know they’d gladly paint the sidewalk the color of our brains if they thought they could get any territory out of it, but we all tolerate them anyway. After all, they arrange to have the apple juice delivered.

Just when I think the day might not go too bad after all, I catch a blur of white and ugly brown out the corner of my eye. I turn around just in time to see Dusty Junkman, the local antiques dealer, nearly crash through the glass door. He’s almost bent double he’s so out of breath, which at his age could mean that he just ran two blocks or that he got out of the taxi too fast. But there’s a wild terror in his eyes, as if Death himself is after him and the other three horsemen are just a block behind.

“Beware!” he shouts, his arms flapping like a wind-blown scarecrow. “Beware the swooping shadow! It comes for the Pigeon! The Maltese Pigeon!”

He stumbles and leans against a table, much to the chagrin of the young lady whom he’s practically roosting on.

“Would’ja get offa me, ya clumsy dustmop!” she says.

“What’s he shouting about?” my neighbor asks me.

“Mark my words, all of you!” Dusty says.

He starts to preach with nigh-apocalyptic fervor. I can almost hear the plague of locusts waiting in the wings.

“Something evil searches after the Maltese Pigeon! I found it, I finally found it…it was in an old lady’s attic, unrecognized and long forgotten. But when I picked it up, when I touched it, I felt something notice me! Something dark and haunting and…and evil! I can feel him searching for it, and he won’t stop until he holds it in his hands! You’ve got to help me!”

“Nonsense!” the local doctor tells him. “No one is chasing you. You’re having a panic attack, a bout of paranoia.”

“What’s this Pigeon you’re harping on?” I make the mistake of asking.

“The Maltese Pigeon,” Dusty says. He’s beginning to calm down now. “An age old relic, alabaster and porcelain, beautifully painted, cunningly crafted by the greatest artisan of Malta, made to look like a dove”—here he swallows, either to catch his breath or wet his mouth, I couldn’t tell—“although time and dirt have browned its color, so that it more resembles a pigeon. The Holy Grail of antiques! And so much more! For legend has it that whoever possesses the Maltese Pigeon shall wield great power of a mysterious nature. And now its mine! The Pigeon and its powers, whatever they are, are mine!”

He strikes his fists in the air, and for a moment his face looks like something out of a Boris Karloff movie—but then he freezes, and peers left, then right, out of the corner of his eye, like a guilty child. He shrinks against a nearby table.

“He wants it…he wants the power,” I hear him whisper to a nearby diner. “Disaster will come should the Maltese Pigeon fall into evil hands. His…or even just the DiCaffinati’s hands.”

“Hey, we’re right here, stupid!” says one of the DiCaffinati boys. Dusty ignores them, goes right on talking.

“Already I can feel him clouding my mind. Clouding my mind…” he rubs his right eye socket with the heel of his palm. “That’s what he’ll do. He’ll cloud my mind. Like he’s already clouding all of yours!” He jumps back, and points his finger at us. “The Pigeon tells me so, tells me what he is doing, what he has done, what he will do…in a moment you will not know your neighbor’s face from your wife’s. In a moment you will forget who is your friend and who is your enemy. He will shroud you from the world and then slip in right amongst you! Beware!”

He runs for the door.

“Beware the swooping shadow, beware the dark thoughts that delve into your minds! Beware! Beware…”

Suddenly a shot rings out from across the street. The glass door shatters. Dusty clutches his chest with both hands and crumples to the floor. Someone screams.

“He’s been shot!” I hear someone yell.

“Quick, across the street!” I shout as I leap the body and head out the door. I hear two pairs of footsteps crunching on the broken glass behind me as I hit the sidewalk. Good, I’ll need the help if the killer brought more than one bullet.

“Dusty!” I hear the doctor say as I head across the street. “Don’t try to speak; just lie still…”

Judging by where he clutched his chest, I’d say Dusty’ll have no problem obeying in a few seconds.

The evening air is cool, and the traffic is at a standstill—easy to cross without getting hit, even at a dead run like we’re making. My feet hit the opposite sidewalk. I look up and down the street, ignoring for the moment the irate driver announcing to the world his questionable assessments of my mother’s private life. I’m in a hurry; any other night I’d stick my chewing gum on the inside of his door handle. Just up the street I notice a couple of men at a bus stop.

“Hey,” I say as I run up to them, “which way’d he go?”

“Which way did who go?” asks one, whose upper chest pegs him as either a construction worker or a bald gorilla. Maybe both.

“The gunman! Didn’t you hear the gunshot? How long you been sitting here?” I ask in rapid succession.

“We been sitting here for three busses, and we didn’t hear nothing shoot nobody,” says the construction worker. I open my mouth to argue, but my sense of self-preservation closes it before I can say anything. I open it and say, “Okay, thanks for your time,” before I run back to the other two.

“Any luck?” I ask.

“Nobody saw or heard anything!” says one.

“Not even the drivers!” says another.

We head back into the diner. I take the time to spit on the aforementioned loudmouthed driver’s grill. The diners are still clustered around Dusty's body when I swing open the door.

“Did you catch him?” someone asks as a shard of glass tinkles to the sidewalk.

“Catch him?” the guy to my left responds, “We couldn’t even get started! No one heard a shot—they all thought we were crazy!”

“Is he…?” the guy to my right begins to ask. The doctor nods sadly.

“You think it was the DiCaffinatis?” someone whispers.

“Who else?” another replies. “The swooping shadow? Here to cloud our minds and slaughter us over some porcelain showpiece?”

“But a gunshot from across the street? That’s not the DiCaffinatis’ style,” says a third. “They don’t like having to pin stuff on nobody. Probably a rival gang moving in.”

“But why shoot Dusty?” asks the first voice.

Just then a young couple enters, crunching through the broken glass on their way in. The man nearly knocks me over shoving by me through the door.

“Hello? Anybody here?” the young man shouts into restaurant.

“Hang on just a minute, pal,” says one of the regulars. “We’re just a little busy at the moment.”

“Anyone at all?” the young man continues, still looking around the restaurant. The young woman steps up on top of Dusty’s chest.

“What the devil, lady!” says another diner.

“Whoops!” the lady says as she looses her balance. Her beau offers his arm to steady her.

“You all right, darling?” he asks.

“Yes, dear,” says the woman, “it’s just this rug is so lumpy, it’s like trying to stand up on a mattress.”

“What an odd thing to leave a restaurant open when there’s nobody here,” says the man. “It’s like they left and forgot to lock up.”

“Or they’re being burglarized!” shouts the woman suddenly. “Dear, let’s get out of here before anyone comes back and sees us!”

“All right, all right, dear, just calm down.” He opens the door and helps the young lady through. “We’ll get something at Tony’s on our way down…” he says as they disappear down the street.

Everyone stands stock still, their eyes wide open. For several seconds we’re too shocked even to breathe.

“Did they just…?” someone asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“And did they not…?”

“No, they didn’t. We all saw it, too,” someone else says.

“I’m scared,” a woman finally says. “Someone should call the cops.”

“Already tried that,” says someone else. “The phone must not be working, ‘cause no one could hear me at the other end.”

“We’ll have to send someone down to the police station.”

“No, we won’t,” I say.

“Why not?”

“What were you planning on telling them?” I ask.

“That there’s been a murder! Did you lose your brain down a storm drain out there?”

“And what were you planning on showing them? The dead body they can’t see or the witnesses they won’t be able to listen to?”

The guy blinks twice. Then he says, “And how do you know they won’t be able to see or listen? How do you know they’ll be affected, too?”

“Because Dusty said as much before he was shot,” I say. “And because he also said that we would forget who our friends were; and even though I know I’ve known you for five years, I suddenly can’t remember who you—or any of you—are.”

The guy’s face goes pale. So does everyone else’s. We all look at each other. I think some of us start to cry; maybe I’m one of them. No one says anything – we don’t need to. Our faces are loud enough.

Then a little niggling voice in the back of my head tells me something else is wrong. After a quick headcount I know what it is.

“Hey, how many of us were in here when Dusty came in?” I ask. Everyone shrugs or looks blank. A lady at my elbow starts counting on her fingers.

“Twelve,” she finally says, “if you count the DiCaffinati boys.” I’m surprised she didn’t need to take of one of her shoes.

“How many are there now?” I ask. Everyone counts, and everyone gets the same answer.

Thirteen.

The swooping shadow, the guy that shot Dusty and hoodooed up the joint, is one of the people standing less than ten feet from me.

I hate Thursdays.
_________________
smile

[The Cheshire Man]

It is now Day 5. Please bold your votes.

The Breathing
1. Dan
6. LoudmouthLee, a.k.a. LML
7. Master, The, a.k.a. Pooky
9. mudbuck
12. Unheard Voice, a.k.a. UV

The Big Sleep
5. Leonidas, a.k.a. Leo, a.k.a. Scarlette Webb, townie Vigilante -- murdered in staged suicide (Night 1)
3. Internet Stranger, a.k.a. IS, a.k.a. Lyman Scherer, townie Mortician -- lynched (Day 1)
8. Mgm, a.k.a. Cyrus Pierce, townie Private Investigator -- blown up (Night 2)
13. Xylax, a.k.a. Pietro Goldwyn, townie Mayor -- vegetable trucked (Day 2)
11. shanterusan, a.k.a. Jack Alman, townie Apprentice -- murdered in fake accident (Night 3)
10. Samadhi, a.k.a. Josef Tall, Mafia -- lynched (Day 3)
2. esme, a.k.a. Rook Larson, SK Ravenlord -- murdered in staged suicide (Night 4)
4. Jedo the Jedi, a.k.a. Jedo, a.k.a. amb, a.k.a. Esther Keyes, townie Locksmith (roleblocker) -- suicide lynched (Day 4)

THE RULES
(relevant changes are in bold)
[01] Have fun and don't be a jerk. Please have consideration for the other players and the mod, and actually PLAY the game by posting and voting. If you cannot post for some reason, please contact the mod.
[02] No communication outside the thread unless your role allows you to do so and then only in the game's nights...unless I tell you otherwise.
[03] Get your choices in before the deadlines. If you don't, a random choice will be made for the first night and no choice for subsequent nights.
[04] No quoting role PMs or night messages, though you may paraphrase them to your heart's content. If you have a death wish, request replacement.
[05] If you're dead YOU'RE DEAD. No more posting relevant information after that. One bah post is allowed.
[06] Lynching will be carried out once a regular majority is reached - and cannot be undone by unvoting. If I impose a day deadline, lynching will require at least half of the regular majority. In case of a tie, first come first served. In the endgame (six players or less) only lynches with a regular majority will occur.
[07] Do NOT post at night, and especially do NOT post relevant information at night. Night begins when I post the lynch scene.
[08] Only votes in BOLD will be counted. I'm debating whether bolded unvotes should be mandatory--it would lighten the Mod's workload considerably. For now, they are not mandatory, but still greatly appreciated.
[09] Only votes for one player with correctly spelled names (or abbreviations, see player list) will count. Unless I know who you meant and I feel like letting it slide.
[10] Do NOT edit or delete your posts. If you made a coding error, just post again. Exception: If you inadvertently broke a posting rule that you believe might ruin the game (posting relevant information at night, calling someone a really nasty name, posting relevant information when you are dead), first copy the illegal post, then delete it, then send me your deleted post in its entirety in a PM. I will handle it from there.
[11] Do NOT post in invisible text. Except in your sig, like me , and then nothing relevant.
[12] You are not allowed to quote your winning condition, unless you want to risk a modslaying. Feel free to paraphrase it, however, and even lie about it. That's half the fun, anyway.
[13] The mod is always right. The mod reserves the right to punish transgressions and reward helpfulness as he sees fit. This may mean punishments or rewards never before seen in a mafia game, as well as replacement or modslaying. Accept the decisions, and if you want to discuss them, take it to email, or do so after the game has finished.
_________________
smile

[The Cheshire Man]

Waiting on confirmations from LoudmouthLee, The Master, Samadhi, and Xylax.

I still need night choices from three two confirmed players, if they plan on sending any. I'm thinking of extending the deadline through the weekend to Monday.
_________________
smile

[The Cheshire Man]

Still waiting on Xylax to confirm. As for the rest of you who need a little extra time (you know who you are), I'm postponing the sunrise for a few hours. If Xylax hasn't confirmed by that time, I'll pick a random target for him. If he hasn't confirmed by the second night, I'll find a replacement.
_________________
smile

[The Cheshire Man]

Friday morning I roll out of bed bright and early. Mainly because my landlord’s foot shoves me off the mattress onto the floor.

“Get out of here, ya lazy bum,” he says, his instep against my kidney.

“Hey, what gives?” I mutter up from the floor. The pieces of an eerie dream float around my head like flakes of glitter in a snow globe. “Don’t I live here? Ain’t I still me?”

“Freeloading idiot drunk,” he says to himself under his breath; then to me, “I don’t know how you got in, but I know how you’re getting out. This ain’t no charity hostel I’m running.” He kicks me again to get me moving.

“Funny, seems hostile enough to me,” I say.

My mouth usually wakes up some time before my brain does.

“Har de har har,” he says as he walks around behind me. “Now I got one for you: what has two arms, two legs, an ugly mug, and flies?”

“Dunno, what?” C’mon and wake up, brain.

“You!” my landlord shouts. At which point he assists me in flying out of my apartment, out of the building, and into the street.

“And don’t come back until you got first month’s rent and a pen to sign the lease with!” he shouts after me.

I pick myself off the sidewalk, dust off my legs, then say good morning to a passing lady. Thank heavens I don’t sleep in the nude anymore. Wakefulness starts to emancipate the reaches of my mind from the veil of sleep and dream.

Dream. That’s right. I need to remember the dream I just had before it fades away completely. It seemed so important at the time…

I counted thirteen people in the diner. The dream ended with the baker’s dozen of us agreeing we’d meet back at the diner the next morning, after some much needed sleep. Then I dreamt I crawled back to my rat hole of an apartment and went to bed.

Dreams aren’t supposed to end that way.

“Thursdays,” I say to myself. At least it explains why my landlord doesn’t recognize me. I head down the street to the diner.

When I get there, everyone’s waiting out in front. Almost everyone. A quick headcount tells me that whoever shows up next gets to be lucky number thirteen, the last member of our little party.

“Who’s missing?” I ask.

“One of the dames,” some guy says. And then the dame sitting next to him slaps his face. “One of the young ladies,” he corrects himself.

We wait for about an hour, none of us with anything really to say. Despair and confusion make for a strange silence. Soon I start to get hungry, and realize that I never had any breakfast.

“What’s taking her so long?” one of the women asks.

“Why don’t we just go see?” asks a guy. “She only lives a few blocks away.”

“How do know where she lives, if you’re under the same black magic we’re under?” I ask.

“Because we all do. We can all remember where everyone lives. Try it.”

I do. I think hard about this guy’s face, and suddenly I remember where he lives. I can remember his doorstep, and standing on it (never got inside the house that I remember), and even which trolley I took to get there. Still no luck with his name or how I know him, though. Then I think about the missing party, and I remember a second floor apartment just a few blocks from here…and the smell of lilacs. Odd.

“All right, let’s go then,” I say. I head down the street for her apartment. After ten yards I look behind me.

“All right, let’s all go then. Everyone. I don’t want anyone off by themselves.”

“Hey!” says one of the gals. “Who died and made you king?”

“Shut up,” says a guy at her elbow, “he’s got a good point.”

Some of them groan, but they all get up and start walking. All except one.

“Somebody wake him up,” I say.

One of the girls grabs his lapels and starts to shake him. “C’mon get up,” she says. He just snores louder. One of the guys leans down and gives him a good sharp slap in the face.

“Zgxzgwhaz…huh?” he wakes up a bit.

“C’mon. We’re going over to a lady’s house, and you’re coming, too,” says the guy who slapped him. “On your feet!” He grabs his lapels and tries to lift him. Too heavy.
“I didn’t…sleep good…” the tub of lard says as he drifts off to sleep.

“Ah, get up, would’ja? There ain’t no way I’m carrying you!”

“Just leave him,” I say.

“Leave him? I thought you said you didn’t want anyone staying behind? How come he gets to stick around, and I gotta go traipsing all over the city with you?”

I walk back up to the diner door, and grab a large piece of glass from off the floor. I lay it flat on top of sleeping beauty’s hat. He goes right on snoring.

“If we come back, and this piece of glass is still on his head, we know he hasn’t moved. If we come back and it’s shattered all over the sidewalk, we know he tried something and we can take it out of his hide,” I say.

“If it isn’t too late for any of us to do anything,” someone adds.

“We’ll just have to take that chance.”

We head on down the sidewalk. Ten minutes later we’re at the door to her apartment building. I knock on the door. And knock. No one answers.

“Anyone else live in this building?” I ask.

One of the girls pulls out a hairpin. “I’ll get it,” she says. It doesn’t take her more than ninety seconds to pick the lock. The door swings open and we head down the hall and up the stairs, right past the super’s office.

“Bloody mice,” I hear him swear as we pass.

I’m the first one to her door. I knock. No answer. I call out for her to open the door. Still no answer.

“You want me to open it?” asks the doll with the hairpin.

“No time for that if she’s hurt.” I kick down the door.

The room is too dark to make out anything. Odd, seeing as how her windows face east. I turn on a lamp near the door.

The shades are drawn. She’s sitting in a sofa chair, her back to us.

“You all right?” I ask as I come around the chair.

A patch of her beautiful red hair on her right temple is matted dirty brown. Closer inspection reveals a bullet hole on the side of her forehead. Her eyes are closed, the mascara smudged down her cheek. In her right hand, lying at her side, is a Colt .22; in her left hand, hanging over the edge of her chair, is a note. I pluck it from her hand and read:

[Internet Stranger]

Oh this is a no brainer.

Vote: Master
_________________
"I didn't know she was your sister I swear!"
www.InternetStranger.com

[shanterusan]

Shouldn't that vote be random?

FOS: Internet Stranger

[UnheardVoice]

I think that's just how IS plays.

Dice Roll:

Original Roll String: d13 13-Sided Dice Results: 1

[UnheardVoice]

Random Vote: Jedo

[Jedo the Jedi]

Here. No random vote for me. I didn't read the whole story because it's far too long, but I gather we lost a pro-town vig. That's got to be better than losing a cop or doc, but we could have used him later. I'll keep watching the thread for something interesting to happen.

[shanterusan]

Why do you say that, UnheardVoice? (I looked at Internet Stranger's old posts, but the search function only lets me browse a bit and I got lazy.)

[mudbuck]

IS is always like that.
_________________
1000oclock.com

[shanterusan]

Ok then. ^_^

[Mgm]

Let's get random:

Dice Roll:

Original Roll String: 1d13 1 13-Sided Dice Results: 10

[Mgm]

The dice have spoken.
Random vote: LML

[esme]

Dice Roll:

Original Roll String: 1d11 1 11-Sided Dice Results: 10

[/dice]

[esme]

Random vote: The Master

[mudbuck]

Vote esme for only using a 11-sided die.
_________________
1000oclock.com

[mudbuck]

Wait. Too quick to judge.
Ummm... Unovte
_________________
1000oclock.com

[mudbuck]

*Unvote
_________________
1000oclock.com

[The Cheshire Man]

Vote Tally:

[Dan]

What makes this a no-brainer IS?

FOS: The Master?
_________________
Rokk. uuddlrlrbastart

[UnheardVoice]

I'm curious as to how you can FOS The Master without him even say anything yet.

[shanterusan]

So am I. One person voting a la IS is sufficient.

[The Master]

IS is just an asshole who for some reason hates me. I still don't know why, but I must have done something really bad to keep his loathing over 2 years of silence.
My Random Vote: Xylax might be pointless since he has yet to confirm, but who is to go against the randomness of fate.
_________________
"napalm is nature's toothpaste"

[Internet Stranger]

See? Its right there. He is clearly scum. Besides, I will rather enjoy getting him lynched.

If anyone has a better lynch candidate, lets hear it. But I already know you wont, so lets lynch Master instead.
_________________
"I didn't know she was your sister I swear!"
www.InternetStranger.com

[Dan]

I thought IS might have been a cop with info, at least tat's the way his first post came off to me. That's why I put a question mark after my FOS. But IS celarly just wants to lynch Master because he's Master, so UnFOS: Master.
_________________
Rokk. uuddlrlrbastart

[shanterusan]

Sort of Random Vote: IS, so he starts being nicer.

[Internet Stranger]

That hurts my feelings.
_________________
"I didn't know she was your sister I swear!"
www.InternetStranger.com

[shanterusan]

Aw come on, IS, don't take it too personally.

My reason for voting for you is at least a bit nicer than your reason for voting for Master. Be careful, you're starting to sound scummy, and not everyone knows your style from other games.

[Internet Stranger]

Aha! I see through this thinly veiled plot youre hatching. Youre just lucky that Master should be taken out first.
_________________
"I didn't know she was your sister I swear!"
www.InternetStranger.com

[shanterusan]

It ain't no plot on my part. You are sounding a bit scummy.

[Internet Stranger]

This gross lack of activity disappoints me.
_________________
"I didn't know she was your sister I swear!"
www.InternetStranger.com

[esme]

Well, I'm a bit put off by the idea of always voting for the same person, and since I'm completely new I have no way to know whether it is even true. So, maybe you can tell me why you do it?

[UnheardVoice]

Hmmm. Activitiy? Time to motivate people.

Unvote: Jedo

Vote: LML

Hey LML! Say something.

By the way, TCM, you really shouldn't put Leonidas on the Vote Tally, because he's dead. It's a bit confusing.

[Internet Stranger]

[The Cheshire Man]

[The Cheshire Man]

Vote Tally:

[LoudmouthLee]

Vote: IS

I'm still trying to figure out the possible mechanics of this game.

Pardon, my Hammett book is calling me.
_________________
-LmL

I'm sorry. I have no desire to talk to you.

[mudbuck]

Vote: Internet Stanger

Hey, say something useful!
_________________
1000oclock.com