File: 1378249310997.jpg-(262 KB, 911x753, Taxman.jpg)

262 KB JPG

>Oh, also, before I forget, thank you very much anonymous artist. Very kind of you, and I like the picture.

>>27009892
>[ ] Get up. Don't waste time. Get up and cook breakfast and feed our dog.
He has been nothing but loyal, and does not deserve to go hungry simply because of our mistakes.

>>27009892
Welcome back IR! I hope everything is alright.

>>27010280
I'd like to second this motion.

>>27010280
Sounds like a good start to the day

>>27010280
You have things to do. Lives depend on you. Specifically, your dog's life.

You roll out of bed, glancing at the clock on the wall- 7:00AM sharp. An hour late, but last night had been extraordinary, you supposed. Your dog in the corner perks up, tail wagging at the sight of you living.

Stove, gas on, pan, eggs, scrambling, a can of beans, on to the plate, milk from the milkman, food inside of you. Due to only being able to operate with one hand, you end up overcooking the eggs most unpleasantly. After you've eaten, you give your dog its due. It happily devours the food, and you idly pat it on the head.

You haven't walked the poor thing in days- actually, you do a quick inspection of the house, and find to your relief the dog hasn't done any dirty deeds inside. No rolled up newspaper for the dog. You let it out back a while, before considering the newspaper.

Apparently, a mass firing has occurred at a factory- the pink slips were delivered by mail Saturday night. Darling's Furniture let off three hundred workers, much to people's surprise. When the workers went to protest, they found the doors barred and shut, and Pinkertons forming a line, 'armed with frightful weapons.' The strangest part of the article is that Darling's management, a mister Robert Darling stated that Darling's isn't closing, and in fact is offering twenty percent off orders.

The William and Robert Jones double murder case hasn't made any progress. No other murders managed to make the front page.


Reading a newspaper with one hand is difficult. You set it aside, go to let the dog back in, and consider your options.

If it had been a week ago, you would have gone to a doctor. In light of recent events however, there may be more effective men.

>[ ] Mr. Low, he had seemed friendly. If inscrutable.
>[ ] Tom. He could perhaps put you on a better track.
>[ ] Mr. Call. Quite a friendly man.
>[ ] A regular doctor. No thanks, wizards!
>[ ] Other.

>>27010612
>[X] Mr. Low

>>27010792
Okey, writing.

>>27010612

Mr. Low offered us some information when last we met him. He's bound to have plenty of interest to tell us!

But, what about our duties in the tax office? What about the lady that drafted us into adventure that literally cost her a leg and a boyfriend?

Shouldn't we turn ourselves in for trespassing? Perhaps to mystic equivalent of police, like BIA is to IRS?

Suppose mr Low could tell us about that last thing as well.

> [x] visit mr. Low, unless we have an obligation at work.

>>27010904
>It's currently Sunday, so you don't need to work, thankfully.

>Tomorrow though, is Monday.

Mr. Low had offered to speak to you again, without Ralph's presence. Your impressions of Ralph had soured somewhat, since he had chloroformed you. Admittedly, this was after saving you from some kind of terrible beast, but it was still rather brutish.

Your dog nudges your knee with its nose. You can give it a walk first, you figure.

As soon as you walk out, you're relieved to see that your car is out front- Tom had been good on his word to see it towed in. And one of the windows is still shattered, and the hood has a dent in it. More money down the drain.

You devote a good half hour walk to your dog. You see your neighbor, Harold in front of his house. He raises an eyebrow at your condition, but resumes tending to his begonias rather than confront you about it. Your dog is quite happy to walk outside, and is very insistent about inspecting every mailbox and street light. You wrap up the walk, bringing the pooch back in. You hope that after the invigoration, it won't mind you being out so late again. You take your .32 pistol with you for security, then walk outside.

Your car starts without complaint, and you head in to town, breeze whipping in through the open window on your right. Naturally, only after getting in to town, you realize that there's an unmarked tin can in the seat next to yours. It's making a familiar rattling noise.

You pull in front of Mr. Low's flophouse- noting there's still a gang of nogoodniks slouched about the doorway. You check the time on your watch- 8:33AM.

There's a can that may or may not have your razor blade in it on the passenger side seat.

>[ ] Damn Tom. Leave the can, walk in without it. We can deal with the razor later.
>[ ] You can't fall for this. Throw the can out of the window now, hard. Don't tolerate a minute alone with the damn thing.
>[ ] Tom must have left it there for a reason. Take it. It will keep you safe.
>[ ] Other.

>>27011137
>[c ] Damn Tom. Leave the can, walk in without it. We can deal with the razor later.
We have listened to the razor too much already. But we can't just throw away hazards like that. That would be littering.

>>27011137
>[ ] Tom must have left it there for a reason. Take it. It will keep you safe.

We're aware of its influence, we can use that.

Also welcome back, and thanks for running this.

>>27011251

Additionally we should think of a person who could recover the razor after we've disposed of it. Last thing we want in the neighbourhood is a razor-driven murderhobo.

At any rate, seconding
>[x] Leave razor, walk in without it.

>>27011337
>>27011251
It is worth noting that the window is still shattered...

>>27011337
>>27011251
Leaving the razor. Writing.

>>27011137
>[ ] Other.
Hide the can in the car, we can deal with it later.

>>27011415
Eh, I'll throw that in too. Would make sense that you wouldn't want it in the open with the shattered window.

>>27011137
Put it under the seat.

>>27011137
>[ ] You can't fall for this. Throw the can out of the window now, hard. Don't tolerate a minute alone with the damn thing.
(a bit late to this)

You are not going to be bossed about by a bit of sharp steel. With some irritation, you grab the can, taking a glimpse inside- yes it's that damn razor. You go to the back seat, wedge it down underneath the cushions, and turn away from the thing. You might have to find a furnace to melt the damn thing down with.

Your cross the street to the flophouse- the sight of Windsor on the horizon really drives home that you're in the bad part of the Detroit. Flush with money and business as Detroit is, there are still parts that are less than civilized.

Your grip tightens on the .32 in your pocket.

The leader of the ruffians, four in all, including the leader is a unibrowed, short, muscled man in a ragged bowler and a disdainful attitude. As you try to walk inside, he slides in front of the door, putting up a hand in front of you and a smile on his face.

"Not so fast there, slick, not so fast," He talks quick, rapid fire- very fluent, despite the thick accent on him. Scottish, if you had to guess, "Might I ask what business you have within?"

"There was an accident here the other day," Says one fellow, lean and sharp faced, with flickering blue eyes, going to your right. They all had fine hats and vests, even if there nails were caked with dirt and they had gap toothed smiles- rather well dressed gang, all things considered, "Friend of ours got hurt pretty bad. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

A bigger man, a thin orange beard on his face bisected by a scar on his cheek comes to your left, "Doesn't seem the sort to come here real often. Might not know traditions."

They mean to surround you, you realize. Things are a bit more difficult without Ralph backing you up.

>[ ] Step away now, before they can surround you.
>[ ] Brandish your pistol, to deter them.
>[ ] "Yes, I was here the other day."
>[ ] "No, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
>[ ] "I'm here to see Mr. Low, if you delay me further, you might upset him."
>[ ] Other.

>>27011773
>[ ] "Yes, I was here the other day."
and
>[ ] "I'm here to see Mr. Low, if you delay me further, you might upset him."
>[ ] Other.
DON'T FLINCH! they are ment to intemadate you!

>>27011773
>[ ] Step away now, before they can surround you.
>[ ] Other
"And what 'traditions' are these?"

>>27011773

>Stand calm.
>"I'm here to see Mr. Low. What manner of traditions do you have in mind, gentlemen?"

>>27011773
[x] Step away now, before they can surround you.
[x] "I'm here to see Mr. Low, if you delay me further, you might upset him."

Make sure that our stepping away is not a flinch, but an intentional placement of all of them within our firing arc.
Is our hand still in our pocket and holding our pistol? Perhaps cocking the hammer back is in order.

Okay. Stepping back, namedropping Mr. Low, and staying calm.

Also, I'll say that your hand is still in your pocket, on your revolver.

>>27012032
Does the 'Stand Your Ground' law apply in this time?

>>27012087
probably wasn't around back then. but then agian, in those days, people had COMMON SENSE and far fewer lawyers, elected officals, and fools to mess things up.so it wasn't needed.

>>27012175
Aye, but we don't want to get arrested, especially in our condition.
That and we may have murdered two men.

>>27012223

You mean apart from that incident in the woods.

>>27012223
point, and the ones in the wood don't count to me.

>>27012301
Ditto, BIA jurisdiction (eating people )

You don't feel intimidated by them. Sure, they're taller, stronger, and more brutish than you. But they're not psoglavs.

"Yes, I was here the other day," The man in the bowler, at the lead brightens at that, looking genuine with his grin, "But I am here to see Mr. Low," His smile withers at that, "What traditions are you talking about?"

"Tradition of you-"
"Shut up, Eugene," The bowler man is looking at you with a lot more interest now, "You mentioned Mr. Low?"

You nod. Your thumb rests on your revolver's hammer, pulling it back.

"Interesting, see, cause I want to see Mr. Low too-" The accent isn't Scottish. Close, but you can't place it. The man who isn't a scotsman points back to the flophouse, "But she was convinced there wasn't a Mr. Low here."

You casually step back over the curb and stand in the gutter. The vested thugs form a rough semi circle in front of you. The man in the bowler seems to be calculating- the other three men look a little unsure, unwilling to go out in to the street, so content themselves with standing up straight, and affixing you with looks.

Not a lot of traffic right now, but occasionally a car putters by. Might be worth noting if you have to make a run for it.

"So, does Mr. Low live inside? If so, what floor? If not, when did you intend to meet him?" The man in the bowler is sounding rather professional now. He has his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest, "I have to catch up with Mr. Low here, sir, and any assistance could be compensated."

"Ask about-" The tall, blue eyed man starts speaking, before the man in the bowler hat raises his hand and he goes silent.

>[ ] "What sort of compensation?"
>[ ] "Mr. Low lives in the basement, sir. I saw him the other day."
>[ ] "Did I say Mr. Low? I meant Mr. Row- sorry for the confusion."
>[ ] Just walk away.
>[ ] Other.

>>27012175

It's not like people actually have less common sense now, or elected officials are in any way less competent than they were a thousand years ago.

Isn't it common sense to try and use services of a lawyer to salvage some money from your mistakes?

>>27012275
I seriously doubt the wild hint will call the cops, or even report their deaths, they'll probably just become stew.

>[ ] "Did I say Mr. Low? I meant Mr. Row- sorry for the confusion."
These men probably have something less than friendly intended for the good Mr. Low.
>[ ] Other.
"Well shit."

File: 1378257458018.jpg-(94 KB, 501x508, TheUsualIrishWayofDoingTh(...).jpg)

94 KB JPG

>>27012340
Seen here, public sentiment of minorities. We'll be fine.

>>27012336

Compensation? Wages of sin is death.

"I do not know where precisely mr Low lives, nor would I be at liberty to say. I was here to find him, but it appears I'm as out of luck as you are."

>>27012336
>[ ] "Mr. Low lives in the basement, sir. I saw him the other day."
>>27012340
tumbler and youtube (among others) seems to prove you wrong on the loss of common sense. sorry. the competent part is not what i ment (although that is a bit of it) what i ment by it that the corruption and damage they do had not piled up so much back then. and the lawers i implyed the money grubbing pond scum class action trial lawers that do nothing of value to this world. that do a lot of damage to this world.

>>27012482
>>27012401
Seems that you don't want to rat out Mr. Low. Combining. Writing.

>>27012555

>tumblr, youtube
ignorance is bliss, I see. There simply was less ways of expressing oneself to wide audience.
>corruption
has been a thing in empires of four thousand years ago
>money grubbing lawyers etc.
they are making use of system that serves all. Better to have a few parasites playing it than to be unable to enforce your rights.

polite sage for offtopic

>>27012555
>Tammany Hall
>Pinkertons
>Prohibition
No sir, no corruption here

>>27012336
>[x] Other.
"I do not know where Mr. Low lives. This is simply where I last met him, and you say that he is reportedly no longer here.
"While we may both be in search of Mr. Low, I very much doubt that either one of us would be well served by interacting with each other further. I shall enter the building, and I suggest you stay here."

>>27012626
>>27012653
ok, think poltical corruption back then to be like 30% plack on your artiery walls, to today's corruption to be 70% build up. it's ALL BAD, but it's just had time to pile up.

"Mr. Low?" You blink in surprise, "We can't truly be talking about the same Mr. Low here-"
"How many Lows are there?" Barks the Irishman.
"-At any rate though, I do not know for sure where he lives. I met him here last, and I'm attempting to find him myself, but if you couldn't find him, well, I guess I'm as out of luck as you are."

Bowler frowns at that. Looks you up and down, then shakes his head.

"Really? Well, that's a damn shame that is."
"I think he's hiding something," The fourth man speaks. The one without a hat. Gaunt, young, looked perhaps seventeen, black hair long and poorly combed back, greasy. He stares at you with green, hollow eyes.

"Why do you say that Jesse?" Bowler looks over to him, half grin on his face.

Jesse stares at you, shakes his head, "I can read half, Ian. Only half."

The man in the bowler raises an eyebrow at that, looks at you, then back to Jesse. He seems to consider things, and steps forward. Your arm tenses, as Ian leans in.

"Sorry about Jesse," He whispers, nodding back to the pallid youth, "He's a little off, y'know? I'm looking after him for an aunt, bloody pain in the ass cousin. You sure you don't know nothing about Low?"

"I'm sorry, if you haven't found Mr. Low," You give a thin smile, "I don't think I would fare much better."

Ian nods at that, bringing a finger up to rub his nose and sniff, then shrugs, "I won't push it then. Sorry about the trouble, chum. Alright, for the rest of you, c'mon, let's cross to Windsor and get some real beer," Ian walks past, waving his friends to follow him. The three skulk after him, glaring at you as they walk along. They head for the waterfront. You wait until they pass a corner before you ease the hammer back in to the revolver, and allow yourself to breath again.

The way to the flophouse is clear.

>[ ] Enter the flophouse.
>[ ] They already said Low wasn't here, just go some place else.
>[ ] Follow the strangers.
>[ ] Other.

>>27012858
>[ ] Enter the flophouse.
check the basement, if he's gone. go else where.

>>27012858
>[x] Enter the flophouse.
There is surely an old woman who is acting as Mr. Low's message forwarding service. We shall ask her to inform him of our presence.

>>27012858
> [ ] Other
Lose their obvious tail. Time for the barber.

>>27012858
>[ ] Enter the flophouse.
Keep an ear out in case they try and follow.

>>27013021
leave that razor alone!

>>27013043
>>27013020
>>27012940
>>27013021
Entering.

File: 1378260458120.jpg-(73 KB, 800x589, Patricia.jpg)

73 KB JPG

Patricia is behind the counter again, keys glittering in the daylight as you walk in. There's a man on a moldering couch to your left as you walk in snoozing happily, but aside from that, it's just you and her now.

She looks up at you, and the frown already on her face deepens at the sight of you. She slams a hand on her counter, and the glittering keys behind her leap and dance for a moment.

"You again! Mr. Johnson- Ralph had better not be behind you."

"No, no he is not," You remove your hat respectfully, not that that would matter, "Is Mr. Low in?"

Her eyes narrow, but at least her frown lessens a bit, "You want to seem him then? Now?" She looks at your arm in the sling, and nods, "I suppose I can see why. You know the way-" She waves, "Your friend broke the padlock, so we have a deadbolt on the door now. No company, right, just you?"
"Just me."
"Good," Patricia nods, "Like it better that way. Bad men about, looking too curious for their own good. When an Irishman and an Englishman walk together, no good will be done."
"Pardon?" You raise an eyebrow at that.
"My grandma always told me that," Patricia raises a finger, scolding, "Why I've always done well. People always gonna hate, and when they set aside that hate, it's only cause there's a bigger hate they got for a third. Englishman always wants to be a lord, and an Irishman always wants to hurt someone, and if an Irishman doesn't hurt an Englishman and an Englishman try not to lord over an Irishman, then it's only cause they're thinking of lording and hurting over a lot more," Patricia nods at that, "I should know, I got an eighth Irish in me."

You seriously doubt Patricia is in any position to describe the psychology of the Irish peoples. Patricia's theories, while morbidly fascinating, are probably not going to be a great help.

>[ ] Interrogate Patricia. [Custom questions.]
>[ ] Just go down to see Low. Less time in here the better.
>[ ] Other.

>>27013343
>[ ] Just go down to see Low. Less time in here the better.
no time to talk, we must move.
and she is right about that mind set...

>>27013343
>[ ] Just go down to see Low. Less time in here the better.

>>27013343
>[ ] Just go down to see Low. Less time in here the better.

The arm business, no dillydallying.

>>27013343
>[ ] Just go down to see Low. Less time in here the better.

>>27013438
>>27013413
>>27013391
>>27013466
Mr. Johnson has a broken arm and not a lot of time. Writing.

Also, minor delay for finding food.

Rolled 31, 43 = 74

"Of course. And the dead bolt?"
"Knock three times," She snorts, as if this should be common knowledge.

You give a nod in lieu of an actual farewell, and walk away from the woman. You glance at the sleeping man, but underneath the beard and newspaper and terrible odor, he doesn't seem to have heard anything or made any plans to cause trouble.

Not that that was much of a guarantee these days.

The walk down the hall is thankfully free of hallucinations and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon this time around, and soon you're in front of the door again, sans padlock, and with what seemed to be a crude square carved in to it through which you can see darkness. You rap your knuckle three times on the door, and you see a pair of blue eyes come to the door to peer at you. There's a grunt, then the door opens to reveal a giant slab faced man with a under shirt and jeans on.

"You Johnson?" He says with an eyebrow raised. You nod at that, and then he waves you down the steps.

Very familiarly, you feel your stomach flop, feel the vertigo, feel the cold, before coming again to the curtain, this time drawn open. Still, you hesitate at the mantle- to then hear Mr. Low's warm voice.

"Please, please come in, Mr. Johnson."

With a touch of trepidation, you enter.

He's seemed to have cleaned up, somewhat. Beakers, ingredients, and books are now segregated in to their own small areas. Possibly due to the six cots that now take up the lion's share of them room- bags by their sides. Mr. Low is still dressed shabbily in his coat, but he doesn't look as irritated as when Ralph was here. He's smiling rather pleasantly standing in the center of the room, as if waiting for you.

"I was rather hoping you would take my invitation to visit, though-" He shakes his head, pointing to your arm in the sling, "I had hoped it would be under more favorable circumstances. How did this happen to you, Mr. Johnson?"

>[ ] Lie.
>[ ] Truth.
>[ ] Other.

>>27014172
>[x] Other.
Recount events but do not mention names.
We were involved in a Hunt. We escaped, but with injuries.

>>27014172
> [ ] Truth
No fucking up diagnostics tonight.

>>27014172
>[ ] Other.
Ask first if he is involved with Mr. Call first.
Might end up in a conflict of interest, if it were the case. If not, lay out the truth.

Also, binding word that this info doesn't leave the room or would be made to cause harm to ourself?

>>27014172
>[ ] Truth.
>[ ] Other.
tell him about the razor and we need to get RID of it properly. we do not need murderhobos around.

>>27014172
>[ ] Other.
Tell him What, but not Where, Who, When, or Why.

>>27014381
>>27014248
Two for not telling him the whole story.

>>27014354
>>27014266
Two for truth.

Anybody happen to be willing to break the tie?

Also, I'll freely throw in supplemental questions mentioned in
>>27014354
>>27014352
If no one has any objections.

Rolled 1

>>27014445
1 for full truth, 2 for redacted truth.
>Captcha: heads decerti

>>27014445
Yeah throw in the supplemental questions, but word them as tactfully as possible, if you can.

>>27014478
And the truth shall set you free!
Except, in this case for our involvement, it just seems to dig us in deeper in the shit.

>>27014478
Whole truth and nothing but. Writing.

Rolled 1

>>27014445
>>27014478
WELP

>>27014518
well, the truth goes hand in hand with justice you know.

>>27014445
i hope Mr. Lee can fix the MC up.

>>27015366
Yes, it'll be fun auditing bad loans with one hand.

>>27015439
at least we'll have our arm, the other lady lost her foot completely.

"Before anything else, Mr. Low, I do have a few questions, if that's alright?"

"If you must," Mr. Low's smile recedes a bit, but he does not sound particularly vexed, so you forge on.

"Do you have any involvement with a Mr. Call?"
"Hm. Mr. Call has been a client of mine on occasion- but lately, our business has soured," Mr. Low purses his lips, waving a hand in front of him, "That is to say- well, he no longer calls on me, and a recent decision of his has caused me trouble."
"What was this-"
"I am a very scrupulous person, and respect the privacy of others. I only ask you do the same."

"Well, that leads well in to my next question. I was going to ask that nothing regarding this leave this room."

"Of course," Mr. Low smiles at that, "Why would you think any different of me?"
"Right. There is something- you remember that razor?"
"The one you held on to for some kind of trophy?" Mr. Low raises an eyebrow at that, "What about it?"
"I need help disposing of it."
Mr. Low snorts, "You don't have a garbage can?"
"It seems to be rather troubling."
"It's a razor blade. Without the fool's gold, it's just a sharp edge. Are you worried about cutting yourself on it?"
"It-" You catch yourself. One thing at a time, "I would like to ask about that later, but first, there's this issue," You point to your shoulder, "Can you help with it?"

"Of course I can, but first you have to tell me what happened."
"Mrs. Abbot's pet monster happened," You tersely reply, "And crushed my damn shoulder. I'd rather not spend the rest of my life learning to do things one handed."

"Hmm," Low approaches, considering, "Just physical force then, nothing else?"
"No."
"Well- much as I would like to pry as to how you ended up in a situation where this could occur, I think it'd be better for my sake not to ask. You've already taken this to a doctor?" Mr. Low points you to the edge of one of the cots, and not really in the mood for argument, you sit down on it.

"Man set me up with a sling, not much more."
"I see. Does it hurt?"
"Strangely, not right this minute. I can't really do much of anything with it though."

Mr. Low steps back behind some curtains, rummaging about for a few minutes, before coming out with what looks like a doctor's bag- were the doctor's cut and put together by a drunk, with swatches of random silk and leather. He approaches you, setting the doctor's bag by you, and rummaging with in.

"So, you want your shoulder fixed, and then some talk regarding this razor, no?" He pulls out what looks like a bottle of cheap scotch, holding it out to you.

You look at the bottle, then back up to him, "Yes. What is that?"
"It'll put you to sleep, just for a while. You don't want to be conscious for this."
"You're just going to treat me then? No prices, no questions, just treatment?"
"Would you rather I ask for money now?"
"Frankly, with things the way they've been the past few days, yes?"
"Hah," Low smiles, "Well, I always believed in getting payment down river, if you can understand. Mr. Johnson, I do this for your future consideration- I can't immediately make your arm spring to life again, but I can treat it near immediately. All I ask for, is two hours of your time, and to remember this good turn I did you."

"That's all?" Hard to believe. Mr. Low sits there, smiling, but he seemed to be genuine.

"That's all. One favor, in the future, Mr. Johnson. Small price to pay for a mended shoulder, no?"

"There need to be boundaries for this favor, Mr. Low-"
"Is that so?" Mr. Low's smile vanishes, "Do you think me the sort of person to abuse your trust?"
"Not exactly-"
"You just don't trust me, hmm? What, do you think I'd sell you in to white slavery? I assure you, Mr. Johnson, you and I are far more similar than you think."

Right.

>[ ] Accept it. A fixed arm for two hours sleep is quite a deal.
>[ ] Deny it. 'Favor' is a big word.
>[ ] Deal with the razor first.
>[ ] Other.

>>27015554
>[ ] Other.
Try and set some limits on this favour.

>>27015554
Accept. We're over a barrel, let's not try to negotiate.

>>27015554
Accept

>>27015554
I can't think of anything well meaning out of this favor, but we're stuck in this world now. Debt is a sort of protection, after all.

>>27015554
>[ ] Accept it.
But make sure to read the equivalent of a fine print.

At the very least, he's willing to make a deal in the first place, as opposed to Mr. Call who is downright rules lawyering in his favor while others pay the price.

And what could the relevance of the phrase "As above, so is below" besides OOC knowledge of feng-shui?

>>27015754
Heaven and Earth references? Implied afterlife shenanigans?

>>27015754
>>27015744
>>27015670
>>27015632
Writing.

>>27015785
Well, a reference of "balance" would be the core essence of it.
But a balance between which two things? I don't know. It's a thought that needs considering.

>>27015888
When I think of 'As Above and So Below' the things that pop into my mind are the Heavenly Bureaucracy, and the saying 'God is in his heaven, all is right with world'

>>27015554
>[ ] Accept it. A fixed arm for two hours sleep is quite a deal.

>>27015940
Cool, but I don't think relevant for the character. More "E pluribus Unum" I think.

>>27015992
How does above figure into that, I wonder?

File: 1378269227070.png-(206 KB, 446x539, 1360822292145.png)

206 KB PNG

God damn it. I forgot that this was going to be on Tuesday. Now I need to stick my own foot up my own ass.

Well. You'd hate to miss a day of work.

"Very well. But-" You raise a hand, "I'll do nothing that would violate my principles."
"Principles being?"
"Well," You take the bottle from Mr. Low's hand, considering that, "Hurting myself or others, illegal activity, that sort of thing."
"Of course. I would never ask for anything illegal from a taxman."
"Thank you. Do, I, er," You wave around the bottle, "Drink this?"
"Yes," Mr. Low is pulling out a roll of bandages which seem to be inscribed with something, "And no, there's no alcohol in there. Something better."

"Right," You tip your head back, and swallow- rather sweet stuff actually, cloying, sticky. Sticks to the roof of your mouth. You cough, tipping it back forward, but Mr. Low tuts at that.

"No, no, drink the whole thing," He sets an ink pot to the floor, with brush in it, "It's better to be over than under in this situation."

Well, whatever he says. You manage to finish off the whole of the bottle, feeling almost like you had eaten a full meal. You feel like your windpipe is narrowing somewhat, as you pass the bottle back to Mr. Low. Wheezing, you point to your throat, and Mr. Low sets the bottle back in to the bag. He nods, "Yes, yes, your throat will feel like it's swelling. But don't panic, that's temporary. Lie back on the cot. I need you alive to do my favor, right? Don't worry, slow breaths, with me," He pantomimes deep breaths, going in and out. You do your best to follow along, and sure enough, you do feel that fear of narrowed wind pipe pass- but the rest of you feels very heavy, and very numb, except for a growing feeling of heat in your shoulder, and in your forehead. You feel a bead of sweat roll in to your eye, and Mr. Low comes to your left, gently pushing you down in to the cot.

He begins talking, but you don't hear him, instead hearing a dull roar, punctuated by your heart beats. You two aren't alone in the room. Someone with a peaked cap is on your right, frowning, with skin instead of eyes.

You don't dream. A reprieve, for a moment.

When you awaken, it's to incredible feeling of your right arm burning. You yell, waving it around, and open your eyes to the gray ceiling of Mr. Low's room. You sit up, wincing, and look at your arm- red, angry, and the shoulder blistering, but you turn it and marvel that it's not broken. The feeling of heat and pain die away rapidly as well. Whatever magic Mr. Low had done had worked well and quick.

There is a deep purple mark in the shape of a horse shoe on your shoulder. You glance around- your shirt, jacket, and vest are on the ground. A quick inspection reveals your watch and wallet were undisturbed, but the .32 revolver is missing.

Mr. Low is nowhere in sight. There seems to be a bunsen burner burning merrily with a chemistry set, distilling something purple from some awful mixture. Low's doctor's bag is by your side, discarded bandages red with blood across it.

It's a little cold in here, now that you don't feel like your arm is burning. You get dressed, feeling much better. You note your shoulder has a greater range of motion now- which kind of worries you a bit.

>[ ] Don't waste this chance. Try to find out more about Mr. Low, and his possessions. Investigate Low's. 3 1d100 rolls, 40 and below to search.
>[ ] Trust Low. Maybe he needed to go get something? Wait for him.
>[ ] Me, I think trusting Low was foolish. Get out now.
>[ ] Other.

>>27016441
>[ ] Trust Low. Maybe he needed to go get something? Wait for him.
>[ ] Other.
Get dressed
>[ ] Other.
Sit up
>[ ] Other.
Ask him where our gun is when he gets back.

>>27016441
>[ ] Trust Low. Maybe he needed to go get something? Wait for him.

>>27016441
>[ ] Trust Low. Maybe he needed to go get something? Wait for him

>>27016523
>>27016501
>>27016641
Trust in Low. Writing.

>>27016441
>[ ] Trust Low. Maybe he needed to go get something? Wait for him.

>There is a deep purple mark in the shape of a horse shoe on your shoulder.
Hmm. It seems Tim got himself branded. What's the significance, I wonder?
Yeah, better not to snoop around.

>>27016441
>[ ] Trust Low. Maybe he needed to go get something? Wait for him.
>[ ] Other.
get your self dress and call out if Mr. Low is around. see if our gun is moved elsewere. don't touch Low's stuff.. just yet.

>>27016665
that is probably a bruse were the horse stepped on us.

File: 1378270351298.png-(371 KB, 576x432, 1360822216483.png)

371 KB PNG

>>27016501
>>27016523
>>27016641
>>27016665
>>27016696

When'd everyone become a pussy?

Well, he fixed your shoulder. You pull on your suit, and glance around. Dark down here. Not a great deal of light. You roll your shoulder- it's like nothing had happened to it. Funny.

"Mr. Low?" You call out, stepping around a bit, unsure of what to do. You take a step on a floor board, and hear a creak- and then something else.

A snap.

You glance around, trying to hear the source of the noise. Sounded like someone breaking a branch. You pat yourself down, look around. No, that wasn't you. Wasn't the floor either- this was too loud for the floor. Somewhere else.

Wherever you look, your eyes glance on curtains, ingredients, books, cots, lab equipment- but nothing that could have caused that noise.

Then you hear a thumping noise from the curtained doorway. Fairly distant.

It's approaching fast.

>I need to be armed now. Search this room for a weapon of some kind 3 1d100 rolls, 45 and below succeed.
>Hope it's Mr. Low. Sit and wait.
>You aren't going to wait for them. Go out through the curtain, see who or what it is.
>Fall on your old instincts. Hide! 3 1d100 rolls, 60 and below succeed.
>Other.

>>27016868
Weapon

File: 1378270970502.jpg-(12 KB, 480x360, hqdefault.jpg)

12 KB JPG

>>27016868
Grab the beaker of liquid in our hand. Be prepared to smash that shit in some fucker's face who tries to look at us wrong.

File: 1378270988063.png-(48 KB, 460x333, idontknow.png)

48 KB PNG

>>27016745
(pic realted)... maybe when Mr. Low healed our shoulder so we won't become a cripple for life? rooting though his stuff is a bit rude you know.

>>27016868
Hide!

>>27016868
>Fall on your old instincts. Hide!

Rolled 27

>>27016868
HIDE! better chance to make it

>>27016922
>>27016938
>>27016942
Hiding. Give me 3 1d100 rolls.

>>27016907
...I appreciate you using a random bit of scenery I mentioned earlier, so I'll give you this one for free, unless anybody objects.

Rolled 15

>>27017011
Yes, we'll take the beaker. Just in case.

Rolled 64

>>27017011
rolling again.
sure, i'll roll with it. but don't throw it yet.

Rolled 97

>>27017011
rolling
...please tell me it's a glass object and not a muppet.

>>27017064
WELP! we're screwed now. i hope it's not a monster this time.

Rolled 11, 44 = 55

>>27017064
I wish it was a muppet.

Mediocre success for Timothy. Writing.

You step quickly, nabbing the beaker with the purple stuff- some of it splashes over the side on to the counter, making it hiss and emit a smoke that strangely sinks rather than rises. After resolving not to let it touch you, you choose a lab counter to hide behind and crouch behind it.

"Hello?" You hear from the door. A man's voice. Not Mr. Low's voice, "God, what's that smell-" His voice is fairly high. The man sounds young, "Stan? You sure this is the place?"

"Well," You hear some snuffling, the guy sounds like he has a cold, "Yeah. This is where the guy went."
"Great," The younger man says. Then his voice lowers, goes quiet.

They're talking very quietly now. You can't make out the words- they're by the curtain though, that's all you know. You're a good twenty feet away- you might be able to throw your beaker at them, but you weren't really good at baseball. Fifty/fifty chance, really.

They don't SEEM to know where you are. Maybe you could wait them out, or wait for them to get closer. Or maybe that'd be a bad idea.

>[ ] Just stay where you are.
>[ ] "Who are you?" Shout from behind the counter. Talk it out.
>[ ] Rush past them, head for freedom.
>[ ] Chuck the acid(?) at them. 3 1d100s, 50 and below succeed.
>[ ] Other.

>>27017269
Acid toss.

>>27017269
>[ ] Just stay where you are.
Do not escalate the situation further.

>>27017269
>[ ] Just stay where you are

Let them come closer first.

>>27017269
>[ ] Just stay where you are.
>>27017333
and THAT will just tork them off and we have no gun!

Stay quiet as a fucking mouse. And if one of those goons gets too close to us, SMASH their goofy fucking faces with weird magic acid.

>>27017379
>>27017360
>>27017352
>>27017391
Staying. Writing.

Stay low, stay quiet. You're good at that. You breath carefully, holding the beaker carefully. Being very, very careful not to spill any on yourself. The thing smells pretty good, surprisingly. Like chocolate. You forcibly wrench your attention from the substance, listening for something by the curtain.

They're quiet, actually. You hear a creak forward, as the young one starts shouting again.

"Hello? Is somebody there? Come on, I know someone's down here- I see the crap you've left behind. Come on out, we just want to talk."

"Yeah. We're looking to settle things amicably."
"Amicably. Goodwordthat, yeah, amicable like. That's us. Peaceful. Low, if you're here, come on out. If you ain't Low, come out anyway. We just want to amic is all."

They're splitting up. You hear one of them kicking over the doctor's bag, and starting to root through it. The other is going to your side of the room- near enough that you feel a faint, superstitious part of you want to stop breathing.

Just a bit closer.

>[ ] Wait.
>[ ] They sure like being amicable. Go be amicable.
>[ ] Chuck the glass at the further one, try to wrestle the near one.
>[ ] Chuck the glass at the close one, run for the door.
>[ ] Other.

>>27017516
>[ ] Chuck the glass at the further one, try to wrestle the near one.
We shall neutralize them both.

>>27017516
>[ ] Wait.

Hopefully Mr. Low comes back soon.

>>27017516
Toss and run.
And tell the receptionst, if she's still alive and there, you did so on your way past.

>>27017516
>[ ] Wait.
Taxman want no trouble.

>>27017516
>[ ] Wait.
and
>[ ] Other.
put the beaker to the side so we can toss it, but other wise act like we're still asleep. or dead.

>>27017534
We only have one operable arm, fighting close quarters is probably not a good idea

>>27017516
>[ ] Wait.

>>27017561
and we have no gun or knife. we should wait it out.

Rolled 26, 64, 94 = 184

>>27017564
>>27017560
>>27017553
>>27017535
The taxman waits.

You stay there, waiting. Your arm is fixed, but you still don't want to try to test it too much. The beaker you have to hold up right, and throwing from a prone position might a bit much.

The foot steps come closer. Closer. Closer.

They're just around the table. Then, suddenly, they bolt around the corner.

Young guy, in a jacket too big for him. Sandy hair breaking out of the part, coming down to his eyes. Freckles. Hazel eyes. A two foot length of pipe in his fist.

He's coming around fast. You'll have to roll to move faster than him.

>[ ] Wait.
>[ ] Glass him with acid. 3 1d100, 54 and below.
>[ ] Tackle him. 3 1d100, 44 and below.
>[ ] Run. 3 1d100, 60 and below.
>[ ] Talk.
>[ ] Other.

>>27017660
>[ ] Glass him with acid. 3 1d100, 54 and below.

I strongly suspect they were lying when they said they'd like to be amicable.

>>27017660

Throw acid in his eyes then run

>>27017660
>[ ] Glass him with acid. 3 1d100, 54 and below.

>>27017660
[ ] Run. 3 1d100, 60 and below.

we leave the acid, that is just asking for trouble.

>>27017660
>[x] Glass him with acid. 3 1d100
He brought the fight to the Internal Revenue Service, and the Service shall oblige him.

>>27017713
>>27017712
>>27017704
>>27017702
>>27017686
Who wants a nice heaping glass of acid?

Give me 3 1d100 rolls.

Guys, just a reminder, the whole reason we're IN this situation is because we decided to play big-bad-action-hero in the woods and not only got Kevin killed for it, but nearly got ourselves murdered as well.

File: 1378274336563.png-(239 KB, 431x401, 1360822127442.png)

239 KB PNG

Rolled 63

>>27017741
Fuck this dumb ass.

Rolled 19

>>27017741

File: 1378274369476.jpg-(83 KB, 1067x600, The Accountant.jpg)

83 KB JPG

Rolled 13

>>27017741
There is an account to be balanced.

Rolled 15

>>27017741

>>27017747
Well yes. But he brought the fight to us, and his partner is still blocking the exit.
We must eliminate one in order to begin to even the odds.

>>27017759
>>27017755
>>27017753
That'll leave a mark. Writing.

>>27017771

Right, I'm just trying to warn people against doing anything stupid in this fight.

I'm also wary of owing Low a favor. We're a taxman. I don't like it when our own ledgers are out of balance.

>>27017811
>I don't like it when our own ledgers are out of balance.
True, but unavoidable, as he was the only person willing to provide the service we required, and he was only willing to take payment in the stated currency (i.e. favors).

>>27017849

I still don't trust this guy though.

File: 1378275341801.jpg-(42 KB, 640x457, Mustard_gas_burns.jpg)

42 KB JPG

No hesitation. That's the key. The man is smiling, as you rise off your knees, raising your hand. You raise your left hand, and he follows it with his eyes, raising the pipe to jab at your face.

You push in hard with the right, and he only realizes something is wrong when the glass breaks on his face, spilling that vile purple substance across those open hazel eyes. You see the skin pucker and twist, and his corneas overtake his pupils, before the man brings his hands up shrieking.

He screams for only a second or two, before he starts gurgling, and his skin starts smoking and running. You can't look, can't focus on the man as you push past him as he rolls back on the ground.

There's a barrel chested man by the cot, dressed in a pea coat and without a hair on his head, a hat by his feet and a strange red angry brand of a hook on his head. More importantly, he had a little Savage automatic pistol in his hand. He's rising, and he has a terrible look of rage on his face.

"You son of a-" He starts, raising his pistol to aim at you. That's when the lights choose to go out. Lucky you.

In the dark, you see a bright flash of yellow, and hear shattering glass behind you. There is dim illumination from the entrance, weak light slipping through the beads of the curtain.

The other source of illumination is the gurgling man you left behind you. His skin is glowing weakly green, even as smoke pours off of him. He's thrashing, and slams in to the table, sending more glass shattering on the floor.

You hope Lee has insurance.

>[ ] Get out of here- go for the curtains up.
>[ ] Hide again.
>[ ] Charge the man with the pistol before his eyes can adjust. 3 1d100s, 47 and below succeed.
>[ ] Other.

>>27018001
CHARGE!

>>27018001
>[ ] Get out of here- go for the curtains up.
Get out while we can.

>>27018001
Charge the fucker, he won't see it coming.

>>27018001
>[ ] Charge the man with the pistol before his eyes can adjust. 3 1d100s, 47 and below succeed.
Have to take him out now. He'll come back for revenge otherwise.

>>27018001
>[ ] Get out of here- go for the curtains up.

>>27018022
>>27018033
>>27018046
I am proud.

Rolled 89, 57, 75 = 221

>>27018046
>>27018033
>>27018022
Okay. Give me 3 1d100s.

>>27018090
>proud.
That we've forgotten the lessons of the forest, and we're making Tim do and be something he is not?

Rolled 69

>>27018107

>>27018107
dice+1d100

Rolled 30

>>27018107
Rolling this time

Rolled 6

>>27018107
Sure hope that other arm is holding up well.

>>27018167
>>27018155
Success. Charging.

You'd just make yourself a target going out the curtain, and you have no idea how long the dark will last.

You sprint forward, putting your all in trying to reach the gunman before he can fire again. You've read the detective novels. A swift right hook to the chin should drop him, and if you can get the gun out of his hands, you can get some explanations as to what's going on!

The savage barks again, illuminating the man's angry face in the dark, but the bullet goes wide, smashing yet more of Mr. Low's equipment. Just a few more steps, that's all you'll need.

He shoots again, but by this time, you're tackling him to the ground, and the bullet embeds itself somewhere in the ceiling. The force of your charge propels you and him over the cot, sending you both rolling. You hear the clatter of the gun sliding across the ground. Lucky you.

You have him on the ground, and even if you don't have sure footing, at least you're above him. You rear back to punch him, when he punches yo in the stomach, making you double over for a moment. You cough as you struggle against him in the dark. He is a lot stronger than you expected.

>[ ] Hit him, hit him! 3 1d100s, 40 and below succeed.
>[ ] You have him on his back, try to find that gun while he's off his feet! 3 1d100s, 40 and below.
>[ ] Run, run for the curtain now! 3 1d100s 54 and below.
>[ ] Other.

>>27018307
>[ ] Run, run for the curtain now! 3 1d100s 54 and below.

>>27018307
>[ ] You have him on his back, try to find that gun while he's off his feet! 3 1d100s, 40 and below.
Timmy not so stronk, but Timmy needs to end this man.

>>27018307
>[x] Run, run for the curtain now!
Direct melee combat without some kind of magical assistance has not historically been viable.

Rolled 63

>>27018307
Headbutt him in the nose!

>>27018307
>[ ] Hit him, hit him! 3 1d100s, 40 and below succeed.
Yes.

I just think we need to kill him because otherwise he will hunt us down and avenge his friend.

>>27018332
>>27018353
>>27018364
>>27018366
Should I roll a 1d2?

1=Go for the exit.
2=rock 'em sock 'em taxman.

>>27018428
The dice gods are wise. We must seek their counsel.

Rolled 1

>>27018446
Okay, anon.

Running time. 3 1d100s please.

Rolled 80

>>27018472
C'mon.

Rolled 17

>>27018472

Rolled 22

>>27018472
Close the curtains and exit the stage.

>>27018509
>>27018499
>>27018496
Exiting stage right. Writing.

Right. The gun is out of the man's hands. You roll off, and see the exit even through the dark, and go running again- and fall flat on your face.

The man grabbed on to you by the leg. He's saying he's afraid of the dark.

You don't understand him. You kick free, push off of the ground, and run, run for the curtain.

You push through the beads, leaving behind the gurgling man, and the man afraid of the dark, and run up the stairs.

They're long, like always. You sprint up them, and see the source of the illumination- the door up top is open. And partway down the steps was the slab faced man with the blue eyes, blood leaking from his head.

You skirt past him, stepping around the blood. He's still breathing, shallowly. Wherever you go, it seems, violence follows. And it's just getting worse.

At the top of the stairs, you peer around the corner. There's two men at the end of the hall, one with a table leg, the other showing off tricks with a deck of cards. You recognize the Irishman from before is the one playing the tricks. He grins a gap toothed smile, but the larger one with the table leg looks unimpressed.

You can't hear them from this distance, but there's not a lot of cover between you and them if you try to sneak by. The other way for them leads to a shut door. It doesn't look like it's boarded up. Immediately ahead of you is a barred window, leading to the street. It looks like there's a great deal of cars there- including yours. Which has the man in the bowler hat waiting by it, smoking a cigarette.

>[ ] Act natural, walk past them.
>[ ] Sneak over to them. 3 1d100s, 40 and below succeed.
>[ ] Try to attract their attention, and lure them closer.
>[ ] Other.

>>27018722
>[ ] Sneak over to them. 3 1d100s, 40 and below succeed.

>>27018722
>[ ] Other.
Is the receptionist there?
>[ ] Sneak over to them. 3 1d100s, 40 and below succeed.

>>27018743
You can't see from this position if the receptionist is there or not.

At any rate, 3 1d100s.

Rolled 81

>>27018810
We're going to fail miserably.

Rolled 33

>>27018810
Three-Claw lend us sneaky powers.

Rolled 19

>>27018810

Rolled 55

>>27018866

Tax Man has demonstrated admirable gift for not being inconspicuous in his own right before though.

>I sure hope this bout of violence will not bite us in the ass like shooting the guy on our test assignment did.

>>27018885
>>27018866
Three-claw was listening apparently. Writing.

Won't be long before Stanley or his friend realize you're not down below.

You creep forward carefully, trying to stay behind curtains and quiet. Thankfully, someone left their door open, so you sidle behind that. The windows are dirty enough that, with the lights out, it's not nearly bright enough for anyone to see.

You manage to get close enough to hear them.

"So, why are we waiting out here?" That's the man with the table leg.
"Because Mr. Low is low down cussed bastard, and I do not fancy stumbling in to whatever terrible traps are below in his dark hole. Best to leave that to the young, healthy lads to find out. Now, pick a card-"
"I'm not interested in your tricks," The man with the table leg shifts away, uncomfortably, "I don't like that receptionist, giving us the evil eye like that."

"What, you believe in magic?" The Irishman snorts, shuffles his deck one handed, "Worried about a gypsy curse?"
"I'm worried about her calling the cops, y'know, cops? I think they call them Mounties where you come from."
"We have regular like officers of the peace as well, nitwit. Sides that, Jesse's got his eye on her, no problems there," He sounds agitated, "Really, c'mon, pick a card, it's great trick."
"I don't want to! Fuck, Stanley and the kid have been a while."
"They have," You see Irish jerk his head, "Go find out what's going on."
"Me? Why not you?"
"I'm the one with the money."
"Yeah, and I'm the one that's got fifty pounds and a foot on you, so don't jerk me around here!"
"As admirable as you are as a thug, you're a bad negotiator," The Irishman holds up his cards, "C'mon. Pick a card."

"I don't want anything to do with your cards! You go find out where Stanley and Max are!"
"Patience is a virtue you need to cultivate. Ten of hearts. That's a good card there."
"You don't knock off this card business, I'll break your head!"

The Irishman frowns at that, as the larger man raises his table leg over the smaller man. He's holding a card up to the larger man.

The Irishman starts speaking through his teeth now, like a court stenographer, all business.

"Dayton, Ohio, 11:23PM, 3rd of April, you come home to your gal getting it from Forest. You wait until he leaves, then break her legs with a hammer and set the house on fire and go drifting. End up here, try to keep a job, but you're having trouble sleeping, hearing her screams every time you close her eyes and come in late and mad to every job fool enough to give you a chance. So you start stealing, little things at first, when the collection plate comes around it's a little lighter after its hit you, but then you saw that truck always parked same place every night, and you know a fellow who runs an auto shop who says he has a friend that'll pawn anything, so rolls June 28th, half past midnight, you wait until that driver walks out of that little pool of light by the street side and bam, you have his blood and his keys on your hands, and you make a clean getaway. But it never works out now, does it Earnest? Turns out hot goods mean it's a buyer's paradise, where they hold all the cards. Did it hurt, Earnest? When you were literally begging on your knees for a man to pay you anything to take a thousand dollars worth of product off of your hands?"
"How did you-"
"Better question," The Irishman nods over to the stairs down, "Why aren't you down in that basement, finding out what happened to Stanley and his little cabin boy instead of making me awful tempted to call up Mr. Firkus and telling him exactly what happened that muggy bastard night and where you live, hm?"

Earnest stares, slack jawed at the Irishman, still shuffling his cards in his hands. The Irishman impatiently points to the door, "I just wanted to show you some bloody card tricks, you're the one concerned about them. Go."

Earnest shuffles past you, looking shocked and afraid, leaving only the Irishman, toying with his cards.

>[ ] Walk past, natural like.
>[ ] Sneak. 3 1d100, 40 and below.
>[ ] Other.

>>27019319
>[ ] Sneak. 3 1d100, 40 and below.
I don't have any better ideas. We don't have a gun.

>>27019319
>[ ] Sneak. 3 1d100, 40 and below.

>>27019363
>>27019348
Sneak sneak. Gimme 3 1d100.

Rolled 5

>>27019396

Rolled 21

>>27019396

Rolled 74

>>27019396

>>27019405
>>27019416
Success. Timothy skulks past the fearsome Irishman.

The man is rather enamored of his cards, but you don't let that fool you. You're quiet. Very quiet, very unobstrusive. Just work on that, and you can walk through the valley of death.

The Irishman continues playing with his cards one handed, and you watch him carefully. Though he's playing with the cards for something to do, he's no fool. He's still keeping an eye on the door.

"Hey!" You hear Earnest from behind you, and the Irishman perks up as well, "Get over here! Something's gone wrong!"
"Ah, typical," The Irishman sighs, putting away his cards- in the instant he looks away, you go around the door, and take a position in the room- you balk at the filth inside and the terrible scent of decay, but you manage to keep quiet, sidled at the corner of the door.

You hear the Irishman walking past, going down the hall to the entrance to Low's basement. You move past where the Irishman used to be, heading for the reception.

There, you see Patricia, looking very irritated at Jesse, who is leaning on the counter, staring directly at her. You can't see from where you are behind him, but you imagine it's stressful to have that greasy man that close to you.

"I see it," Jesse whispers, "I think, that is, I see where the string is."
"I already let your friends in, do you really need to harangue me too?" She hasn't seen you either yet- you glance over at the couch. Sure enough, the sleeping man is there.

"Can't let you warn him. It's a subtle string. I could snip it, if you'd like."

"You're nuts," Patricia growls- though she sounds a bit worried.

The door is open. You have a straight shot to the street. You probably don't have much time.

>[ ] Try talking to Jesse. He seems like he would know more about what's going on.
>[ ] Attack Jesse from behind. Don't want him up and about.
>[ ] Go straight out the door, and to your car to get out of here.
>[ ] Other.

>>27019551
>[ ] Go straight out the door, and to your car to get out of here.
Out run pls.

>>27019551
>[ ] Attack Jesse from behind. Don't want him up and about.
We must save Patrick.

Don't be stupid.

Get to your car. Jesse is weird crazy magic.

>>27019551
>[ ] Go straight out the door, and to your car to get out of here.

>>27019551

are you keeping tabs on Timothy's sneak skills? Like lowering difficulty with experience?

>Attack Jesse from behind.

Might as well pay the favor for our fixed arm. Or, barring that, at least, earn one for ourselves.

>>27019551
>[ ] Attack Jesse from behind. Don't want him up and about.
We can't leave Patricia.

>>27019662
Yeah, Timothy's sneaking skills are being taken in to account here- hence him being able to sneak past the Irishman. Wouldn't be possible otherwise.

I'll give it a few minutes more, then 1d2.

>>27019675
>[ ] Try talking to Jesse. He seems like he would know more about what's going on.

Rolled 15, 4, 11, 36 = 66

>>27019671
Violence IS the answer.

Give me 3 1d100 rolls. This will be a difficult roll. DC hidden because magic fuckery.

Rolled 25

>>27019697

Rolled 71

>>27019697

>dose rolls

oh shit. Looks like we'll be lucky if we don't end up right on Low's operating table again, provided he's even still alive

Rolled 10

>>27019697
allahu akbar

>>27019707
>>27019699
>>27019697
>what is this I don't even

Okay. This will take a while.

More than that, I'm going to call it a night after this post. It's 1:42AM my time. Mind if we pick this up on Thursday, starting 4:00PM my time, 19:00 4chan time?

>>27019717
Okay.

>>27019717
Yeah, sounds great.
Sorry for keeping you up, get some rest.

>>27019717
But wat was DC?

>DC 30. Two successes for you.

You creep forward, trying to swallow down your fear. Something was wrong with Jesse. He wasn't right in the head, to say the least. The way he talked, the eyes, and him talking about 'snipping' a string sounded threatening.

Quiet, quiet, have to stay quiet. Patricia might be a cantankerous and unpleasant woman, but nobody deserves to draw this kind of attention.

You stick to the carpet around the couch keeping low, trying to keep out of Patricia's sight as well to prevent her from cluing Jesse in, you work your way forward on the balls of your feet, placing one foot forward and then shifting the weight on to it, getting closer and closer-

And just when you're within arm's reach of him, he stops rambling about strings.

"You're good. Barely heard you," Is all he gets out before you try to grab him. He slips to the lift and delivers an elbow to your temple- you roll with the blow, but still it stings and your vision blurs as you stand up straight across from him. Patricia has ducked behind the counter, but Jesse is staring at you across the way with those strange green eyes, and the greasy black hair, a grin on his face.

"I see souls, child," He says, leaning forward, perhaps four or five feet from you, "And you're half of one. Not a real one. Just a mask, stretched tight and thin, over a knife. Why is that?"

He bears a grin while curling his fingers in to fists, placing them before him in a classic boxer's stance.

"What is most precious to you?"

Jesse knows how to box, you realize. Looked thin, like a weed grown out of concrete, but he takes a swing in mid air, working the whole of his body in to it far from you. You would laugh, but then you feel wind buffet past you, making you stumble a moment. The doors in the room slam shut. You hear the clicks of what are no doubt locks. For better or worse, you're locked in with Jesse.

He never bares his teeth.

"You've heard that before, haven't you, unman?"

>End for now.

>>27019878
Well

>>27019878
....Just a minor point, but typos agh, typos typos typos.

>>27019878
>>27019920
Well shit. Well done and see you Thursday, this been archived yet?

We have a serious problem with schizophrenia.

We don't want to keep around the razor blade because it makes us murderous.

But then we try to murder people. All the fucking time.

>>27019941
I vote we keep it, but people seem against having it.

>>27019955
I'm just saying, if we're going to be murdering people anyway, we should have the magic murder knife at hand.

Oh and I archived the thread on suptg.

>>27019973
Thank you, I was about to do that myself and had forgotten. Sorry for making you guys do this every time.

>>27020008
It's no problem.

Rolled 21

>>27019941

I for one would have preferred to knock him out and let the police deal with him and the rest of the interlopers.

However it does not seem like that will be an option.

>>27020008

Also thanks for the thread, OP. Most enjoyable!

>>27019963
There's a price to be paid for using the razor, as implied by Mrs. Abbot. It might be Tim's soul going to Hell that is at stake.
There's also the "Fool's Gold" to consider with its usage. I have no idea what that was about, since any gold we got that we know of (ring in the cave) was only acquired after we've been using the razor already.

Polite sage, since we're done for the night and there's no need to bump the thread.

>>27020033
Well, the polish guy that attacked us had a little pouch of fool's gold.

Apparently, the razor was operating only with fool's gold. Except in our case, where it didn't give a fuck.

>>27020021
Unfortunately, it seems Jesse is something else.

ded quest

>>27019955
But I don't wanna be a murderhobo.