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Post by Muramasa on Sept 13, 2008 0:15:04 GMT -8
Patrick was talking a leisurely walk through some slightly rough streets two blocks away from where he lives. As he passes an alleyway, he hears a loud shriek. It seems to almost echo for an eternity before coming to an abrupt halt. There are plenty of people around, but they continue on with their busy lives, as if they never noticed the sound in the first place. He runs down the alley to find a body laying face down on concrete. A pool of blood surrounds the body. The high noon sun casts a spotlight over the body, creating a surreal stage-like display in front of Patrick. Off to the right off the body is a slight glimmer. A piece of jewelry perhaps? Strangely enough, there is an odd smell of ammonia in the air. One thing he can be sure of is that something killed this person, and he seems to be the only one who notices.
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Post by You probably can't touch this. on Sept 13, 2008 1:00:56 GMT -8
First, be surprised that there are plenty of people on the slightly rough streets. Second, call the police.
I'm feeling rather dull at the moment and particularly interested in flow of taxes (i.e. the police). I blame the election on making me care about politics.
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 13, 2008 11:41:13 GMT -8
First, be surprised that there are plenty of people on the slightly rough streets. Second, call the police. I'm feeling rather dull at the moment and particularly interested in flow of taxes (i.e. the police). I blame the election on making me care about politics. Patrick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fairly dated, but still very functional cell phone. Instead of hearing an expected dial tone however, all he hears is a loud static noise. The static does fade over time though, until it becomes silent. Looks like the cell phone is receiving something, but he can't make a call... Looks like the police won't come in a bit. Why not do some investigating yourself? |
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Post by Kuat on Sept 13, 2008 19:15:24 GMT -8
So, can we participate in this in any way, or wait for cues?
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Post by The Dankness on Sept 13, 2008 19:57:36 GMT -8
I want to be the crazy bum.
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 13, 2008 23:04:01 GMT -8
So, can we participate in this in any way, or wait for cues? I want to be the crazy bum. On the other side of the city, a haggardly looking man is roaming the streets with his tattered pants stained with booze and urine, his torn shirt, crusty with mildew from the years of neglect. Pieces of cheese and garbage have permanently become apart of his long, scraggly chops. Andrew looks at the people passing by him, and shouts angrily "I used to be a PIMP! Now look what they made me!." No one so much as bats an eye at him, causing him to speak further. "People paid money for this BONE!" he cries as he points to his own crotch. He looks down and notices a dark goo on his pants. He then looks at all the black tar that has covered the city, and is disgusted by it's appearance. How it smells. How it covers every dark cranny. How it gravity makes it ooze to the bottom. It makes him sick to his stomach. Andrew stumbles down onto the sidewalk. He gazes up to the sky, then looks at hand, but can only see a tarred mess. The burning scent of ammonia fills his nostrils. "Get this tar outta my face!" he screams. The world moves forward. Andrew is stuck in the middle of another. |
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Post by The Dankness on Sept 14, 2008 1:00:52 GMT -8
I, disgusted by the black tar that has taken over my city, decide to do something about it. I search the area for anything that might be of use apart from the plethora of black gunk that has overtaken the town.
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Post by You probably can't touch this. on Sept 14, 2008 4:09:57 GMT -8
Well first I put the cell back into my pocket (let's say a coat pocket, weather permitting?) and curse as I lose my last chance out of this Law and Order scenario. I check the man's pulse and breathing, though I know he is already dead, and take the chance while crouching to inspect the glimmering object a bit closer, hoping it isn't a spent bullet casing.
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Post by You probably can't touch this. on Sept 14, 2008 4:11:55 GMT -8
So, can we participate in this in any way, or wait for cues? Ha. To the victor goes the bleeding in an alleyway spoils. |
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 14, 2008 10:22:10 GMT -8
Well first I put the cell back into my pocket let's say a coat pocket, weather permitting?and curse as I lose my last chance out of this Law and Order scenario. I check the man's pulse and breathing, though I know he is already dead, and take the chance while crouching to inspect the glimmering object a bit closer, hoping it isn't a spent bullet casing. Patrick pockets his cell phone and crouches next to the body. It appears to be a male wearing a heavy trench coat, a pair of slacks, and a par of wing-tipped shoes. Over to the side of the body, Patrick takes a closer look at the shining object. It appears to be a ring. He then reaches over to feel the body's neck, but he all he can feel is a damp, tender meat. Along with something that feels rather solid. He checks his hand and finds it to be covered in blood. So, can we participate in this in any way, or wait for cues? Renting the rooms in this particular alleyway, lived Brian. His room was 3 stories from floor level. It wasn't a real nice place, but it did it's job. For a moment, it was just an ordinary day for Brian, beginning with his morning chore of taking out the trash. Before heading out, Brian received a call from an unknown person. When he answered it, all he heard was dead silence for second, followed by white noise. This noise began softly, then grew louder, until it culminated into a high pitched tune similar to the Emergency Broadcast System. He thought nothing of it at first, and continued his task of taking out the garbage. As you walk toward the elevator, you see a small patch of tar to your left near the stairwell door. Strangely it seems to recede into itself slowly. You also notice a strong smell of ammonia. Touch it. I dare you.I, disgusted by the black tar that has taken over my city, decide to do something about it. I search the area for anything that might be of use apart from the plethora of black gunk that has overtaken the town. He wanders through the streets, searching for an answer. An answer that causes blunt trauma at the very least. Andrew has difficulty trudging through the gunk that has blanked the city, but manages to do it through sheer guts and sweat. He comes upon a parking lot next to a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant that seems not be tainted by the influence of the tar. In the parking lot, there is some junk on the floor, as well as garbage bin. The side entrance of the restaurant seems to be open a crack. You look at junk and spy some pipe shaped objects among the debris. You then look at the dumpster and recall all the useful things that people can throw away. You then eye the entrance, which almost beckons you like well-spoken salesman. |
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Post by You probably can't touch this. on Sept 14, 2008 15:31:20 GMT -8
Is there an visible entry wound of a bullet, or a knife stab?
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 14, 2008 23:58:41 GMT -8
Is there an visible entry wound of a bullet, or a knife stab? You glance over the body quickly for wounds. From the back, there are no bullet entries or knife wounds that you can see. Perhaps you could find out more from the front of the body? Or maybe check out the ring?
BTW guys, it may be beneficial to check previous posts, as I may modify them to include parts, like you Andrew. |
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Post by The Dankness on Sept 15, 2008 0:26:01 GMT -8
I pick up one of the pipe-shaped objects, in case I need a weapon later. Resisting the urge to go straight into the restaurant, I do what I do best and rummage through the dumpster for a while.
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Post by You probably can't touch this. on Sept 15, 2008 2:55:55 GMT -8
Ack, you're giving me hints. No fair. I will allow Brian to take over my character if he so chooses. I'm a bit stretched on the fiction reading for my classes at the moment to be as involved as I would like. Cayce Pollard of Pattern Recognition, Socrates, and whichever early modernist painters are dominating my literary attention at the moment.
EDIT: Oh, I see Brian has started his own thing. Well I'll guess I'll continue on with mine, though I may be slower to respond.
I flip the body over to see his front.
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 15, 2008 11:20:42 GMT -8
Ack, you're giving me hints. No fair. I will allow Brian to take over my character if he so chooses. I'm a bit stretched on the fiction reading for my classes at the moment to be as involved as I would like. Cayce Pollard of Pattern Recognition, Socrates, and whichever early modernist painters are dominating my literary attention at the moment. EDIT: Oh, I see Brian has started his own thing. Well I'll guess I'll continue on with mine, though I may be slower to respond. I flip the body over to see his front. Ignoring the blood on your hands and the blood around the body, you turn the corpse over and attempt to find a visible bullet trauma and/or a knife wound. From the collarbone down, the victim seems to be a fairly standard case of violent mugging. Parts of the front shirt is torn and dirty (and obviously bloody). Some cuts on the chest and abdomen are visible. The fingers on his right hand are broken. From the neck up, however, the victims throat is a mess. That is to say, it has been torn out. The hard bit that you felt was probably the spine, deformed by some immense force. The eyes of the victim are missing. One thing that should be pointed out despite the obvious violence, it seemed to be a very "well contained" crime scene. Blood does seem to be anywhere else except in a neat pool the the body was found, as if the victim died in that spot. I pick up one of the pipe-shaped objects, in case I need a weapon later. Resisting the urge to go straight into the restaurant, I do what I do best and rummage through the dumpster for a while. You scrounge through the pipes and find an old lead pipe. You managed to keep it holstered by the only remaining belt loop on your pants. You then proceed to look rummaged through the garbage. Andrew scrounged through the dumpster, hoping to find more equipment to help him combat the evil that has oozed the city. There was a strange aromatic scent of parmesean, garlic, and tomato sauce inside, The top layer of trash was rather unremarkable. In the middle of the old pizza boxes and fetticunni noodles however was a brand new trench coat, still somehow clean and in excellent condition save for a torn inner pocket. He digs a bit deeper to find a three-piece suit and a pair of dress shoes, contained inside a thick plastic bag! Among the food related trash, someone threw out an entire outfit. Andrew stays in the dumpster for a while longer. It is warm. It is comforting. It is like his home, his fortress, his mother's womb. He spends time contemplating his findings before he heads back into the black marshes of the city. |
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Post by The Dankness on Sept 15, 2008 13:04:15 GMT -8
After spending a few hours gestating in the loving bosom of the dumpster, I decide to cut the umbilical and get on with business. I put the trench-coat on, but decide to leave the suit in the bag, and keep it with me. I enter the Italian restaurant.
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 16, 2008 15:42:27 GMT -8
After spending a few hours gestating in the loving bosom of the dumpster, I decide to cut the umbilical and get on with business. I put the trench-coat on, but decide to leave the suit in the bag, and keep it with me. I enter the Italian restaurant. You enter the restaurant from the side door. It seems like a pretty normal restaurant. The entrance-way to the kitchen lies to the left, and you can see most of the dinners on the right, though they don't notice you at first. Speaking with a two of the patrons at the table closest to you is an man in a white shirt and white apron. He resembles a stereotypical Italian chef. He does notice your presence and turns around to address you. "Ah, ex-a-scusa me you must use de front-ah entrance, good si-" He stops himself for a moment. At first, he doesn't recognize you under your trenchcoat, but then a good whiff of your odor identifies you immediately. "Mama mia! Not this-a idiota again!" He cries. Within the kitchen, you hear of the voice of someone with a strangely Texan accent. "Dag nabbity, is that damn bum here again? Git 'em outta here, willya Marino?!" He cries to the man in the white apron. You open up your trenchcoat. Marino approaches you nervously, as he notices the pipe holstered to your belt loop. He grabs your left wrist and begs you, "Pleasa Andrew, don'ta com'in here with your craziness-ah during the lunch-a time. Let'us a go outside for a moment, yes?" |
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Post by Kuat on Sept 16, 2008 16:44:55 GMT -8
10 minutes before the attack...Renting the rooms in this particular alleyway, lived Brian. His room was 3 stories from floor level. It wasn't a real nice place, but it did it's job. For a moment, it was just an ordinary day for Brian, beginning with his morning chore of taking out the trash. Before heading out, Brian received a call from an unknown person. When he answered it, all he heard was dead silence for second, followed by white noise. This noise began softly, then grew louder, until it culminated into a high pitched tune similar to the Emergency Broadcast System. He thought nothing of it at first, and continued his task of taking out the garbage. As you walk toward the elevator, you see a small patch of tar to your left near the stairwell door. Strangely it seems to recede into itself slowly. You also notice a strong smell of ammonia. A patch of tar? Those damned neighbors. It must be them, with their drug dealin', and hippity-hop playing. A pox on they who sully these halls! That smell, as well, seems to hint at other darker activities! Are they cleaning their latest kill? Or maybe it was needed as a reagent to brew some potent chemical of which they use to wisk themselves off to lands of sin! Well, I for one will not tolerate it! That tar must go, so wish to I hurry back inside (after I properly dispose of the garbage in the correct recepticle) to rid the halls of it with my trusty mop. |
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Post by Muramasa on Sept 16, 2008 21:48:01 GMT -8
A patch of tar? Those damned neighbors. It must be them, with their drug dealin', and hippity-hop playing. A pox on they who sully these halls! That smell, as well, seems to hint at other darker activities! Are they cleaning their latest kill? Or maybe it was needed as a reagent to brew some potent chemical of which they use to wisk themselves off to lands of sin! Well, I for one will not tolerate it! That tar must go, so wish to I hurry back inside (after I properly dispose of the garbage in the correct recepticle) to rid the halls of it with my trusty mop. |
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Post by The Dankness on Sept 17, 2008 0:39:54 GMT -8
You enter the restaurant from the side door. It seems like a pretty normal restaurant. The entrance-way to the kitchen lies to the left, and you can see most of the dinners on the right, though they don't notice you at first. Speaking with a two of the patrons at the table closest to you is an man in a white shirt and white apron. He resembles a stereotypical Italian chef. He does notice your presence and turns around to address you. "Ah, ex-a-scusa me you must use de front-ah entrance, good si-" He stops himself for a moment. At first, he doesn't recognize you under your trenchcoat, but then a good whiff of your odor identifies you immediately. "Mama mia! Not this-a idiota again!" He cries. Within the kitchen, you hear of the voice of someone with a strangely Texan accent. "Dag nabbity, is that damn bum here again? Git 'em outta here, willya Marino?!" He cries to the man in the white apron. You open up your trenchcoat. Marino approaches you nervously, as he notices the pipe holstered to your belt loop. He grabs your left wrist and begs you, "Pleasa Andrew, don'ta com'in here with your craziness-ah during the lunch-a time. Let'us a go outside for a moment, yes?" "Yes," I reply, smirking and clenching my pipe closely. "Let's." |
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