Hank stood amazed, yet drunk. Assuming it was his overdose of alcohol causing these hallucinations, he went on like nothing happend.
With the Chef greeting him only moments ago, Hank responded with a louzy "Yo man...You got uhhh....Alcoholic pasta or somethin'?"
[Similarly to Deathgrunt, Xonax has decided to opt out due to personal affairs leaving him too busy to engage with the game in an active manner, thus leaving Morgan Dee's "character slot" open to be taken by a new character, who would inherit everything he had in a meta sense. So, I'm taking any sensible character applications!]
[I had finally received a message from the murderer. Apparently, they thought they sent in their kill and promptly went on a short vacation. Unfortunate, but that's what seemed to happen. Since I don't want to delay this any further, let's just assume these is someone in that open meta slot, whether it be Dee or someone else. If the murderer kills the meta slot, it is permanently closed.]
And so, passed another day in Khorrentyaer. Roland enjoyed his two servings of spaghetti pizza calzone lasagnas, ignoring the chef who miraculously turned to two. The second Gio went ahead and got Hank his alcoholic pasta, and presumably passed out eating it. Without getting into the nitty gritty details, Giovanni somehow manages to put himself together. Eventually, the chef closes up the restaurant for the night, and Hank gets dragged back home.
Most go to sleep without any worries over what will happen tomorrow. The murderer hasn't struck in a week, it isn't like he's going to strike now... right?
So thought Luigi Mario. After finishing his TV dinner, and getting ready to bed, he heard his phone ring in the other room. He picked it up, and heard someone on the other end, asking if he could do some quick plumbing for them at this time of night. Luigi, unaware that plumbers generally don't work these hours, tells the mysterious person on the other end that he'll get there as soon as possible. He quickly wrote down their address as it was recited to him. He got his work clothes on, got in his work boots, since his go-kart was in the shop, and speedwalked over to the location.
As he approached the location, he noticed something. There wasn't a house here at all! This was the "BRAND NAME GROCERY STORE"! Blinded by his want to be a good plumber, he didn't realize he was duped! Disappointed, he turned around and began walking the other way, when he realized something.... the street light next to him was flickering. It annoyed him in his tired state. It annoyed him so much he didn't hear the subtle footsteps behind him.
But when he noticed, it was too late! He was being choked by someone with what felt like some sort of fabric! He tried to scream, but the murderer put their hand over his mouth. He struggled as mightily as he could, but it was no use. He was losing sight, he was losing mind, he was losing himself. Eyes closed. Body disposed. Another man killed in the darkness of the night.
The murderer disappeared into the shadows, and hours later, a bystander discovered the body. The police were quickly called, arriving to designate the area a crime scene, using barricade tape in the area. WPOR 97 was quick to report the news in their morning segment.
[B]Luigi Mario was not the murderer. [/B]
Reserving the last slot.
[editline]22nd August 2017[/editline]
Name: SlavBot 3000
[t]http://i.imgur.com/E7qnbfV.png[/t]
Date of Birth/Age: 7th of October, 1952
Occupation: Kill capitalist pigs, blyat.
Biography: SlavBot 3000 was built to do what the Soviet Union could not; kill all the capitalist cykas, one blyat at a time. He is the essence of strength.
He represents the spirit of the Russian people. He is a milestone of Russian ingenuity. He is SlavBot.
[That is bloody phenomenal. I'll allow it.]
It was a windy day. At least, that's what SlavBot imagined it as as he slowly walked through the street and approached the crime scene. Back in great Soviet motherland murders were not that uncommon. As horrible as it may sound it actually served to spice things up inbetween life amongst the concrete of old.
As his [i]Made in China[/i]-stamped metallic ass carried SB forward he once again contemplated on not only his existence but the purpose of it. Was his life truly just a mission to fight the enemies of the motherland? What if his true purpose was to save lives? What if it was to take them?
SlavBot shrugged. Whatever the purpose, it did not matter. For now, he would settle with asking the police officer infront of him what had happened at the crime scene.
A police officer was drinking his afternoon cup of joe when he received a tap on the shoulder. Turning around, he found what looked like the Soviet version of Robocop asking him what happened here. The officer squinted his eyes, and begrudgingly explained:
"Guy got choked to death, that's what happened. Currently assumed to be that murderer fella. We be wonderin' what he did for that week he paused for if that the case," the man explained in a frustrated manner.
[Reminder that we are currently in investigation mode! As per normal, everyone has one chance to investigate the scene. Pick a number between 1 and 200. You get the number right, you get a clue. You don't, and you find [URL="https://facepunch.com/showthread.php?t=1559427&p=52168373&viewfull=1#post52168373"]nothing[/URL].]
SlavBot stared at the officer and then past him. He used his facial sensors to scan the area for extreme sources of capitalism. Perhaps he could find a clue overlooked by the police?
[sp]42, byadi.[/sp]
In a not so far off corner in the city, a figure drunkingly stumbles away from a bus station. Or he wished he was drunk. In reality he was having the mother, father, uncle and sister-twice reomved of all hangovers. He could barely remember the events of the past 5 months. It's all a blur of alchohol, adrenaline and a flag. Why was there a flag there? It all started in a place far away and now he was here.
He tried to scratch his beard when he made the the horrible realization.
"WHERE'S ME BEARD?" after a few seconds of panic and frantic checking of pockets, he remembered his name "Oh. Right."
[QUOTE=Viper123_SWE;52604975][sp]42, byadi.[/sp][/QUOTE]
[sp]Rolled a 35 unfortunately.[/sp]
The scanners picked up nothing in the general vicinity. The police officer next to him looked at him inquisitively.
"Eugh, you wanna move, pal? Bit close for my comfort," he told the tin can.
SlavBot held up his hands. "Apologies, comrade officer." Before he could say anything else Nobeards scream came echoing through the streets.
Chris was sitting on a turned over trashcan after he was done screaming the local people away. He scratched his chin slowly as he contemplated what was going on. This wasnt the sea, nor was he on his ship. His trusty cutlass was still hanging from his waist tho. (It was actually a stage prop)
He noticed the large lad in odd colors and by the looks of it, he was noticed back. "Oi lad, why are you dressed like a oversized chamber pot?"
SlavBot stared at the disgruntled pirate cosplayer. "Comrade does not look so well. Need help?"
"Do you have rum?"
Deep in the bowels of the Casa Italiania's kitchen basement lay a secret room only Chef Gio knew of. A sprawling tunnel which led to a massive inner sanctum inside.
"Lasagna, Macaroni, Spaghetti..."
The darkness within swallowed any light foolish enough to shine itself upon it like Uncle Antonio at a Chinese buffet.
"[I]Ravioli, Pelmeni, Canneloni[/I]..."
A platform connected to a walkway that led to the only way out of the vast chasm surrounded by the blackness of the void.
"[I][B]Rigatoni, Linguine, Farfalle![/B][/I]"
An effigy made of various types of meats such as pepperoni and salami in the shape of Padre Pio stares down a pentagram made of pasta noodles with Chef Gio standing at the center, knees bowed and hands raised to the sky in a ritualistic manner.
"[B][I]BUCATINI! FUSILLI! MANICOTTI! PACCHERI, ROTINI, TORTELLONI, GEMELLI, PICI, TORTELLI, BIGOLE!!! GIVE ME YOUR[/I][/B] [highlight][I]POWERRRRRRRRRRRRR!!![/I][/highlight]"
Chef Gio unscrewed a jar full of pasta sauce, and poured it around him in a circle while sprinkling the remainder of the sauce on the effigy. The pasta pentagram began to glow as flames shot up from underneath, enveloping the chef completely in a quasi-baptism of fire and flame. The flames grew hotter and higher as Gio continued screaming the names of various types of pasta until it consumed him, and took him with it.
Minutes later, the ground infront of the grocery store cracked and shattered as the arm of Chef Gio broke through. He pulled himself up, and on seeing where he was and hearing about what happened, he knew what to do. He knew why the pastas have lent him their power. It was time to get to work.
[sp]I choose number 154.[/sp]
[QUOTE=F T;52608437][sp]I choose number 154.[/sp][/QUOTE]
[sp]Sorry Diavolo, rolled a 109![/sp]
Despite having the very un-Christian powers of the pasta gods on his side, Chef Gio did not notice anything that could possibly assist in the investigation.
Meanwhile, while thinking of a response to Chris' request of rum, SlavBot recalled how he came to this point. Earlier that morning, he was squatting in an alleyway, having traveled many miles to find the perfect squat spot. However, as he enjoyed his peace in heaven, he heard someone talking rather loudly to themselves. He listened in to see what it was that troubled the unknown voice.
The voice was Morgan Dee, though SB3K wouldn't have known that. He was walking home from the BNGS, frustrated by the latest murder. Having abstained from every vote thus far, he took the murder happening near the store as a taunt from the murderer, a personal insult even! He ranted aloud how he had enough of all this murder shit, and that he wasn't going to participate in the voting later or even care about the string of murders anymore. He had it up to [I]here[/I] with this crap.
SlavBot's curiosity had peaked - a string of murders was worth looking into. He got up from his perfect squat spot, and walked towards the "BRAND NAME GROCERY STORE" that Morgan was walking away from, and the rest is recent history. Then he remembered there was a pirate asking for rum in front of him. He should probably respond.
SlavBot shook its robotic head in disgust. "Rum is for subhuman, comrade pirate. I have something better." With that said SB produced a vodka bottle in near-magical fashion.
Chris jumped up from the can and grabbed the bottle. "If it's good enough for Ivan, it's good enough fer me!" He started to chug the bottle before stopping halfway through. "Say, you wanna be in the crew?"
SlavBot stared at Chris. "Will we seize the means of productions from evil capitalist dogs?"
"If ye mean plunder and booty, then yes. We will do that." Chris looked arround and noticed the crime scene. "What's that then?"
SlavBot shrugged. "It would appear that someone was killed, comrade pirate." He shook his head. "Is stupid to kill someone over petty things like money."
Before Chris could respond SlavBot extended one of his metallic hands. "I am SlavBot by the way. My comrades call me SB3K sometimes."
"Aye, why wasted the effort on money, when the raw booty be worth more. I like the way you think!" He shook the SlavBot's hand "Call me Chris Nobeard."
Chris looked towards the crime scene. Going near the police would be a bad idea, he thought. He was a wanted man on the high seas, so the bounty on hi head would probably be worth a lot. He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out his good old trusty telescope and started looking at the crime scene from a distance.
[sp]C'mon lucky number 13![/sp]
[QUOTE=kilerabv;52614781][sp]C'mon lucky number 13![/sp][/QUOTE]
[sp]So close, yet so far! Shoulda bet on lucky number 14![/sp]
The telescope didn't reveal anything to Chris, as the officers noticed what Chris was doing and chuckled to themselves. They recognized him as the online piracy guy from a few days prior.
"Oh no, constables recognized me. Book it lad!" Chris yelled at Slavbot as he darted in the oposite direction of the police, knocking down trashcan, pedestrians among other things in his efforts to be a free man of the sea.
The officers had a laugh as they watched the pirate of the online sea run like a madman. Suddenly, one of the officers felt his phone vibrating, and answered it. He turned towards SlavBot and Giovanni, informing the two that the old man was getting ready for the next vote, something everyone else involved began feeling.
The old man himself was carrying the voting/ballet box, and considered where to go this time. They had already been to Casa Italiania, and the Benges was too close to the crime scene, so instead, he decided to go to the local post office, where everyone involved felt they should be headed to.
[It is voting time once again! Send your guess/accusation by PM, on Facepunch preferably, and then we'll do the voting proper!]
The day carried on as it did, with the crime scene having been checked thoroughly and the remaining civilians doing their own business. However, slowly, one by one, they approached and entered the local post office, where the old man and his box awaited. He waited until all arrived before speaking, though he noted the lack of Morgan, in his place being a Chinese robot claiming to be Slavic.
He sighed, though hopeful, since the robot would probably be more likely to vote on these matters than Dee. Nobeard seemed more conscious than usual, which brought a smile on the old man's face. Soon, all arrived. He looked at them all, and commented;
"You lot are remarkably quiet for people connected to a murder case... has anyone told you that?" he asked rhetorically. With a wave of his hand, he continued;
"Nevertheless, it is time once more to start the voting. Just put your vote in the box like usual," he said, awaiting the votes.
[Barely scrapped up three accusations, which depresses me:
Friendly for Rolan Deschain
Optimistic for Chris Nobeard
Artistic for Ell Ar Aych]
---
[QUOTE]Meanwhile, in a coastal town that's nearby but also some ways away from Khorrentyaer, a man was fervently working in his household. The vague smell of hashish filled the air, and the typing of a keyboard could be heard from every part of the house.
The man working was none other than Abraham Ishmael Ali. For the past two years, following the two serial murder sprees, he had been busy on one man's case: Alexander Trajanovski. According to current official documentation, it was him that was the first serial murderer, killing Adrian McCaffrey while he was late night shopping with a homemade AK-47. He was caught however, due to the damage at the store causing alarms to trigger. Despite this, Ali received a series of letters from Trajanovski, seemingly made in case he died, claiming that the murderer was going to come after him and that he would die. In his initial investigation of the supposed murderer, he discovered a letter left by him in his files at the Courthouse which would convince him to take the case as his defense attorney. Because of this, his involvement in the Second Case was lessened significantly, but he made a new ally in the office worker Vanolo Bar the First, who worked with a former defendant of his, landscaper Eddie Horne, to figure out who was committing all these murders, before discovering it was John Doe, leading to his carpenter-themed execution.
Since then, despite seeing them every so often, he hasn't kept in contact with the two much. Trajanovski was currently in Horizon State Sec, currently awaiting his next trial, which Abe thinks will be the definitive trial, seeing as he was supposed to get some crucial evidence soon from one of Alex's former colleagues at the butcher's. From what he heard, Vanolo had become a private investigator, and was working a case in the city of Boldwood, while Eddie had continued to keep his true identity of Josif Dubravko a secret. He looked over to a picture on his table, depicting [URL="http://i.cubeupload.com/tOmXYH.png"]the two[/URL] with him after Doe's execution. He smiled, remembering ever-so simpler times. Near the picture was some books Vanolo had recommended him, one about amnesiacs attempting to figure out what was going on and another that aptly reminded him of Mad Max, but with samurais. On top the former book was a recommendation from Eddie, suggesting the three of them visit the town of Gyse and try some of their local junk food.
Abe decided it was time for a break, and left his work room to relax. He grabbed his Lebanese water pipe and blazed some of his hash, calming him down. He put the pipe down and grabbed the newspaper next to him, deciding to read up on some news. The articles weren't rather positive today; one mentioned the murder of a gypsy woman who had read a drunk man's prophecy, one he didn't particularly like, and another mentioned an old conspiracy case from the 50s called the Applewhite Conspiracy, which resulted in the suicide of 20 after a failed attempt to influence the government. Abe thought how this Applewhite thing would interest his colleague, prosecutor John Josephson, since he always liked reading up on failed conspiracy cases. Remembering John, as well as Judge Lawrence, caused the lawyer to sigh sadly. Before, he was just a regional defense attorney. Now, he had to contend in the state court, having to defend a man everyone is so certain committed a series of murders.
He got up, knowing that he had to continue his work. He noticed his television was on for some reason. WPOR 97 was the current channel. He never really liked Fox-affiliated channels. While his interest was caught by this apparent talk of murder in a nearby town, he nevertheless turned off the TV. He headed back to his work office, hoping that this case would finally end soon.[/QUOTE]
Hank started shivering, the words mumbled by the mysterious man seemed to affect the hero of our alcoholic story.
"I'm not gonn-na' point fingers just yet mister, my priorities are somewhere else..." said Hank.
While not voting, Hank was still fairly nervous. He reached into the left-hand pocket on his trenchoat. After doing so, he revealed a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels. Hank started slurping onto the bottle until the only alcohol left were 2 drips that were stuck on the bottom of the bottle. Not yet feeling messed up enough, he reached for a L&M cigarette that was partially smoked already. "S-so we u-uhh doin' t-this or nah..?"
The old man nodded at Hank, since he could tell he was new to all this, and needed to still adjust to the idea of voting someone to death. He smiled at the others though, satisfied that everyone else voted. Maybe tradition wasn't eroding after all. While he wasn't looking though, some of the post office workers overheard and tried to add their own votes, but the old man swiftly noticed and shoo'd them away. After the last ballot was put, he spoke up.
"Alrighty!" he said, clasping his hands in delight, "and with that, the vote is officially finished! Now we just need an officer to count the results," he explained, grabbing the box. He left the post office and headed towards the police at the BNGS. A few minutes later, the old man returned with an officer.
The officer nodded at all the attendees; "Before I reveal the results, we eliminated two invalid votes, presumably from those working here," he stated, as the workers had mysteriously vanished from the scene, "but, to not delay things any further, with three votes to his name," he turned towards them, "mister Roland Deschain, you've been voted," he told him in a saddened voice.
Roland stood there, plate in hand. He had been eating his Spaghetti pizza calzone lasagnas that he ordered at Casa Italiania since yesterday, having ordered extra portions to eat for the next day or two. With a mouthful of what he considered delight, Roland looked at the officer, mouth wide open, a bite of the meal dropping from his mouth. "What," was the only thing he managed to say, before the officer began approaching to handcuff him.
Everybody was watching, but nobody really reacted. "I didn’t do it," Roland said, as he was handcuffed. Tears started to form in his eyes, not because death was coming soon, but because he wanted to finish his Spaghetti pizza calzone lasagnas.
"A vote is a vote," the officer said, as he began dragging him away. Giovanni grabbed hold of Roland's plate, depressed to see a good customer of his not being able to finish the meal he had made for him. He quickly rushed to follow the cop, as everyone else headed towards the town center.
---
About two hours later, and it was all set up - Roland was sat in a chair, held onto it by metal binds on the chair's arms and legs. Many believed it was just going to be a repeat of the same execution from last time, that being the electric chair, but those looking closely noted that there wasn't any electric apparatus attached to the chair. Suddenly, a giant catering trolley was pushed in front of the chair, directly paralleling it. Roland smiled in bliss.
The cloth covering the whole trolley was taken off, revealing tons and tons of Spaghetti pizza calzone lasagnas. The crowd looked confused before an officer explained: "He requested that he be executed by way of forcefeeding," which caused the crowd to nod in understanding to one another.
A couple of officers approached the trolley, and began grabbing the SPCLs in both hands, turning towards Roland and shoving it down his gob. Roland moaned a bit as it was shoved down; "...tastes so good..." was the only thing Roland managed to say, tears in his eyes. He managed to swallow one or two, but with the speed of the food being shoved in his mouth, his Spaghetti pizza calzone lasagnas slowly betrayed him. He started to choke on the meal.
What started out as a wish to die in bliss turned into a terrifying experience. He couldn't even cough with how much food he had in his mouth. Everyone watched, cheering on the officers to go even faster, while Giovanni just watched on depressingly. And so, eventually, Roland chocked to death, betrayed by his biggest love. As there was much food left, the officers allowed the crowd to eat the rest, as they took away the body.
[B]Roland Deschain was not the murderer. Killer, I expect your next PM soon.[/B]
After the dreadful display of food execution, Chris Nobeard worked up a mighty thirst and there was only one way to quench it and get the horrid images of that death out of his head. He left the center of town, where folks were still enjoying the absolutely enormous amount of food still there, and went straight to the nearest bar to initiate his favorite pastime - a slow and methodical pub crawl throughout town until he couldn't see anything anymore!
The crawl lasted late into the night, as Chris carried some extra beers with him as he headed to the next pub. However, due to how tiredly drunk and drunkenly tired he was, he decided to take a pause and sit on a bench, putting his spare beers on the floor. He fought with his consciousness in a bid to stay woke even longer so that he could get even more shitfaced, and didn't even hear the near-silent footsteps approaching him from behind.
The murderer, undetected by the smashed pirate, grabbed one of the spare beers he had left. They began adding a mysterious substance to the beer, before finishing off by smearing something from the can onto the rim of the bottle. They placed the beer back and sneaked off into the night, unnoticed by the fella that's half-seas over.
Chris, having finished the beer he was drinking at that moment, felt like drinking one more before continuing the crawl he was on. He grabbed the beer that had been tampered with, and drank it all. Letting out a mighty burp, he pulled himself off the bench, grabbed the remaining spare beers and went to the next bar.
At the bar known as the Last Stop, after drinking the first beer he ordered, he began feeling weak, weaker than he did earlier. He absolutely couldn't see any more, he felt as though he couldn't even speak to order another beer, and was breathing heavy. Next thing he knew, he collapsed onto the ground. Several minutes later, the police arrived to investigate. While initially thought to be another case of someone dying from over-drinking, some of the symptoms he displayed and some closer investigation indicated that he had somehow caught botulism and drunk isopropyl alcohol.
[B]Chris Nobeard was not the murderer.[/B]
[And we're back to investigation mode! As per normal, everyone has one chance to investigate the scene. Pick a number between 1 and 200. You get the number right, you get a clue. You don't, and you find [URL="https://facepunch.com/showthread.php?t=1559427&p=52168373&viewfull=1#post52168373"]nothing[/URL].]
SlavBot once again found himself staring at a crimsecene. This time however the deceased was a familiar face. While his friendship with Nobeard had been brief and... odd, his death still came as a surprise.
SlavBot did his best to focus his rusty Taiwanese lenses in an effort to find something that could solve these murders.
[sp]117[/sp]
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