http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/4884583/https://youtu.be/cpbbuaIA3DsPeople have called you a lot of things in your life. They’ve called you a rat, a snake, a conmen, and a crook, and each and every time, it hurts just a little bit, though usually just because you lost a repeat customer. You don’t worry yourself about that, because while words will never hurt you, sticks and stones can break bones. You’ve broken bones before, that shit hurts, and they’ve got some serious sticks and stones nowadays. Hellfire missiles, Howitzers and the like that can blow your house away without even needing to ever know you existed.Now don’t mix things up, words can get you far, they got you a job at MannCo, they got you a sweet sweet commission coming from the wallets of the most despicable people on the planet, warlords, words start wars, and less excitingly they end wars, words are incredibly important- to people who don’t know what their talking about. A guy like you who does know what he’s talking about, who knows that there ain’t nothing wrong with fib or two, can make some good use out of meaningless words]. Once you realize that simple fact, you can sell anything to anyone anywhere in the world. You could go on and on about how the law only means as much as a guy with a gun is willing to enforce it, but you’re getting ahead of yourself. You don’t mind people telling you things like, “You’re an asshole,” and “You’re fired,” because that’s all just business. What you do mind is losing money, and getting shot, and those spooks at MannCo not only had the gall to take seventy five percent of each sale, but simultaneously thought that instead of just letting you go, they thought that should ram a seven-six-two into your gut and destroy your dodge viper. You’re not a man to hold a grudge, but you are a man who recognizes opportunity. Through some luck you managed to place your grubby little hands on documents that told you And because bullets are a lot more meaningful than words, you’re currently betting on four shots something interesting. At the top of MannCo’s office building is The Briefcase. Yes. That briefcase. The one that two companies of morons tore each other apart over. The one that another two morons are still tearing each other apart over, and the one that two morons will pay a lot of money for. You’re The Salesman baby, and to make a good sale, you gotta have a good acquisition. You’re gonna steal that briefcase. So that’s the reason why you’re being hunted. That’s the reason you’re currently being chased by a van driven by a robotic australian who has no qualms about ramming through a poor mother of two’s sedan, while an anonymous shooter strapped to the roof sends subsonic shots through the rear windshield, the first ruining an expensive car radio, the second putting a hole in a passenger seat probably made out of some giant African beast. (cont.)
>>4932919(cont.)So really, you firing off shots from a seven round mystery magazine is simply private security. Barely able to keep the gun pointed on target, you align it roughly against the swaying camper van, and gently squeeze the trigger until you’re just about to fire, and hold it there until… Bang! Your first shot rings out, leaving an unholy trail of smoke and sparks that almost seem to swirl into tormented faces while the ringing in your ears twists into a blood curdling scream. Even as the round bounces off the machine’s steel skin, something that should never have entered this world is left behind. The movements of the camper van become far more erratic for a moment as the robot suddenly clutches his face, letting out a synthetic scream of agony while shaking. The van begins to slow down for a second, putting precious distance between you and The Sniper, but then the shaking of the machine stops, and it releases a loud electronic screech, like a dial up modem guarding its territory from predators, all while spinning its head round and round like a compact disc. Fire licks up from the motor, the car begins to sway faster and faster, and you take another shot that misses wildly before another strange round zips from the barrel. Had your ears not been ringing, you’re sure you would’ve heard a bang, but instead the only evidence of the rounds existence was the recoil and the blue electrical tracer that fizzles through the air, penetrating the robots motorized neck, now spewing bolts of lightning and plasma outwards everywhere, circuits and batteries smoking. The screeching binary sound suddenly wavers and distorts, overlapping itself and creating new tones until suddenly being replaced by the sound of thunder, as if the peizoelectric round brought the wrath of god down on this machine. The hellish terror and electrical interference create some unearthly energy that builds in the steel throat, building and building until it bursts and sends the robots head flying through the camper van roof and into the sky, spinning through the air like a rifle round. “Bloody useless toasters!” The sniper shouts prematurely, only for the android, with hellfire licking at its neck stump to put the pedal to metal, holding the van steady for just long enough for the australian, holding on to his hand with one shot, to line up the scope, and mutter “Gonna blow that ‘aircut right off your neck ya whiny chicken.” (cont.)
>>4932929(cont.)Amongst all the chaos, the robotic squealing, and the deafening report of the Colt Governments mystery magazine, the round from the hitman’s Heatmaker is practically dead silent, whizzing through the air, yet either intentionally or by the grace of god, The Sniper’s round does not kill The Representative. Representative Mann’s head should’ve been turned into a red mist, but instead the round grazed into his shoulder, digging through the flesh and ricocheting off a collarbone that would break from the impact. The now deformed round tumbles through air, slipping through the crack in the car seat, and slamming through the spinal column and into the windpipe of the poor bastard driving the limousine. His entire body goes limp below the neck while he chokes on the bullet. The head of the dead chauffer presses down on the horn, releasing a loud blaring noise while his leg presses down on the gas pedal, accelerating the limousine before it suddenly slams into the back of an SUV ahead of it, throwing you into the back of the passenger while The Representative is caught firm by the seat belt, sending a jolt of pain through his broken collarbone. Running on adrenaline, you quickly yank yourself back up, and fire another shot towards the machine barreling towards you. The recoil almost sends the gun flying through the sunroof, but when the bullet connects with the camper van door, it sends it plummeting into a storefront, while the robot driver is flung into the passenger side door, tearing the steering wheel with him, winging the heavy camper van to the left, pulling it onto two wheels before crashing straight into a pizza shop. It stands testament to the chaos of the last few minutes that you almost find yourself able to relax as the limousine nuzzles against the SUV in front of it, the SUV struggling to stay in place with its own brakes. “Johnson.” The Representative shouts. “Johson! Get us to a hospital!” He says again, shaking the corpses shoulder, only to cause it to fall limp towards the center console, the shift in weight dragging Johnson’s leg off the accelerator, letting the limo finally stop. “Jesus Christ.” The Representative says, sounding more disappointed to see his Chauffeur dead than scared, sad, or angry, like any non-sociopathic human being should be. “Mr. Bout. What do we do?” (cont.)
>>4932931(cont.)>”You stay here, get ready to drive us out if we need. I’m in the mood for pizza.” Step out of the limousine, and go confront The Sniper. >”What we do is we patiently wait for the authorities to arrive so I can tell them all about the terrorist that chased us respectable businessmen down and threatened our lives, and how I was forced to use lethal force to prevent further casualties.” >”You sit still, keep pressure on that shoulder, while I take you to a hospital so I can get the fuck out of sight and bury Johnson.” Quickly throw Johnson’s body in the trunk and drive. >”We can’t stay in this car. The cops will be looking for a beat up limousine. Follow my lead.” Use the 1911 to jack another, more maneuverable and less conspicuous vehicle. >”You give me a nice pay raise after all that, that’s what we do. I just blew up a robot, I’ve proven my worth I think.” >Write in.
>>4932919Goddamnit, I mistyped the thread title. This is the second thread of the quest. The first part can be read in the archive up above.
>>4932934>”You give me a nice pay raise after all that, that’s what we do. I just blew up a robot, I’ve proven my worth I think.”Representative Mann's popularity is going to skyrocket with this 'attempted assassination'. Always makes people popular in the polls.
>>4932934>>”What we do is we patiently wait for the authorities to arrive so I can tell them all about the terrorist that chased us respectable businessmen down and threatened our lives, and how I was forced to use lethal force to prevent further casualties.”
>>4933148>>4933350These two aren't mutually exclusive, so if there are no objections I'm gonna combine these two, lock the vote and start writing.
>>4933148>>4933350>”You give me a nice pay raise after all that, that’s what we do. I just blew up a robot, I’ve proven my worth I think.”>>”What we do is we patiently wait for the authorities to arrive so I can tell them all about the terrorist that chased us respectable businessmen down and threatened our lives, and how I was forced to use lethal force to prevent further casualties.”“First things first Representative Mann, you give me a nice pay raise.” You respond, receiving a look of horror from The Representative. “Had you been driving with any other salesman in the world you’d be dead right now. I’ve dealt with a robot, disabled one of the best snipers in the world. I know you’ve made the right decision Mr. Mann, because you’re a smart man, but I still don’t know if I’ve made the right decision, I could’ve died there.” “I- I’ve been shot!” The Representative shouts, blood slowly seeping into his torn suit jacket. “The police are coming! Now’s not the time for this! How are we going to explain this to the police?!” “Don’t worry about the police Representative, law’s on our side, I’ll talk to them and get this all sorted out.” “Are you joking Mr. Bout?” The Representative shouts while the dead body of Johnson flops a little further to the right. “I’ll be dragged through the dirt if I’m seen being hauled into the back of a police car.” “Mr. Mann, you’ve made the right decision. Don’t second guess yourself here.” You reassure him, ”You stay here and keep pressure on that wound, I’ll speak with the cops. Then once we’re at a hospital you’re campaign managers can get to work on framing this. If there’s two things voters love it’s a conspiracy and a dramatic story. You tell them about an assasination attempt, throw in a few hints that it might’ve been your cousin’s fault and you’ll be at the top of the polls in a few days.”The Representative takes a long look at the dead body of Johnson, then looks back to you and says, “You’re a sick man Mr. Bout. Do whatever you need to get us out of here. I’ll have extra weapons included in your advance.”You smile to The Representative, giving him a firm handshake, and placing your weapon back in it’s proper, and more importantly non-incriminating holster before stepping out of the limousine, only now beginning to feel the bruises from the bumpy ride, and noticing the blood that splattered off of Mann’s shoulder and onto your shirt. You adjust your coat as to hide it while your surrounded by chaos. (cont.)
>>4934350(cont.)Broken glass lines the sidewalk where the camper van crashed into a pizzeria, while pieces of the dilapidated camper line the road. The distant sirens are slowly getting louder, and as you hear them get closer, you take a deep breathe, and prepare to get into character. The law maybe on your side, but if time is money then spending even a night in jail is way too costly in these critical hours… and you’re still an armed man some misinformed characters would describe as a ‘sociopathic manipulator.’ Unless you have yourself in a position where it’s simply impossible to be described as within the same realm as a suspect, you’re gonna be questioned, you’re gonna be taken into the station, they’re gonna lock you in a cold interrogation room with nothing but a cup of coffee for a few hours, they’re gonna ask you questions like “Could you describe the perpetrator?”[/i] and ”Why was robot possessed?”, and that’s just bad business. The less prying eyes the better, and the United States is the biggest prying eye on the planet. At the end of the road, you can see the first lights of the squad car coming in. The time to run has past, you need a plan to convince these cops to stay off of you. >Quickly pull The Chauffeur out from the driver seat, and ‘desperately attempt’ CPR on the man. He’s well beyond saving, but you can at least look like the hero in this story. >Play up the part of the first time killer. Hands shaking in horror, heavy breathing, leaning against the back of the car, the works, at least until someone tells you you killed a robot. >Climb up on top of the van and perform a quick “Citizens arrest,” preferably striking up a heroic pose as you restrain the assassination who brutally murudered a poor chauffeur. >You know, maybe getting pulled into the station isn’t the worst thing that could happen. Try to convince the police to ‘escort’ your limousine to the police station instead of bringing you into the squad car as not to anger Mr. Mann. >Don’t bother with acting. When the police arrive, have some “donations to the force,” for their timely arrival in keeping these streets clean.>Write in. As per your abilities as the Salesman, all of these prompts can be made more effective by getting into the spirit of acting, by writing in a short pitch for a police or crime drama within the world of TF2. The more creative and fitting to the situation, the better.
>>4934357>Quickly pull The Chauffeur out from the driver seat, and ‘desperately attempt’ CPR on the man. He’s well beyond saving, but you can at least look like the hero in this story.Im coming up with blanks for that prompt but im also dead tired, might post one later if an idea strikes
>>4934357>>Play up the part of the first time killer. Hands shaking in horror, heavy breathing, leaning against the back of the car, the works, at least until someone tells you you killed a robot.
Apologies guys, I won't be able to put out an update, I've had a bit of a busy morning, then started feeling sick in the afternoon.
I'm sorry for doing this to you guys two days in a row, but I'm gonna have to set back the update another day again, whatever I was starting to feel yesterday slammed me like a truck today, and I've been totally unable to focus on writing because of it. Sorry.
>>4936588It's not rona, is it bro?
>>4936979Nah, whatever I got is affecting my stomach mostly, and only got worse after keeping me up all night.
>>4934384Supporting, how about we pull the representative out aswell, really sell the scene. And dont forget to keep an eye out for the sniper before he runs 5 km away and tries to shoot us.
>>4934384>>4934412>>4937899>Quickly pull The Chauffeur out from the driver seat, and ‘desperately attempt’ CPR on the man. He’s well beyond saving, but you can at least look like the hero in this story.“Representative Mann,” You say, knocking on his window quickly, quietly whispering, “Act natural, the police are here, we’re not suspects nor we were we discussing, you’re a victim of what you presume is an attempted assassination by a radical political group. Step out of the car and help me with Johnson.” The Representative begins to nod, but sternly you add, “And I was here to discuss employment in your campaign. Understood?” The Representative simply nods in return while you open the driver side door, and are greeted by the limp bloodied body of Johnson. With the motions of a man scared to death, you grab at his seat belt buckle, struggling to unclasp it for a moment before hauling the two-hundred pound man out of the car by the shoulders. After gently lowering him to the ground, glaring angrily at Mann as he holds back, alarmed by the sight of blood and unused to labor. You don’t bother feeling for a pulse or listening for breath and instead immediately move to chest compressions, shaking your voice with every count of thirty, broken up by trying to breath into his mouth. You’re performance is broken a little by the obvious gap between your mouth and his. You’ve never been a squeamish man, but if your suspicions about the shooter are correct, there’s a distinct possibility the round currently lodged in The Chauffeur's throat is covered in human urine like a viet-cong punji trap launched at subsonic velocity. Sick bastard, shooting the kind of rounds you can’t sell him. As you “desperately” try to perform an act of necromancy through first aid, the first squad car speeds through the scattered pieces of car wreckage, flattening a bumper and muffler along the way, and sending a chunk of a rim flying off into another storefront. With a long, screeching drift the cop car stops right next to you, and shotgun in hand an officer in a leather coat and bulletproof vest steps out. “Freeze punk hands where I can seem ‘em!” He shouts, having his revolver on you with a pull of a Remington 870’s action, which would be much more intimidating had it not been shortly followed by the sound of a wasted shell bouncing on the asphalt. This man has spent weeks of his life making finger guns in the mirror. The effect might not hit a streetwise street-vendor like you, but your fellow sociopath Representative Mann seems genuinely terrified as he You throw up your hands almost immediately, seeing the officers trigger finger pull down on the weapon in your mind’s eye. “Can- can you help him.” You say with your hands shaking as much as your voice. “He ughhh- he needs a medic. Did you guys bring a doctor?” (cont.)
>>4938397(cont.)Swinging the gun around over his shoulder, the officer looks down at you over a pair of dark aviators, studying you closely, before he pokes the body of Johnson with his foot. “Sorry pal. Your friend’s dead.” “Jesus christ.” You say, pulling away from the man, leaning back on the Limousine, trying to appear traumatized while the wannabe action-hero officer stares down at you with a suspicious grimace. “Gosling!” The officer on the other side of the car shouts, an older officer with a balding head. “Will ya quit terrorizing the populace. What’s the situation?”As Gosling glances back you take your chance to look away, glancing over towards the crashed camper van. The Robot inside is still there, limp and sparking, but it’s very difficult to see the top of the van- not without standing up and grabbing the attention of the pseudo-super-cop, who’s currently responding to the sheriff by looking back at Mr. Mann, then glancing back to Johnson. “We’re gonna need a medic… and a bodybag. But what about you?”“I- I- I need to go home and see my wife....” You explain. “There was… there was a man on top of the the van… he was shooting at us from up there! He shot at me! That could’ve been me!” “Calm down sir.” The second officer says, sliding over the hood of the car only to kneel up close to you. “You’ll be okay. Gosling, why don’t you let me take a look at the wounded? Organize a perimeter.” “Don’t get too chummy with the pencil pusher just yet Horn.” The Cop responds. “Not sure if I trust him.” “You know from now on Gosling, you can just tell me about the people you do trust.” The Officer with a bushy moustache responds, before focusing on Johnson, looking into his throat.You glance over to the Camper Van, which apparently Officer Gosling is already approaching with a team of fellow officers. Unless The Sniper plans to get away via magic spell, he’s probably not going anywhere. In the distance, alongside the commotion of onlookers and shouting of police, the sound of helicopter rotors choop choop chooping echoes through the air. You glance up to see one marked with “CBA NEWS” and a purple helicopter with no visible markings, though it does seem to have a man kneeling in a position akin to a camera man looking down at traffic. “Lungs are filled with blood… can’t see the round… no exit wound either… We need a medic if he’s gonna survive.” Officer Horn glances at Representative Mann. “You’re gonna wanna get looked over to.” Then he glances over to you. “Are you hurt? And can either of you tell me what happened here?” (cont.)
>>4938399(cont.)>”I am hurt… doesn’t look as bad but I got hit in the gut earlier...” Use this opportunity to be sent to the hospital, have your wounds healed while sticking close to one of your income sources. >Keep as quiet as you can about what happened for the time being. “ I… I’m sorry but according to protocol I can’t tell you anything else without speaking to the campaigns lawyer.” >Tell him exactly what happened here, warn him about what the sniper on the roof of the van is capable of, and tell him the type of rounds you used. Try and make friends with the law. >”Officer, do you mind if I could uhh… speak with my wife on the phone? I- I- need a minute.” Try to call up your wife and get a plan between you and her organized in case you end up out of action for some time.>”Officer I’m sorry but uhh… according to protocol Mr. Mann is to be taken by my security firm to private medical facilities at this point. Please let me”take Mr. Mann with me to a phone,” As you say this, try to loosen his grip with a small bribe. >Write in.
>>4938400>”Officer, do you mind if I could uhh… speak with my wife on the phone? I- I- need a minute.” Try to call up your wife and get a plan between you and her organized in case you end up out of action for some time.I can’t trust a hospital. And the difference in rounds used would be suspicious. Not to mention how our bullet wound is already clotted…
>>4938400>Keep as quiet as you can about what happened for the time being. “ I… I’m sorry but according to protocol I can’t tell you anything else without speaking to the campaigns lawyer.”
>>4938567>>4938874>>4939093>”Officer, do you mind if I could uhh… speak with my wife on the phone? I- I- need a minute.” Try to call up your wife and get a plan between you and her organized in case you end up out of action for some time.“Officer... I- I think need a moment.” You whimper, your voice and hands shaking to feign trauma, occasionally glancing wide eyed at the corpse of The Chauffeur. “Is there a phone nearby? I need to talk to my wife she’s uhhh... she’s gonna be worried.” “Hey Thompson?” The Officer shouts to one of the men who came in the other squad car. “You see a payphone anywhere nearby?” “Problem with the squad car?” Thompson asks in response, as Officer Gosling glares back as well. “Victim wants to call his wife.” Officer Horn explains. “I ain’t the man who’s gonna say no. ‘Sides, he needs to calm down for a bit before he can tell us what’s going on.” “One by the crosswalk’s not knocked over.” Gosling explains. “Thompson, you keep an eye on the pencil pusher while he’s over there.” Gosling, The Hero of his own perception cracks his neck. “I got the worm on the van.” He adds, now cracking his knuckles. “On it,” Thompson responds as he’s walking towards you, holding a hand out to help you up. “Here, can you walk?” With a quiet nod you take his hand and get to your feet, immediately thanking him for his help and vigilance while walking towards the phone booth. “So who you calling again?” The officer asks. “The wife.” You respond. “Good good.” He explains, with a voice that would be soothing if you didn’t hold intimate knowledge of police interrogation tactics. “Been with her long?” “Five years in may.” You respond. “That’s good.” The cops respond. “About to get married myself.” You nod as if you were mentally absent from the conversation, despite the fact that your intently listening to the tone of every syllable. The officer thinks you’re just another person caught up in the insanity. That’s good, because it’s all he needs to know. Your bigger fear is The Hero over there, though thankfully he’s currently focused on climbing The Camper without taking his finger off the trigger of his Remington 870, though given it’s turkish walnut furniture you can’t blame him for that. You watch as he approaches the roof of the van, seeing a figure only just now sitting up hold his hat with one hand while the other raises into the air. “G’day officer.” The Sniper explains. (cont.)
>>4940094(cont.)You’re frankly surprised that he hasn’t already begun shooting at the officers. Come to think of it, the stories you’ve heard of these men really haven’t kept up with how they’ve acted. You’ve heard of The Soldier fighting hundreds of men bare ass naked and without a weapon. Supposedly The Sniper could shoot the balls of a nat on the other side of the outback. He was also patient, too. Never sounded like the kind of man to strap himself to a moving vehicle in the middle of a car chase. And the spy… the spy left classified documents on a car seat… shouldn’t he have some better knowledge of opsec? Huh, never meet your heroes, you think to yourself as you ring up your home phone number… and although it’s likely the drugs lingering in your system, you can’t shake a bit of paranoia holding the hairs on the back of your neck up. The sounds of the news helicopters are growing louder, and looking up you can see that the unmarked purple helicopter is swooping in close for a good view of the man on the roof of the camper… though now that you look at it, you’re not so sure it’s a news chopper. You’d expect to have at least a small marking. Perhaps it’s just a hobbyist looking to catch a glimpse at local drama? After a few minutes of ringing, you hear your wife’s familiar Irish accent say, “God to you, who’s this?” “Hey honey.” You respond, glancing over to the officer. Holding the receiver as close as you can to your mouth, you practically whisper, “Got shot at by one of my old bosses. Sniper. Surrounded by cops right now, might end up out of action for a few hours.” “Ooooh grand…” The Anarchist mutters angrily. “Wha’s the lad in the limousine a trap then? We can wind his fookin’ neck in. ” You audibly hear the sound of a kalashnikov chambering a seven six two round, reminding you of the scondary reason you married The Anarchist. The second of course being the fact that she’s an attractive redhead with an ass god must’ve personally gifted to the nation of ireland. “No… I actually made a deal with him… and his cousin. I also managed to talk to uhh… friend at the diner. We got support. More funding from all three of them for the project… but uhh…” You see the officer accompanying you listening in for a moment, mostly just ‘checking up,’ “...are you okay? Did anyone try to hurt you?” “Ain’t you the cat’s pajamas today?” She responds. “Don’t be a gobshite, I'm fine.”“Oh thank god, okay, they probably were coming after the client but…” you take a deep breath, then mutter almost silently ‘listening’ into the phone before adding, “I just had to make sure.” “Cop must think yer a real bellend about now.” She responds. “Need help?”(cont.)
>>4940096(cont.)“EEEuuughhh you disgusting little punk!” The Hero shouts from the top of The Camper. A smell of human urine wafts over the scene as you glance back, seeing him wrestle with The Sniper, who’s currently holding a huge bowie knife and trying to stab at Officer Gosling. “Don’t you understand what this means pal?” Gosling shouts, covering in piss, “You’re filth. And I’m here to clean you up.” You look away from the action for a moment, and think up what you should tell your wife. >Quietly tell her you’re gonna look for a chance to slip away from the cops while they take care of Rep Mann, and that you need her to have a ride to take you home somewhere nearby. >You can’t risk Rep. Mann cracking under the pressure of The Hero- Gosling, tell your wife to try calling his campaign staff to get a lawyer on site for the guy right now. >You don’t have the time or resources to deal with the cops, but you’re good friends with someone who does. Tell her to call up your friend at the diner so he can do you a favor and get the cops to shoo from the both of you. >Tell her that you’ll be able to handle the situation with the police yourself, but you need her to head over to the address Valentini gave you and get the explosives while you deal with things.>You need to multitask, so hoping that some of your devilish skill in dastardly dealings rubbed off on your wife, tell her to talk to Senator Mann and see if he’s willing to outbid Rep. Mann. >Write in.
>>4940100>Tell her that you’ll be able to handle the situation with the police yourself, but you need her to head over to the address Valentini gave you and get the explosives while you deal with things.
>>4940100>You can’t risk Rep. Mann cracking under the pressure of The Hero- Gosling, tell your wife to try calling his campaign staff to get a lawyer on site for the guy right now.
Sorry guys, but due to a rather busy schedule today I won't be able to put out an update. Things should run smoother for the rest of the week though.
>>4940100>>You need to multitask, so hoping that some of your devilish skill in dastardly dealings rubbed off on your wife, tell her to talk to Senator Mann and see if he’s willing to outbid Rep. Mann.
Rolled 1 (1d3)>>4940555(1)>>4940699(2)>>4941542(3)Gonna do a quick tiebreaker so I can start writing.
>>4940555>>4940699>>4941542>>4941717>Tell her that you’ll be able to handle the situation with the police yourself, but you need her to head over to the address Valentini gave you and get the explosives while you deal with things.Looking back over the scene, the police officer sent to watch you is currently looking away, watching the fist vs knife fight atop The Camper. The action hero and The Sniper, the latter the one who can make you fear for your life, are both holding each other off while holding the attention of the other officers, most of whom are keeping their guns pointed at the man in case he attempts to make a break for it. Maybe just because of injuries sustained from the Camper crash, or perhaps the years of life extending australium treatments taking some sort of toll, he seems to be slightly slower, struggling to get a deadly hit in with his knife. Taking full advantage of the distraction, you explain to your wife, “I’ll be alright, you don’t need to come out here. But remember the... ” You glance back to the officer sent to watch, then get closer to the receiver to mutter, “What I took from the office when I got fired?” “The car?” Your wife asks. “I rigged it to blow like you said. Real shame we couldn’t drive her around. She’s like shit off a shovel that one.” “No, the other thing.” You respond. “The rotary thing.” “The grenade launcher? I was about to get rid of it. Can’t exactly walk into the shops looking for ammo for it.” “Don’t!” You almost shout, catching yourself as the officer glances in your direction. “I’ve got a friend who could help fix it up. Head there but be careful not to spook him. Guy’s messed up in the head but supposedly a smart guy. He should be able to find us a nice… gift.” As quietly as you can, you add, “Tell him Valentini sent you. He’s a friend of mine and the guy owes him.” “Aye.” She responds. “I’ll try to call ye if anything comes up, babes.” “Good.” You respond, quickly telling her the address Valentini gave you before beginning to talk louder, speaking once again in a safe“Stay safe please. I’ll try to be home before dinner.” “Sound like an eejit.” The Anarchist replies. “Love ye.” “Love you too sweety.” You respond before you hang up, looking back at the scene, surrounded by police and curious civilians. “Where uhh- where are we gonna go after this? When can I head home?” You ask the officer sent to supervise your phone call. “Detectives gonna wanna ask you a few questions about what happened here. Afterwards they’ll probably make sure you’re not hurt and then give you a ride back home.” He explains. “Where ya from?” “Live in the woods not far from here…” you converse idly while you watch the fight atop the roof of The Camper. (cont.)
>>4942341(cont.)Finally, The Hero- Officer Gosling has managed to get a grip on The Sniper’s wrist, despite still being covered in the jar-stored urine. “You punk. I’m taking you in dead or alive.” He responds, as the purple helicopter swoops in even closer. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this. Drop the knife and I might just let you rot in jail for life!” With a firm two handed grip on The Sniper’s wrists, Officer Gosling and the sniper seem to be at a perfect stalemate, but with a lobotomized degree of bravery, The Hero leans forwards and slams his head into The Snipers chest. While it leaves his neck and back open for an easy stab, the moronic confidence of the manuever takes The Sniper by surprise, and in an instant, the air is knocked out of his lungs while he’s sent tumbling backwards one, two, three steps until a fourth doesn’t land on anything. The Sniper tumbles backwards off the edge of The Camper’s roof, leaving his hat to gently float downwards as he slams ass first into the asphalt. Immediately a pack of cops are surrounding the Australian assassin, who’s rifle and knife are both totally out of reach. The purple helicopter lowers itself even closer, grabbing the eye of a few of the police officers as a door opens on the side facing The Sniper and The “Hero” Gosling. “Stay right where you are, punk.” Officer Gosling says from above as he picks his Remington 870 back up and cycles the action once again, ejecting a shell that drops onto the now bare head of The Sniper while bringing out the loud, intimidating sound of the shotgun. “You’ll be coming with us.” Moving quickly to apprehend the suspect, The Hero jumps off the top of The camper, and lifts the sniper by the scruff “If you ever want to see the sun again you’ll tell us-” Before The Hero cop is able to say the word “everything,” a rifle report pops through the air, then The Sniper simply explodes. There’s no shockwave, there’s no shrapnel, and there’s no fireball- no, one second Gosling is holding onto the scruff of The Sniper, the next the sniper is nothing but a mist of blood and flying gibs. A look of bewilderment then horror falls upon the captor of The Sniper. Eyes transfixed on the position the sniper’s head used to be- where a slouch hat is now slowly floating down through, Gosling releases a guttural groan of disgust while some of the other officers hold back vomit. The first reaction to break the total stillness among the pack of police is that of Representative Mann, who attempts to hit the deck as if taking cover from a frag grenade, only to smack his forehead against the asphalt, moaning in pain afterwards. All the cops glance in his direction, until Officer Horn suddenly shouts “Open fire!” (cont.)
>>4942344(cont.)https://youtu.be/Lc1Ll-euRSgShots ping against the bottom of the helicopter, each of them bouncing off the civilian helicopter, the pistol rounds losing all their energy by the time they reach the helicopter. If you were a luckier man, the helicopter would’ve taken advantage of this , shut its side door, and run away, but instead the purple chopper swings around, turning its open door to face you. Staring you down is the glint of a rifle scope, and on your forehead is the red dot of a laser, yet somehow the custom modded G36 isn’t as shocking as whats behind it. While you don’t see a face, the man pointing a gun at you is wearing the same slouch hat, the same vest, the same undershirt and a similar knife slung to his back… all with the same silhouette.For a brief moment, you immediately assume it’s one of the same machines driving The Camper, but then the man in the helicopter twists and pulls the charging handle on the G36 for god knows what reason, and you see his fleshy hand clearly. The Sniper… This Sniper… is pointing a gun that just popped a man like a hotdog in a microwave from a helicopter, and all you have is a 1911 with less than half of a mystery magazine. Four players roll a d6 to avoid The Sniper in the helicopter. The top three rolls will be added into a 3d6. As per your abilities as the salesman bonus will be given out to every player who can write up a sales pitch for a surface to air weapon that can be conceal carried on one’s person. The more creative and clever, the better the bonus. Along with your roll and pitch, feel free to pick one of the prompts below, they will not affect the roll. >You’re a businessman, you pay your taxes- well you don’t pay your taxes but you’re sure other people in the vicinity do. Let those tax dollars in the police department work to fix this situation while you run for your goddamn life. >You’re not about to let a crazed gunman flounder your goddamned investment, run out to grab Rep Mann and veto him into the cover of the pizzeria. >A good acquisition is just as important as a good sale, so right now it’s time to acquire better firepower from one of the police cars. Look for some sort of rifle that can effectively return fire at the helicopter. >The mob isn’t what it used to be, but hey, it’s been a long time, Maybe Valentini has his own air force now. Run into one of the nearby shops and look for a phone where you can call the mob for a favor getting you out of this. >Write in.
Rolled 3 (1d6)>>4942349>You’re not about to let a crazed gunman flounder your goddamned investment, run out to grab Rep Mann and veto him into the cover of the pizzeria.You're an AMERICAN. Not some filthy Frenchman, or a piss-obsessed Aussie, or (god forbid) a German who committed several warcrimes in the former state of yugoslavia. And as an honest, hard-working American, you need something to protect your property. Too many people think they can get away with flying over your property line, not realizing that they're violating the NAP by entering YOUR airspace. Well, we finally have the on-the-go, fully-portable solution for all of your retaliatory needs. Introducing the Uncle S.A.M, your new everyday-carry. This revolutionary item looks like an ordinary laser-pointer-pen, and in fact can fully function like one...but with a few moments to designate the target with the laser pointer and one twist, it'll turn into a guided missile that explodes into a fast-hardening goo that's guaranteed to gum up the turbines or rotaries of your latest annoyance.And for you godless hippies out there, we made it 100% biodegradable, edible, and safe to use on friends, families, neighbors, and co-workers! Even pacifistic draft-dodgers can enjoy our fine product in the form of harmless family-friendly pranks!
>>4942349>>You’re not about to let a crazed gunman flounder your goddamned investment, run out to grab Rep Mann and veto him into the cover of the pizzeria.>>4942388>Uncle S.A.M.kino
>>4942664Feel free to throw out a d6 roll alongside your vote, there was a prompt for both. Sorry if there was any confusion, I just wanted to consolidate the roll and the vote for expedience.
>>4942388>>4942664Since rolling is taking quite a while, anyone intrested can feel free to roll twice.Also, since I like the uncle SAM pun, and find the idea of a nonlethal surface to air missile is hilarious, >>4942388 gives you guys a +5 added to the total role, leaving you 6 away from the threshold.
Rolled 3 (1d6)>>4942349
Rolled 2 (1d6)>>4942972
Rolled 4 (1d6)>>4942349
>>4942388>>4943147>>4943148>>4943178Appreciate the rolls guys. That totals into a 15, which is a success. Writing.
>>4942972I went real 90's with it.What would a 90's pencil-pusher always have on them? A laser pointer/pen combo. A salaryman needed one for their presentations or they were a fucking chump.What did the 90's love? Goo. Nikelodeon had a whole thing about it. And technically so did Aperture Science.Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if it was also an "erasable pen". Bitches love erasable ink.
>>4943313I picked up on the laser pen part of that but didn't even think about the slime aspect of that. That brings back memories man. >>4942388>>4942664>>4943147>>4943148>>4943178>You’re not about to let a crazed gunman flounder your goddamned investment, run out to grab Rep Mann and veto him into the cover of the pizzeria. 15https://youtu.be/T0ZmErXkbxEWithin that flash of a scope glint, you see the history of your life speeding past your eyes. That chick you dated in high school who spent every moment of her life working on cars, the time you owned a GrayCo robot with an oddly large rack, your time in the Balkans, but none of that sticks out. That was all business, and in your final moments you have no intention to focus on the moments that were just business. No, you’re a man of opportunity, and in your memories you see exactly that. Opportunity. Thirteen years old, middle school, you’re moving up in the industry from the sale of stickers and candy, and have discovered the wonderful world of adding reliable, colorful, and manipulative logos onto generic skateboards and bicycles. It wasn’t so wonderful when one day your grade’s resident hardass had his bike fall apart, and decided that he wanted a new one free. Now while you pride yourself on an easy experience for the customer, he clearly violated the warranty policy when he refused to pay you the first time. So what did you do? Well the solution was simple. Officer Thompson takes the shot from The Sniper the same way your middle school best friend took Tommy’s haymaker, with your hands on his shoulders, yanking him in front of you. The shot rings in your ears as the five-five-six round crashes into him at the very last minute, and some ungodly payload causes every single inch of his body to pop like a water balloon. In spite of your survival, there’s a chilling knowledge that as you stand in the red mist of human blood and organs that was once Officer Thompson. Without some way of throwing off this damned thing, you’re simply next. Unless if something useful can fall from the heavens… High above the clouds rests a kingdom- no, THE kingdom. The Kingdom no bargaining can open ever open the doors to, but that doesn’t stop a long line of damned souls from chewing a tired Saint Peter’s ear off. “So you’re telling me this is aaughhh... “ Holding his coffee in one hand, and the pen like device in the other, Saint Peter, once humble fisherman of Bethsaida, now gatekeeper to heaven, twists the little plastic pen with his arm, “This is a pen and a laser pointer?” (cont.)
>>4943488(cont.)“Oh but it’s so much more Saint Peter!” The aged, suited soul quipped in response. “I’m sure you’ve seen the tragedy far too often waiting in the lines of your magnificent gates. From the lord’s favored country the beautiful USA, or those commie bastards in the vietnamese throwing their shit spears out of stolen american helicopters… until my invention there was simply no way to disable a helicopter without robbing these poor souls the Lord’s gift of life, many of whom may have never found the chance to repent for their sins. In my mortal life I knew I had to do something to help god’s children avoid this tragedy, so I developed the tool you’re holding in your hand.”“Uhhh-uhhh.” Saint Peter says, taking a sip at coffee, shutting the laser pointer off again. “Uncle S.A.M?” “It’s no ordinary surface to air missile your holiness.” The suited soul responds. “Our patented chemical payload expands into a non-toxic goop that solidifies with exposure to the air. It’s laser guidance system allows it to be fired harmlessly at the helicopter's rotors, disabling the vehicle while leaving the crew unharmed. It’s non-lethal operation also simultaneously makes it applicable in civilian markets- QA testing shows that children in particular found it incredibly fun to use at birthday parties. While I was on my deathbed in fact we were already in the works of establishing a marketing deal with nickelodeon.” “So it’s a pen…” Saint peter sets his coffee down to twist the laser back on. As he does this, a pair of fluffy triangular ears flick up on the other side of his office before a black blur of a kitten with two small feathered wings on its flanks darts onto the wall where the laser guidance system is pointing, slapping the red dot with two small paws. “...and a laser pointer.” “Well… y-you could use it as both of those but…” The aged soul stammers over his words, “The Uncle SAM is not limited by any means of the imagination to those functions!” “Right.” Saint Peter responds, now swirling the dot in circles along the wall, watching with glee as the cherub kitten chases after the dot. “Mr. Sampson, are you aware of what happens to a helicopter after it’s rotors are disabled?” “Well it…” Mr. Sampson, the aged soul is sweating, as if he were already in the presence of the fiery lakes of hell. “...descends.” (cont.1)
>>4943490(cont.1)“That’s right Mr. Sampson. It descends.” Saint Peter turns off the Uncle SAM’s guidance system, and the cherub kitten stares at the place it was confused, before suddenly spotting his own tail in his peripheral vision and choosing that as his next prey. Saint Peter sighs, and reaches under his desk to pull out a piece of paper, handing it to Mr. Sampson along with his pen. “Sign here, here, and here please.” Hands shaking, the soul of Mr. Sampson obliges, and hands the paper back to Saint Peter, who simply smiles and says, “Have a nice eternity Mr. Sampson,” before clicking something on his keyboard. Mr. Sampson screams as the cloud opens up beneath him, revealing the earth, which itself opens up to reveal lakes of fire, organized in seven circles. He would have almost taken his ingenious pen with him, had it not instead bounced off the lip of the cloud, and knocked off course to God knows where. The hole in the clouds closes up again, and Saint. Peter calls out “Next!” The line moves forwards, and before Saint Peter now stands a soul in a slouch hat. “How many times is your face going to show up at my door Mr. Mundy?”As you consider your next move while still covered in the blood of Officer Thompson, the lightning fast focus you’ve developed over years of hard sales is suddenly broken by a small plastic object cracking you on the head after falling from above. You wince in pain for a moment, but catch it after it bounces, the pen spinning through the air before landing perfectly in your hand. “Fuck…” You groan, rubbing your head and looking at the pen. You quickly shake your head and just bolt away from the gore covered mess of a telephone booth, keeping the pen in your hand, assuming it must have been thrown off the body of Officer Thompson when he died. “Jesus Christ!” You shout again running through the officers, firearms bursting in both ears, each one of the rapid shots only further deafening you further, all sounds devolving into a high pitched ring only broken up by the muted fwooping sound of the helicopter’s rotors.However by the time you reach Representative Mann, you can’t even hear that anymore. All sounds have devolved into the screech of tinnitus, so when you yank Representative Mann up to his knees with one hand, you don’t even hear yourself shout “We need to move!” (cont.2)
>>4943491(cont.2)One hand is on Representative Mann’s shoulder, but his gaze is fixed on your other hand, which is currently holding the pen. Moving closer to his feet, he lunges at your right hand, wrestling the fingers open so he can yank the pen out of your hand. He nabs it from you, and begins fumbling around with it, completely neglecting to watch the helicopter swing around. Reacting fast you snatch the pen back from him, and yank him with you by the scruff of his collar, practically throwing him behind the limousine before the bird’s deadly passenger can be granted a sightline.With Rep. Mann sliding on the asphalt, you crouch behind the Limo to look at the pen he almost risked his life to steal off you, clicking out the ballpoint tip once more, then noticing how the plastic case is split into two distinct pieces, of which the top piece twists freely. With a click, the top half of the pen turns and reveals the pen’s logo, letters stylized in patriotic red white and blue spelling out, “Uncle S.A.M.” In place of the ballpoint pen is now a powerful laser pointer, leaving a bright red dot on the black vehicle. Your brow furrows, but your lips pull into a smile. A wise man once said that god doesn’t play dice with the universe, and maybe god doesn’t like gambling, you don’t know, but what you know god loves is to play games with the universe and you love a good game of poker. As Representative Mann gets to his knees, you glare at the position of The Sniper’s laser sight, currently centered exactly where your head would pop up if you stood up right now. “Get ready to run!” You shout to Rep. Mann, only barely able to hear your own voice. “Ready?” Representative Mann nods, and you grip onto the laser-guided micro-missile with two hands, taking one last deep breathe, and clicking the fire button before you’re even fully aimed on target, dodging your head away from the Sniper’s laser sight. A plume of rocket blowback burns your hands as the micro-missile flies free, chasing after the laser dot like a supersonic kitten with wings. The Sniper immediately adjusts his scope to track your head- but The Pilot has other plans. Seeing the rocket tear through the air, and hearing warnings light up over his screen as your laser pointer paints the civilian helicopter as a prime target, he immediately pushes the nose down, throwing the sniper into the seat as the helicopter accelerates forwards. (cont.3)
>>4943494(cont.3)While the civilian helicopter jinks for its life, you keep your aim directly on the target. The super-lightweight missile turns on a dime with every roll bank and dodge of the purple AS-350, rapidly approaching. The helicopter’s manuevers become more and more frantic with every inch that the missile gains, and it gains roughly eight thousand of those per second. The Sniper is thrown around more and more, and the helicopter gets closer and closer to its fate- up until the moment The Sniper reaches over the pilot seat, smacks the pilot upside the head, and shouts “Hold still!” For a moment, it looks like you won. Your missile is barreling towards the helicopter, which is now dodging even less now that it’s closer, perhaps accepting it’s fate. “Looks like lucks on my side you australian-”Another gunshot rings out, and the missile pops prematurely as a five-five six round tears through it midair, sending a wild splatter of goop flying through the air. The aussie in the helicopter smirks to himself, and chambers another round as he lines up another shot on your head. “Gonna put one right through those glasses…” The Sniper says as he tracks you running towards the pizzeria, where Representative Mann has taken cover. Yet just as he begins to apply pressure to the trigger, the helicopter jolts, nearly throwing him off had he not caught himself on the door. Warnings blare throughout the AS-350 as it begins to spin in midair, the tail rotor letting out a disgusting metallic screech as stray goop solidifies within the axle. Within the Pizzaria, both you and Representative Mann have dove behind the counter, the smell of midwest pizza leaving your nose rather uninterested as you and the Representative gasp for air, sweating buckets through your three piece suits. “Where the hell did you get that?” You barely hear Representative Mann heave out. “Deal with the devil.” You respond sarcastically, as questions run through your mind. You watched The Sniper die, specifically at the hands of The Sniper in the helicopter. Why in god’s name did The Sniper in the helicopter look exactly like The Sniper on The Camper? Why did one shoot the other? Outside is still chaos. While the helicopter is spinning uncontrollably, it’s not falling out of the sky just yet, and the police are still eagerly gunning for it with ineffective handguns. (cont.4)
>>4943496(cont.4)>”Stay here Rep. This is insane. If you get smitten down by god I don’t get paid.” Go out and look for a rifle that you can use to finish off that damned helicopter. >Tell Rep Mann to stick close to you while you take him out the back door, make use of the chaos and confusion stirring all around you to take a nice stroll to somewhere with less gunfire. >”Alright, Rep, you’re driving in case I need to shoot, stick close to me.” Amidst the chaos, try to run back out to the limousine with representative mann, and try to drive away before the helicopter can recover or crash. >”You see a phone in here Rep? I need to call in a few favors.” Now that your investments are safe, call in a favor from the mob to ensure that this helicopter or the sniper inside doesn’t recover. >Write in.
>>4943497>”You see a phone in here Rep? I need to call in a few favors.” Now that your investments are safe, call in a favor from the mob to ensure that this helicopter or the sniper inside doesn’t recover.I've got a great way to spin this.He wants to go straight, get out of the business of doing illegal things? Good way to do that is to make sure the cops 'forget' about his past deeds. He gathers some boys up with some actually legal and perfectly registered firearms, assists the police in a matter they clearly can't handle, and they might be willing to turn a blind eye or two to some things in their history. After all, he's clearly just a concerned citizen doing their part to 'keep the peace'.
>>4943497>Tell Rep Mann to stick close to you while you take him out the back door, make use of the chaos and confusion stirring all around you to take a nice stroll to somewhere with less gunfire.The further we get from the sniper and the helicopter, the better prefereably between some narrow streets.
>>4943497>Tell Rep Mann to stick close to you while you take him out the back door, make use of the chaos and confusion stirring all around you to take a nice stroll to somewhere with less gunfire."Right, so here's the deal, Mr. Mann. We go out the back, and we stay in the side alleys until we get to a safe spot. Speed is of the essence, so I'm gonna need you to do what I say, when I say it. You got it?"
>>4943497>>”Stay here Rep. This is insane. If you get smitten down by god I don’t get paid.” Go out and look for a rifle that you can use to finish off that damned helicopter.
>>4943530>>4943739>>4943971>>4944568Since I've been writing for a decent bit now, and that red exclamation mark on the tab nearly gave me a heart attack that I might have to throw out what I've written, I'm gonna officially lock the vote here, as I probably should have done earlier.
>>4943530>>4943739>>4943971>>4944568>Tell Rep Mann to stick close to you while you take him out the back door, make use of the chaos and confusion stirring all around you to take a nice stroll to somewhere with less gunfire.“Mann!” You shout out, only barely able to hear yourself over the sound of your ears ringing out loudly. “Stick with me.” Grabbing him by the arm, you yank him away from the hole smashed into the wall by The Camper, quickly moving him behind the desk. “We’re not sticking around to get our heads blown off by these guys. Further we get from that bird, the better.” The Representative just nods as you hold him by the wrist, quickly running towards the swinging staff door of the restaurant with the wounded politician struggling to keep himself on his feet. Yet no matter how close the politician gets to falling over, you keep dragging him, prepared to carry the bastard if it means keeping this damn deal. Two buyers falling into your lap coming to you looking to buy stolen and highly coveted information is frankly the greatest stroke of luck you could’ve received in preparation for this ingenious heist. You’re not about to waste even a goddamn fraction of this deal, so you don’t even slow your stride as you hear civilians scream in shock as you bash through the kitchen doors. The kitchen staff immediately throw up their hands, while a few delivery boys make a run for the door, but the owner: the owner feels like a real New Mexican superman. With his Ithaca-37 in hand he pumps the action, letting an unfired round drop onto the filthy tiled floor. You don’t stop for an instant as he shakily commands “Freeze.”You take one glance at the round he ejected, and simply tell him, “Sir that’s birdshot.” The Owner simply looks at his gun for a moment, checking the chamber confused while you reach into your coat and say “This isn’t.” You pull your handun out, and point it vaguely in the direction of the group while following his fleeing delivery boys, “I don’t know what the hell it’s loaded with but it killed the guy driving the van through your door.”The cowardly owner just throws up his hands, letting the pump shotgun drop to the floor. When the damn near ancient trench gun smacks into the tile floor, it fires off the bird shot round within, the heavy sound leaving the whole damn crowd deaf while tiny pellets bounce off an oven, implanting themselves in various pieces of left out food and kitchenware. With the kitchen staff yelping, shouting, and tripping over themselves, you pull Representative Mann’s attention away from the drama. (cont.)
>>4944719(cont.)“Mr. Mann, here’s the deal. We’re going out the back. Stay quiet, don’t draw attention to yourself, but stick close to me.” You glare outside the door, spying a small rear parking lot filled with trucks, dumpsters, and a few employee vehicles and bikes, the latter of which the scared delivery boys are running away on. “We’re going out there, and we’re gonna alleys and the side roads, and stick close to the buildings so it’s easier to take cover and harder to get a sight line. Speed is of the essence out here, so for your own damn safety I need you to do what I say, when I say. Got it?” He nods his head eagerly, and says, “Yes, please-” then catches himself and clears his throat. “You have experience in these activities I’m sure. Don’t let me down Mr. Bout.”“Alright. Ready?” You ask quickly, seeing him nod before kicking out the door and moving into the open sunlight. The parking is rife with litter and the smell of cigarettes, a scent that seems quaint compared to a nose that’s smelled the wartorn shanty towns of Sierra leone. Though the now slightly distant sounds of gunfire might almost sound homely if they weren’t obviously the reports of Glock-17s, Remington 870s, and one or two AR-15s by now. What does scare you however is the continual choop-choop-choop sound of the helicopter still holding in the air through some desperate maneuvers from it’s pilot. As the two of you move further and further out into the lot, The Representative suddenly finds himself dragged down onto his knees as you spot purple steel peaking above the rooftops. You hold there, crouching behind a beat down F100 as you watch the craft spin. “Steady! Steady!” The Sniper shouts through clenched teeth up above rooftops, gripping against the curved metal tail of the helicopter with one hand, holding onto his hat with one hand, and his Kukri. “STEADY!” He shouts once more. The helicopter pilot looks back towads him, and is almost about to flick him the bird before the pilot’s eyes go wide in shock at The Sniper’s actions. A terrible casualty of war, The Sniper’s slouch hat slips off his hat as the australian pulls his Kukri out form between his teeth, and while barley hanging onto the tail. With the oversized knife equiped, he swings his entire body towards the disabled tail rotor, hacking away at the solidified goop, pulling chunks off with every slash of his blade. “We need to move.” You tell Representative Mann. “We’re running out of time, let's go.” “Go where?” Rep Mann asks, before you give him a quick glare. “Apologies Mr. Bout, I trust your judgement.” It’s a good question though. Where the hell do you want to run?(cont.)
>>4944721(cont.)>Head towards the docks. Plenty of tall moving machinery to make a dangerous environment, and you’re sure Valentini’s boys still gotta be in with the unions over there. >The city library. Unsuspecting, full of a practical maze of bookshelves you could hide in. Bonus if you need to commit murder it’s not hard to burn the evidence down. >Head towards the local mall, enough civilians around there to really blend in, and if that don’t work, use more gun, there are a good few gun shops down there.>Screw it, just head straight home. You’ll probably lead them to your place of residence but that also means forcing them to tread on the house of Robert, your insane landlord.>Write in.
>>4944724>>Head towards the local mall, enough civilians around there to really blend in, and if that don’t work, use more gun, there are a good few gun shops down there.
>>4944724>Head towards the docks. Plenty of tall moving machinery to make a dangerous environment, and you’re sure Valentini’s boys still gotta be in with the unions over there.
>>4944724>Head towards the local mallWe need to get somewhere not easily accessible by helicopter, and if need be, somewhere at least moderately defensible.
Apologies guys, but I had an unexpectedly busy day, the next update will have to be delayed to tomorrow.
>>4944813>>4945173>>4945576>Head towards the local mallhttps://youtu.be/yRRqxnjslb0“C’mon, let’s move somewhere we can get cover.” You explain, immediately moving across the parking lot. “Mall’s not far, and there’s a lot of crowds and cover.” As you approach the road, you crouch low, motioning for Rep. Mann to move first as you watch The Sniper continues to hack and slash at the tail rotor, which is now just starting to twitch, small chunks of hardened slime breaking away with every smack. To your luck however, the late engineer Samuel Sampson didn’t mess around with his wildly mismarketed missiles of mass destruction, and the non-newtonian stuff attached is only chipping off chunks at a time that solidify and crack just as he slams into it, before returning to a soft incompressible goo gumming up the rotor. You see this, then glance back over to Rep. Mann, who’s taking cover in the alley across the street, waiting for you to follow him. Moving as quickly as your business attire will alow, you dash across the street, ducking into the alleyway, confident that you have another few minutes when all of a sudden you hear an ear-piercing clang of metal punching through metal like a tack through paper. Glancing back, you see the culprit, The Sniper’s kukri having embedded itself into a mailbox like a bullet. As the australian hacked away at larger and larger chunks of slime, the rotor began to free itself, pulling away chunks of the hardening slime, sending everything caught in its rotors flying off like a cannon shell, including glue, a rather unfortunate pelican that chose to hitch a ride on the tail , and the sniper’s knife. Within a mist of blood and feathers, you see the sniper confused, watching over the city looking for where the hell his knife went, perched on a newly stabilized helicopter. Knowing that your time is running out, you quickly dip back into the alleyway, moving quickly through the alleys, dodging and ducking through side roads, slipping into crowds, and even right past a few younger gangs- the new kids misguidedly believing that Valentini’s old stomping grounds are free from the taking. Most of them are smoking behind buildings, playing card games or shooting hoops just to stop and watch you with a piercing yet confused glare as you stride through their turf, watching the sky like a deranged homeless man who hears the voice of god in his ears. Each and everyone of them just rolls their eyes, and decide you're not worth their attention, especially as roving packs of squad cars pass by with their sirens blaring, trailing the helicopter whose rotors have grown more distant. (cont.)
>>4947380(cont.)At first, the silence of the purple helicopter is almost soothing to your nerves, like a cold glass of water after a workout, but soon the downtown pedestrians begin to draw your honed paranoia. The weapons industry has taught you to be a paranoid man, back in the balkans you would check your mercedes every morning for car bombs. Someone wanted you dead, it was just that line of work, and over the years of working in an office, that old instinct has faded- until right now. Every citizen that glares at you feels like a possible informant for that damn helicopter hovering over your shoulder, tracking you from all angles, watching your direction. You try your best to avoid the wider, busier roads, but at times it’s simply impossible not to. During these lapses, you slip into the crowds, losing yourself in the bustle of downtown approaching rush hour. However a few of the times you enter one of these crowds, you swear to god you hear an indescribable sound behind you, like a rush of wind played backwards, but when you glance back, all there is to see is Representative Mann sweating through not only his undershirt but- rather impressively- his jacket. Between the blood loss and the loss of water from the horror of being detached from an IV drip constantly injecting liquified American tax dollars, you’re surprised the bastard hasn’t entered shock yet. Maybe the mall will have some water and some bandages you can “acquire” to keep the man on his feet. You’re not far now, only the parking lot stands between you and The Mall’s grand, run down entrance finished up with overgrown vines and a bit of graffiti. At first, you try to follow the foot traffic, just being another pair of businessmen looking to run some errands on their lunch break, but it seems all too quickly that the distant chopping of the purple helicopter begins to grow closer, its echo becoming tighter and the sound louder. It isn’t long before your jogging, then as the purple helicopter hones in on the two of you, and that jog accelerates the louder the helicopter grows. How the hell are you so easily watched? How the hell did the Mann cousins know about your plan when you were only just discussing putting it into action? You shake your head as you run, before dropping into a dead-sprint towards the mall entrance, motioning Mann to follow you close, however as you look back… you swear to god you see something dip further back into the car, like a shadowy hallucination after days of sleep deprivation it twitches in your peripheral vision, then disappears as soon as you see it. You just keep running, until you reach the mall entrance, slipping through the sliding glass doors, and continuing to put distance between you and the outside. (cont.)
>>4947382(cont.)The mall is not particularly pretty these days, but it certainly is pretty grand, with what used to be all sorts of classical architecture. Marble pillars raise up to the higher floors have been chipped away to revel the metal infrastructure beneath, while old murals and empty storefronts have been vandalized. Still, while the place could use a renovation out the ass, it is not abandoned. In fact, the place is packed with shoppers putting up with the smell of mildew in the hopes of finding some good deal. To your right, you see a phone booth, glance at it, and look away considering that now might be the time to make some calls, though frankly it might be better to make your way into some place with less prying ears, if that even exists. Glancing over to the other side of The Mall’s entrance, you see a slightly overweight man in his early fifties wearing a black leather jacket desperately trying to maintain receding hairline with even more hair grease. Yet even without that description, you would still have recognized the man as one of Valentini’s capos. You’re honestly surprised to see the guy here. Most of the higher ups in the mob don’t show their faces in the turf of the younger gangs so easel, not unless they have some business planned with ‘em, which is a rare sight indeed, and not something he’s carrying himself for. As you look him over, he spots you, and shouts “Ey, Timmy.” He holds his hands out. “Fuck you doing out here?” You smile, and throw a quick wave to him, but your anticipated answer is interrupted as you hear a ringing sound. Glancing back to the pay-phones, you see one of them is ringing. You’re too far to see what it is, but something’s been left on top of it. “What are you doing here Paulie?” You shout out to the mafiosa, placing your arm out to prevent Mr. Mann from getting too close. “Ahhh you're famous now Tim.” He takes a quick puff on a cigarette. Maybe he just ran out of the cigars, or The Boss is more broke than even he lets on, and the mob can’t afford cigars anymore. “Boss wanted to hear the scoop.” Shit. You are probably famous. They definitely had your face on the news, hell you shot a missile, this is a problem. Might be a good idea to at least get a change of clothes while your out at this place. (cont.)
>>4947383(cont.)>”Look Paulie, tell Val I’ll talk to him as soon as I can but… I’m still in the shit right now, I’m working it out.” Ignore Paulie and the call, and start looking for a change of attire, and quick fix for Mann. >”Why don’t you hold on that for a minute Paulie, you know I don’t need to be rude, but I’m expecting a call right now and I don’t wanna keep nobody waiting.” Go pick up the payphone. >”I was actually right about to call the boss, so you got me at a good time. Could you keep an eye on my associate here while I call up Val?” Go to the phones, but wait for them to stop ringing, and call either Valentini or Senator Mann, your current team member’s rival. >”Look Paulie, I’m in a heap of shit right now. Walk and talk with me.” Take Paulie somewhere private, and explain to him the Mann Vs Mercenary situation. >Act uncharectaristically dumb for a moment, and shout out loudly, preferably with a younger gang member in earshot, “Hey Paulie how ya doing, How’s The Boss, Mr. Valentini?” >Write in.
>>4947386>”Why don’t you hold on that for a minute Paulie, you know I don’t need to be rude, but I’m expecting a call right now and I don’t wanna keep nobody waiting.” Go pick up the payphone.
I apologize guys, but I don't think I'll be able to put out an update again today, I've been busy with getting ready for the upcoming semester and am sleep deprived on top of that. The next update should come tomorrow.
>>4947402>>4948406>”Why don’t you hold on that for a minute Paulie, you know I don’t need to be rude, but I’m expecting a call right now and I don’t wanna keep nobody waiting.” Go pick up the payphone.“Don’t I know it. But hey...” You step in closer to Paulie, whispering low, “Nobody knows nothing right now. You know me Paulie. I got a quick tongue and tight lips.” “Good lord Mr. Bout that’s disgusting!” Rep. Mann shouts from behind. You just glare at the gutter-brained politician with a furrowed brow before saying, “The fuck is wrong with you? Grow up and can it.” He shudders for a moment, then looks away into the crowd, you roll your eyes and turn back to Paulie, who’s taking a long drag on his cigarette. By the smell of the thing, it’s rather high quality. The phone behind you is still ringing loudly. “Look paulie, I know the boss ain’t happy but I’m just as on edge as he is right now. Could you give me a minute please, you know I don’t mean to rude, but I’m pretty sure that call is for me, and these ain’t people you can keep waiting any longer than you can keep Val waiting. So please, can I answer this?” Paulie nods, motioning towards the phone, “Please, please.” “Thanks Paulie.” You say, moving towards the phone booth as Paulie puffs on the cigarette again. You quickly pick up the receiver, Immediately saying, “Hello, can I help you? Are you looking for someone?” “Hello? Is this Timothy Bout?” You hear from the slightly shaky voice of a young woman. Instinct from the business makes you immediately assume secretary. “Who is this calling?” You ask. For a minute, you hear murmuring between the receptionist and an older man, before you suddenly hear the receptionist yelp as someone grabs the phone. “Mr. Bout.” The voice of one of the two Mann Cousin’s starts. You quickly glance over your shoulder, to see Brandon Mann suspiciously looking over the crowd of inner city kids joking among themselves while playing hookie, as if the sight were totally alien to the man. The man on the phone is Russel Mann. “I’ve seen your appearance on the news. I was hoping to receive an update on the situation. I’m rather surprised you managed to survive that situation. Did you receive any outside help Mr. Bout?”As Senator Mann speaks into the phone, someone knocks on the door of his office. He glances at The Receptionist, then to the door. The young woman nods, and frantically stands up to answer the door. (cont.)
>>4949517(cont.)“Oh uhh… yeah I… errr… I didn’t wanna tell you this because I know it’s better for you the less you know about these things, but I gotta lotta old mob connections.” “I did notice the grease in your hair Mr. Bout.” He says, watching as the receptionist opens the door just a crack, and one of The Senator’s campaign managers damn near slithers through holding a poster. “So your only connection was the mob, Mr Bout? Because I saw my RAT of a cousin crawling out of that commie limousine right next to you.” “Well of course Senator.” You say, too quiet for the distracted representative to hear. Not sure if you want to burn bridges with the senator, you start with vague reassurances, all lying through your teeth. “See I’m a thorough man. Don’t worry, your investment is safe, I’m not stupid enough to betray a client like you, you’ve offered me the world, you’re brother can barely promise an immigration policy.” You need a subject change- you can’t keep half assing this until you make a final decision on the Mann problem, although if you can keep both in the dark, you might be able to reap the benefits of both until you actually get the briefcase. Speaking of keeping in the dark… “Say Senator. How’d you know I’d be here, at this specific payphone in the mall. Right now?” “Mr. Bout,”Senator Mann responds, “would you like to know why the Mafia has been sliding downhill for the last twenty years?” “I already know about all the advancements in surveillance, the correlation between increasing narcotic usage and ratting out your friends, and the legal corporate entities taking the seat of dirty power Senator, you don’t need to give me the history lesson.” “Don’t be ridiculous Mr. Bout.” Senator Mann nearly shouts. “That’s all nonsense. See in 1971 the FBI began to secretly lace hair gel with radio-reflective material. With radar equipped spy satellites, the federal government can detect an italian or anyone closely acquainted with them with extreme accuracy. Your brand of hair gel happens to be the same brand Mr. Vaentini uses.” For a moment, there’s abject silence from Senator Mann’s phone, and the struggle between The Receptionist and a pair of campaign managers becomes audible. “Senator! Senator!” They shout, loudly tapping a cardboard poster. “We have a new slogan! Perfect for the kids of today!”Senator Mann’s eyes glance down to the sign they’re tapping so loudly, to see the words, “Brandon Mann? Not!” above a picture of himself, Russel Mann. Had Katie The Receptionist let these men in, he would probably have added them to his quickly growing list of He shakes his head, and asks, “Mr. Bout, are you still there?” (cont.)
>>4949518(cont.)“Yes!” You say, still rustling your hair, watching thousands of tiny flakes of hair gel shower out of it. “Yeah! Still here! Just a moment!” You cover the receiver for a moment. “Representative!” You reach into your pocket with your free hand. “Go into that shop and get me some shampoo.” Handing him the money, you point to a woman’s hair care shop. No time to be picky. “And a water bottle.” You add as he begins to walk off. “Thanks for the info Senator. That’s- that’s certainly interesting.” You place your hand atop the phone booth for a moment, leaning into it as you feel something on top. Fiddling with it between your fingers for a moment, glance up to it to see a pack of cigarettes- Dunhills specifically. You don’t know why, but something about that rings an alarm in the back of your mind. Your mind is split between that little instinct and the issue of what to tell Senator Mann when all of a sudden you see a hand in your peripheral vision grab the phone cord, yanking it over your head, and immediately around your neck. You release a disgusting choking sound as your throat is pulled tight by the phone cord. Glancing down towards the hand, you see that your would be killer is dressed in expensive formal gloves, holding a cigarette between his middle and index finger even as he chokes you, although you catch a glimpse of it shifting red from something else. Paulie wasn't wearing gloves, you remember. “Mr Bout?” You hear from the phone, currently held between your head and your shoulder. “Mr. Bout? Mr. Bout do you have any intention of taking our deal seriously, because if you cannot answer me in a timely manner I am voiding our contract.” “No, no, no!” You shout in a raspy, choked voice. “I- I- I can talk.” Looks like you’ll have to do business fast so you can get back to breathing, unless of course you’re no longer interested in working with Senator Mann, in which case you can cut to it. As per your abilities as the salesman, all of the following options except for the option to hang up can be made more effective by writing in sales rhetoric selling Senator Mann on the proposition. As well, the better the sales rhetoric, the better your odds against the attacker if you choose to continue the phone call. (cont.)
>>4949529>Try to convince Senator Mann that you were simply using Representative Mann for information, and that you have no intention of working with him. Not too hard, but even a good lie can bite you in the ass when you’re being tracked by multiple groups. >Try to fight the natural order of the world by convincing Senator Mann to work with his cousin in getting the briefcase. They can decide who gets the information in the end when it’s in their hands. >Try to convince him that you, as the greatest salesman this side of the ruins of New Zealand, are the only one possible that could get this briefcase, and that he should be begging you to let him outbid his brother. >Maybe you don’t need the feds actively participating in the heist, funding and supplying it is enough for you. Let down Mann gently, so he doesn’t send the crewmembers he promised you to kill you. >Who the hell is this guy to hang up on you? Let him hang up. Now who the hell is this guy to choke you? Try to kick his ass. >Write in.
>>4949534>Try to fight the natural order of the world by convincing Senator Mann to work with his cousin in getting the briefcase. They can decide who gets the information in the end when it’s in their hands.Look, Senator. You know what happened to Redmond and Blutarch Mann? They spent the entirety of their unnaturally long lives fighting each other and getting absolutely nowhere because they kept cancelling each other's efforts out. They spent and wastes millions, maybe even billions on an endless series of who-gives-a-shit that ended up in both of them dying and probably fighting each other over which one had the fancier coffin. You're better than that, Senator. And I think the Representative can be better than that too. If you and him tried working together instead of against each other, who could possibly stop you? Think about it: President and Vice-President Mann. Eight years for each of you, you know what that is? Sixteen. But why stop there? If the two of you are together, you could make America not only great again, but greater than it's ever been before. China, North Korea, Russia? They'd all be groveling at your feet by the end of the first term! Even if you hate the man, you can't deny how far you'd get if he wasn't interfering with you.
>>4949534>Try to fight the natural order of the world by convincing Senator Mann to work with his cousin in getting the briefcase. They can decide who gets the information in the end when it’s in their hands. "Senator Mann, if you would hear me out for just a moment, would it be possible for you to cooperate with Representative Mann? Look at it like this, If you were to work with your cousin, A, it would decrease the amount of money you would have to spend for my services, and B, Publicly cooperating with your cousin would be *very* good for PR. Think about it, two political rivals, setting aside their differences to work towards a common goal. Everyone loves a story like that, the journos will eat it up, leading to massive political gain for YOU. So, whaddaya say?"(I highly doubt this is going to work, but it's better to try and fail, right?)
I'm really sorry guys, but there won't be an update again today. Sorry for how slow this week has been, I had hoped it would be a little more free.
>>4949534>Try to fight the natural order of the world by convincing Senator Mann to workwithhis cousin in getting the briefcase. They can decide who gets the information in the end when it’s in their hands.
>Try to fight the natural order of the world by convincing Senator Mann to work with his cousin in getting the briefcase. They can decide who gets the information in the end when it’s in their hands.https://youtu.be/yzOWRETM5TE“Look looklooklooklook-” you choke out, one grabbing at the phone booth, desperately trying to hold yourself in place while the other struggles to slip its fingers between your neck and the phone wire. You struggle, feeling blood pool up in your jugular just before you manage to slip your hands underneath and YANK the wire forwards, throwing off the balance of the assassin behind you. Taking in a deep, and incredibly loud breath, you say one last time “LOOK!” You elbow the man chocking you in the gut, hearing a pained grunt come from a rather high class voice. “Stop struggling or that gaelic agitator is next you ballistic hustler.” You hear a french accent grumble in your ear. You ignore the french bastard, and continue your argument to Senator. Mann. “Think about the PR senator. Think about your campaign.” You say with a choked voice. “Th-th-the American public loves a storrrr-y...” you slam your head back into The Spy’s nose behind you, and hear him yelp. A part of you had hoped that he might pull his hands off the wire to hold his pained face, but instead the skilled and disciplined spy simply reels his head back while only barely loosening his grip on the cord enough for you to get a few more words in. “Two rivals… two family members… setting aside their differences for the… hhhheeeeuuuugh… good of american’s everywhere. Beautiful story right? It’s choking me up. Besides… for half off... ” “Senator Mann? Those checks arrived in the mail.” The Secretary says, still sweating from fending off two campaign managers at once as she carries a heap of envelopes and papers. At the top of one of them is an envelope labeled “Donation from Gray Gravel CO,” which has been poorly scribbled to say “Anonymous.” Senator Mann simply waves her to place the stack on the side of the room, near a pile of money bags. “You’ve got a quick tongue Mr. Bout. If you weren’t dying right now I’d consider you for my campaign team, but I’m a wiser man than you Mr. Bout. I know how much America loves a good story, but what you don’t know is the kind of story Americans want.” “American’s want… drama…” you squeal with the last bit of oxygen in your lungs.“Americans want a war story Mr. Bout.” Mr. Mann responds, putting his feet up on the desk, leaning back on the chair. “They want to see men like us at each other’s throats. They want to make heroes out of us, to give their lives meaning. Mr. Bout, this election is war! And I intend to be the hero of this war-story.” (cont.)
>>4951946(cont.)“Senator… “ you start, grabbing at the well dressed man behind you, feeling yourself become weaker with every passing second, ”you- you are a wise guy… so you gotta see the bigger picture… remember… remember…” With every word that slips out, your vision grows darker and darker. The Spy’s stranglehold becomes more confident, wrapping his right elbow around your throat and pulling the other arm away so he can take another long puff of his cigar. The smoke fills the phone booth just as…“Yo!” You suddenly hear someone shout loudly from behind you, followed by the sound of someone racking a round into a Military Armament Corporation Model-10. The grip on your neck loosens ever so slightly, to allow a bit of air to slip through. “Yo masked motherfuckah! I know you ain’t doing this shit on The Gamblers turf.” There’s a sudden, very slight puff of smoke, and as it subsides, you notice his skin’s a little darker. “Yo it’s cool, it’s cool.” You hear the man choking you say, suddenly taking on an inner city accent. “Fucker thought he could call the cops in this town. Saw I was packing.” “Nah dawg, fuck you.” You hear the local gangster say, before you’re nearly thrown to the ground as The Spy is thrown to the side, whipped by the heavy grip of the MAC-10. “I don’t know you motherfuckah! You wanna enforce? You join the crew!”The weight of the spy still grappled onto you, you finally lose your iron grip on the phone, letting it hang by the cord while you fall to the ground. You quickly start to scramble towards your feet, but behind you The Spy’s disguise is slipping away while he reaches into his coat. “Senator Mann, you’re a wise guy, but you’re not seeing the full picture here. I’ve talked to a lotta warlords in my time and the fed’s aren’t too different.” You begin, speaking as quickly as you can into the phone. As you ramble, you suddenly flinch at the sound of a Colt Python’s killer .357 magnum round bursting right next to your head, leaving your ears ringing, but your brain surprised to find itself still encased within your skull. You begin to scramble for your pistol as you turn to face the fight, still talking into the phone. “It’s easy to lose track when your in Congress’s trenches, but you’re gonna kick yourself in the oval office if you don’t think long and hard about this. Remember Redmont and Bluetarch? They spent everything they had in their long lives trying to be the heroes of their war stories. You’re a better Mann than that Senator, because you are a about to step into the oval office, and so is Representative Mann. ““Mr. Bout, if you’re suggesting I act like some bipartisan hippy I suggest you hang up the phone right now.” Senator Mann responds. “What kind of man would I be if I compromised on the promises I made to the american public. I went up there and told them I am not Brandon Mann, and goddamnit I will give them someone other than Brandon Mann.” (cont.)
>>4951951(cont.)“Senator, the american public doesn’t remember promises, they remember war stories.” You explain, watching as The Spy puts another hole in the unfortunate young gangster, who's currently barely standing, sending fully automatic shots flying from his SMG. You swear the round that hit the frenchman only barely grazed the spys cheek, yet almost instantly he dropped to the ground, spinning down as his muscles almost instantly go limp. “And the both of you could be the hero of a much grander war story with my help. You two could make Andrew Jackson look like a pacifist. President and Vice President Mann. You’d have China and Russia groveling by your feet by the end of your first goddamn term, and with the both of you working together, you’d have four terms- that’s sixteen years Senator. I know you hate the man, but with him you can give the american public a war story that will be sung throughout the ages. Your father and your uncle spent millions- probably billions on who gives a shit that left both of them dying alone, Senator. Don’t make that same mistake when the both of you can be a hero together.” Things are silent for a moment as you glance over to the dead body of the spy, from whom only a small trickle of blood spills onto the floor, while the gangster who saved you drenches the floor with his blood. His fellow “Gamblers” rush to his aid. A few of the guys, barely older than teenagers, give you glares, but with you not attacking, they instead focus on either stomping the body of the spy, and dragging the wounded Gambler out as quickly as they can. You hear a sigh through the phone, and glance back into the booth as Senator Mann says, “Put my cousin on the phone. I’ll consider things.” “You won’t regret this.” You say, turning back to face the scene, looking for Senator. Mann’s cousin, and surprisingly seeing him stand right behind you. Apparently intent on keeping their turf clean of corpses, the gamblers also seemed to have moved the body of The Spy very quickly. “Yo what the fuck.” One of them mutters. >”Representative Mann, boy have I got the deal for you. Your cousin’s on the phone, and I think he might just be willing to set aside your differences.” >”Goddamnit Mann, I saved your life and you can’t get me a shampoo bottle? I’ll get it myself, but you gotta shake hands with your brother otherwise we’re gonna have to renegotiate our deal.” >Hold off on this deal, and introduce yourself to the local gangsters. They did just save your life, though more out of territory than friendliness. >”Senator, now is not the best place for negotiations. What do you say I call you back somewhere with less gunfire.” Thank the gangsters, then try calling for a cab. >You don't trust what looks like Mann in front of you, Punch him in the face, you can never be too sure of these things. >Write in.
>>4951959>You don't trust what looks like Mann in front of you, Punch him in the face, you can never be too sure of these things.No way in hell is that representative mann, fucking deadringer spies
>>4951959>>You don't trust what looks like Mann in front of you, Punch him in the face, you can never be too sure of these things.
>>4951959>You don't trust what looks like Mann in front of you, Punch him in the face, you can never be too sure of these things.
Next update will be out tomorrow guys, apologies as always. Thankfully things are clearing up right now but I've been sleep deprived all day so I don't think I'll be able to write anything of quality.
>>4951959>"Say, Senator Mann, you wouldn't have happened to have seen a french guy in a sharp suit around here, have you?" You say, stepping closer to him while staring into his eyes.
>You don't trust what looks like Mann in front of you, Punch him in the face, you can never be too sure of these things.“Mann, you’re not hurt are you?” You say stepping closer to him. Looking over his body, you don’t see any fresh wounds since you last saw him. “Good,” you say, holding out a hand to beckon him closer. “Look, I got a friend who wants to talk to you, make some deals, I think you two could work something out that’ll benefit the both of you.” “Who with Mr. Bout?” Mann asks as you hand him the phone. “Now look Rep, you’re not gonna like what I’m about to say,” You make sure the phone is firmly held in his hands, as you speak, keeping an eye on his off hand at the same time. “But I’m telling you, it’ll work. Why don’t you introduce yourself to the man on the phone.” He gives you a curious but suspicious look, eyebrows to the sky, yet as he raises the phone to his face, you just barely catch a glance at a smirk he must’ve assumed was covered by the phone. That smirk is met with your knuckles cracking against the underside of “Representative Mann’s” jaw, wound up quick enough to catch him while he’s still reaching into his jacket, but just barely strong enough to knock the phone up and out of his hands, pulling the coiled cord taught before gravity and tension conspire to yank it back down, bonking The Spy on the top of the head. He’s visibly dazed for only a few seconds, but you are not a man to pass up a solid business opportunity. You grab the spook while he’s still a little baffled, scrunching up his collar in your hands and slamming his back into the side of the phone booth, smashing the glass of the booth as he grunts.The Spy reaches into his coat, but you throw another punch, this one wound up enough to nearly knock him off his feet, sending him reeling back while you reach into your own coat, pulling out your pistol, and aiming it center mass. “Unless you’re here to offer seventy five percent of my goddamn sales back, I think we should have a discussion.”(cont.)
>>4954730(cont.)“Damn straight.” Someone to your right says, accentuating his agreement with the slide of an Isreali Military Industries desert eagle. Looking right, you see a man probably five years older than you pointing the fifty-caliber pistol at the spy’s head. Now, despite their prominence in the movies, there are a thousand and one reasons why you would never choose to bring a Desert Eagle into combat, reliability, recoil, and some other R words, but no matter how much firearms expertise you have, fifty american eagle would still blow your brains out of your skull and leave a hole you could see straight through. That’s why you feel the chill of human mortality in your spine when he turns the gun to you, although the investment of multiple near-death-experiences in a day has left you considerably warmer than you would’ve been before your coffee. “You too.” The Gambler adds, “The fuck is going on, and who thought you could pull this shit in mah neighborhood?” “Sir…” The man appearing as Representative Mann says. “I am so sorry about this whole situation, me and my acquaintance here were attacked and… something must be wrong with him, I think he took a hit in the head, please let me handle him, I’ll have him out of your hair, and… I’ll even fund any repairs and medical expenses from my own campaign funds.” “Man shut the fuck up.” The Shot Caller responds, aiming the gun at the Spy. “If he got hit in the head that bad he wouldn’t a beat yo ass.” He turns the gun back to you. “So why’d you beat his ass. Didn’t you come in with this dude?” A short lived smile pops onto your face. You did kick his ass, the guy’s right. These Gamblers seem to have a good nose for bullshit, which could be just as bad for you as it is for The Spy. “Mr. Bout?” You hear the voice of Representative Mann say, without The Spy’s moving. “What the hell is going on? Are you hu...” Glancing towards the hair-care shop, you catch The Representative hanging silent in confusion as he stares at himself, only to suddenly flinch and throw his hands into the air as The Gamblers point their weapons at him. In one of those held up hands, he holds a bottle of shampoo… though when you look past him, you do see a similar looking man inside shouting at a poor cashier. Maybe it’s just your paranoia… the sight is rather far away. The Shotcaller turns around, glaring at Representative, before tilting his whole head up to the sky and asking “Oh what the fuck?” (cont.)
>>4954731(cont.)>”Look, I know this is a lot of confusion for you, and I’m terribly sorry for causing this mess in your neighborhood, but could you allow my business associate over there to use the telephone? “I’ll try and explain things, and… compensate you for damages as he talks.” >”I think the french man ought to explain the situation here, because I’m not clear on everything myself yet. Spy, I know that’s you, so you’re gonna answer this gentleman’s questions, then you’re gonna answer mine.” >”Look, I’m sorry guys, my business has no right to be spilling into your neighborhood.” Lower your pistol and hold out your hand to the shotcaller. “My name is Timothy Bout, and there are men trying to kill me. I’d hoped the mall would provide cover.” >You’ll have to call the Senator back later, and hope to god he doesn’t get angry and change his mind. Tell the Gamblers, “That is the man I walked in with. I will be walking out with him as well, and leaving you gentlemen to handle one of the men who shot your friend. >”Mann,” Glance at the Mann with the shampoo, “Go back into the store.” When he’s out of the line of fire, blow the Mann near the phonebooth’s brain out, and hope the Gamblers are reasonable enough to understand one last bit of bloodshed on their turf. >”Hey, he might be a spy too.” Glance at Representative Mann with the shampoo bottles. “Rough him up as well, you can never be too sure with frenchmen.” >Write in.
>>4954733>>”I think the french man ought to explain the situation here, because I’m not clear on everything myself yet. Spy, I know that’s you, so you’re gonna answer this gentleman’s questions, then you’re gonna answer mine.”
>>4954733>”I think the french man ought to explain the situation here, because I’m not clear on everything myself yet. Spy, I know that’s you, so you’re gonna answer this gentleman’s questions, then you’re gonna answer mine.”Hmmm...I really don't know if I can trust the one with the shampoo either. Two snipers, could be two spies...
I'm sorry guys, but I think the current shitty every other day update schedule is gonna have to be continued until monday. Fucking college man, semester hasn't even started yet and they're taking all my time because of some bureaucratic bullshit.
>>4954818>>4954949>>”I think the French man ought to explain the situation here, because I’m not clear on everything myself yet. Spy, I know that’s you, so you’re gonna answer this gentleman’s questions, then you’re gonna answer mine.”“To tell you the truth my man, I don’t know the whole story myself.” You say to The Shotcaller before turning your gun back towards The Spy. “”So I think the french man ought to explain the situation here. Spy, I know it’s you, so you’re gonna answer this guy’s questions, then you’re gonna answer mine.” The shampooless falsehood of Representative mann appears baffled for a moment, but you’d bet your ass- no, you’d go further, you’d bet your wife’s ass that the spy’s currently thinking up some lie. You’d also bet your ass, but not your wife’s ass that that lie will be met with some variation of “Man, fuck you,” from The Gamblers.“Man that’s bullshit.” The shot caller shouts, pointing his gun at you. “You know something. Who’s the spy?” “All I know is that he’s a man wearing a disguise, and that he was sent to kill me.” You explain calmly, “Like I said, I’m lost on a lot of things, I can’t be sure of anything,” you look towards the Representative Mann with the shampoo, “Can’t even say if you’re real Mann, so watch your step. Anyway I’d rather not mislead you. This guy-” you gesture your gun as you point it towards the Spy, “Knows a lot about what’s going.” “Mr. Bout, are you insane?” The Representative Mann without the shampoo says. “I don’t know anymore than you do. You… why the hell did you attack me, and who the hell is this?” He points towards the visage of Representative Mann holding a bottle of shampoo. “You know who he is.” You respond, “Because either he’s the real one as well, or he’s your identical twin.” “That’s exactly who it is.” The shampooless Mann explains. “That damned senator is trying to ruin my image with a lookalike, having him seen on the news with con men like you.” “Who you calling a conman?” The Shotcaller shouts, leaving his gun pointed to your head while “Spy, I’m a legitimate businessman, and these men are just vigilant citizens protecting their city.” “I was referring to the man pointing a gun at my-,” The shampooless representative stutters for a moment as The Shotcaller turns his gun towards him. “I was referring to you, Mr. Bout, I didn’t mean any insult to the local gentlemen. Mr. Bout here, however, is a conman and a criminal. He’s sold weapons to criminals of war...”You hear one of the Gamblers mutter, “Sounds dope,” as the shotcaller gives you a glance of respect. (cont.)
>>4957479(cont.)That glance lasts until The Spy says, “...not to mention he’s an associate of the Italians, Mr. Valentini’s mob.”“Don’t make false accusations, especially not ones slandering the fine italian americans that helped build this country, you damn terrorist.” The Shampoo holding Mann suddenly says, as if he were behind a podium, speaking in farce of a debate. “Mr. Valentini is-”Like a lawyer watching his own client stand up and speak to the jury, you internally begin to scream, shut up, shut up, shut up before you remember that you have the loudest mouth in any room, and move to interrupt. “Not affiliated with me. He’s the guy who owns the restaurant down on fourth right? I just take my wife there for dinner, not my kinda place but the cannoli’s alright. Anyway, let’s stay on track. This guy isn’t answering your questions.” “Yo I saw him talking to an Italian looking guy earlier.” One of the Gamblers mutters in the back. “Are with Mr. Valentini or not?” The Shotcaller asks, returning the gun to you. You can’t let him know you are with Mr. Valentini without getting either a beat down, or stuck in a fire fight. You’re a persuasive man, but goddamn this spy is not letting up. “That man I talked to choked me out a moment later.” You respond. “He was likely our friend wearing another disguise.” “You mean the dude we shot?” The shot caller asks. “He didn’t look like an italian.” “He also disappeared. You all saw it. He fooled us.” You say, “And I’d like to know his secrets. So why don’t you tell these men here who you work for?” “He did disappear.” You hear a Gambler mutter, “That shit was crazy. Like some fuckin’ disney shit.” The Spy stutters for a moment, before saying, “Don’t any of you recognize me? I work for all of you, the people. I am a Representative of The House, I’m running for president this election, surely you’ve seen my face.” This damn spy is clinging on to his story almost as hard as a real politician would. It almost reminds you of yourself talking to Interpol about the mysterious shipment of weapons grade plutonium that you misplaced somewhere in Iraq. Along with the mining rights to numerous oil fields you had just happened to stumble across. Those were good times, you can’t be a war-dog in this day and age without liking the desert just a bit. “I see a lotta rich dudes on TV.” The Shotcaller says, “Enough to know it’s a whole load a bullshit.” “See that’s why you won’t win this spy, guy’s too smart for you.” You say, hoping to appeal to his ego. “Why don’t you start answering our questions?” You turn towards the shotcaller. “Got any questions for the guy?” (cont.)
>>4957481(cont.)“Who the fuck do you two think you’re playing?” He glances behind him, pointing his gun at the Spy as he speaks to his fellow gang members. “Yo, one a you drag this fool into the office. Whoop his ass until he talks. You-” he points his gun towards you, “you tell me whatever the fuck you do know, or you gonna go with him.” Goddamnit, you put the spotlight on the spy, and instead of cracking under the pressure, he put on a performance, and now they’ve gone from being suspicious of you, to wanting you to kiss their ass. It could be worse though, had this gang not had a nose for lies- or had you lied to them yourself, it might’ve been you going into that office. “And what about you?” The shotcaller asks, turning his head towards The Representative holding the shampoo. “You a masked motherfucker too?”“No sir.” He responds. “I could prove it if you like, I… I’m- I’m employed by the federal government… if you’d let me call my campaign team I might be able to prove my identity to you.” “Nah, sounds like a trick.” The Shotcaller replies. As the two converse, one of the Shotcaller’s men grab the shampooless Mann by the arm, and begin to yank him. Apart of you expect the spy to attack, yet instead gives a half assed attempt at struggle before letting himself get dragged away. Within the hair care shop, the man you saw yelling at the clerk is gone, while the clerk’s still standing in the exact same position the way only a man turned brain dead through prolonged exposure to retail can. (cont.)
>>4957484(cont.)As per your abilities as the salesman, all of these prompts can be made more effective by writing in convincing rhetoric. >Criminal to criminal, cut the shit with The Shotcaller, and fill him in on the basics yourself, before trying to offer him a cut if he lets you handle this on your own, or sides with you. >Try to convince the shot caller to allow Representative Mann to use the phone to call his campaign team to prove himself. >Try to convince the shot caller to allow Representative Mann to use the phone to talk to his cousin about the deal you arranged earlier before you continue your interrogation. It would take a hell of an argument, considering how little they trust you. >Try as quickly as possible to get the Spy to spill any information to you before he’s dragged off and away. >Try to convince the Shotcaller that pulling the Spy away to be interrogated in a room is a terrible idea, and that he should let you pick him apart. >Write in any sort of decisive test that would prove that the Shampoo holding man is the real Mann, even better if it proves the shampooless Mann isn’t. >Write in.
>>4957486>>Try to convince the shot caller to allow Representative Mann to use the phone to call his campaign team to prove himself.
>>4957486>Write in any sort of decisive test that would prove that the Shampoo holding man is the real Mann, even better if it proves the shampooless Mann isn’t. “Fellas, fellas…it’s simple to see how legit these men are or are not for this. Both Manns will quote, word for word, their radio-broadcasted campaign ad. You see, a “””sophisticated gentleman”””” like Spy never listens to the radio in his car - he doesn’t trust it, and he prefers the classical music and smooth jazz he keeps on cassettes. I checked when I stole his car. Mann, however, has done countless takes of his speeches to get them done perfectly each time. I think you’ll also find that the one who can’t recite the speech has a strangely fuzzy feeling face…like the wool of a balaclava. And the breath of someone who’s smoked more cigarettes than the surgeon general has stamped his warning on.”
I'm really sorry guys, since the update rate is already a lot slower than I'm happy with, but the update that I was hoping to have out tonight is gonna have to be done tomorrow. Sorry, but the circumstances didn't work out. The rate of updates should still pick back up after tomorrow back to a more reasonable rate. In the meantime, since we're about halfway through the thread, I'd love to hear how you guys have been feeling about the quest so far.
>>4957585>>4958791https://youtu.be/gEjlMvDsp9I>Try to convince the shot caller to allow Representative Mann to use the phone to call his campaign team to prove himself.>Write in any sort of decisive test that would prove that the Shampoo holding man is the real Mann, even better if it proves the shampooless Mann isn’t. “Fellas, Fellas, you all seem like smart guys, so I think you ought to play these things smart.” As you say this, you notice one of the Gamblers in the background, scratching his nose with the end of his gun, a forty Smith and Wesson with a disabled safety and a finger still on it’s trigger. “It’s simple to see how legit these men are, but- I could understand how you might not see it if you don’t know too much about the kind of guy we’re working with here.” “Whach’you know about this guy?” The Shotcaller asks. “Thought you said you don’t know much?” “I’ve had some work with the guy in the past, nothing you have to worry about, I wasn’t a fan of the guy then and I’m not a fan of him now,” You explain, “Tried to put a bullet in my head, you believe it?” You add, glancing down the barrel of the Desert Eagle, “Anyway, this guy thinks himself a “sophisticated gentleman,” and a sophisticated gentleman like the spy doesn’t listen to the radio, doesn’t trust it and probably prefers classical or jazz on old cassettes, checked when I stole his car.”“You jacked this dude's car?” The Shotcaller asks, “You?”“It was a desperate situation, but yes I did.” You explain, before glancing over to The Spy wearing Representative Mann’s visage. “Buck regal, registered under the alias Tom Jones?” For a short moment, you see his brow curl into an angered scowl, before returning to an act of confusion. “I- I don’t own a buick. I… my chauffeur handles my transportation.” “I uhhh, I own a Mercedes.” The Shampoo carrying Representative Mann replies. “I enjoy being able to drive... privately... occasionally.” “As is your god given right, Mr. Mann.” You respond, turning towards the shotcaller. “The real Mann knows a lot about rights. Unlike The Spy, Mr. Mann has done countless takes of his political speeches. Betcha he could do it perfectly each time. Even better, you get yourself a phone book. Mann's campaign team has public lines so people can call in and stroke the guy’s ego. Let him call in, confirm his identity to whatever schmuck picks up the call, and hold the phone up to him while he does the speech. I know you’re a good actor spy, but you ain’t a mind reader, so you sure as hell won’t be able to recite a speech you’ve never seen.” The shot caller is silent for a moment, eyes swapping between glaring at you, then glaring at the Representative. “Nothing a little quicker?” (cont.)
>>4960992(cont.)“Well… I guess you could feel his face.” You respond. “If I’m right about how his disguises work, it’ll feel less like human skin and more like a balaclava. Might even smell cigarettes on his breath.”“My American cousins, near and far...” you hear Representative Mann begin without prompt, holding out a hand to the air as if standing over an invisible crowd, still holding a bottle of shampoo in his hand. As he begins, you lean over to one of the Shotcaller’s goons, a man currently aiming his firearm sideways at the shampoo bearing Mann. He gives you an estranged look as you whisper “Get on the phone.” He stands still as Mann continues, leaning back away from you. Moving quickly, you reach into the phone booth where you can just barely hear a female voice speaking through the phone, ignoring it to grab a phone book that you rifle through, looking for the “M” pages before you throw it at the goon. The goon drops his gun to catch it, only to get knocked on his ass anyway. He glances around confused for a moment, as you say, “Get his campaign team on the phone.” The Goon nods, then runs over to the phone you used to talk to Senator Mann. “Other phone,” you mutter, lightly shoving him towards it. Quickly, he dials up Mann’s campaign team. “Yo, yall the one’s making a dude president?” He asks. “Listen to this and tell me if it sounds like your dude.” He starts holding up the phone to the speech “...wether you were born from the fertile copper womb of that french slut Lady Liberty, or taken under the goatee of Uncle sam from lands far away, I understand you. As a people, we all share common traits, common needs, common desires, and common traits. Hell, we all came from monkeys at the end of the day…” “The fuck you just say?” One of the Gamblers shouts, as each and every one of the Shotcaller’s give him a glare that asks, “Can I kick his ass?”“Yo, chill.” The shotcaller responds. “He didn’t mean it like that. He’s talking Charles Darwin, Origin of The Species, evolution and shit.” He turns to Mann, “Keep going.” (cont.)
>>4960996(cont.)“...and it is because of that common thread, that I understand your concerns.” The Representative continues. “I understand why my opponent, why my competing American cousin is so unpalatable. And I understand the fears you feel when I walk up to the podium, wearing a similar suit, showing a similar face… but my American Cousins, I am not Russel Mann. Russel Mann spits on the poor and downtrodden, Russel Mann supports taking money out of your pocket, and putting it in the hands of large corporations- My American Cousins, Russel Mann shakes hands with the snakes that abuse the freedom and opportunity granted to them by our great constitution. I am not that Mann, My American Cousins. I also understand that in this crowd there are some naysayers, perhaps some Republicans, perhaps some independents, perhaps even the apathetic- who may respond that certain illegally leaked documents have implicated me in similar situations, in fact they may be described as exactly the same situations. The things those naysayers have missed My American coussins, is that unlike my Cousin, every action I took while given a seat in the House of Representatives was done not out of greed or self interest like my Cousin, no, it was done out of love for My American Cousins, and the principles of Freedom, Democracy, and Equality that you all uphold. That is the difference between Russel Mann and myself that appearances don’t show. I understand you, My American Cousins, and everything I do, I do for your benefit, and the greater good of this beautiful country.” Spoken like a true manipulator of the American public. The Shotcaller gives you a dirty glare as you imitate a silent clap, shutting that idea down quickly. “Yo this sound like your dude?” The goon with the phone shouts out, and a second later he says, “This dudes the real deal.” “Alright, good.” The Shotcaller says a little exasperated. “Can’t be two of these motherfuckers.” He turns towards the shampooless Mann, and says, “You,” He points to the Gambler who was beginning to escort the spy away before the speech started. “Smack this bitch up and tell me if his face feels like wool.” The Gambler nods, then throws the spy a left hook that knocks him to the floor. The spy’s head slams onto the floor, and The Gambler immediately begins to explain, “Kinda feels like-” he pauses as he sees the result of his work. “-Paper,” he finishes, as a paper mask with the face of Representative Mann printed onto it floats onto the ground, leaving the spy on the ground fishing inside of his jacket for his gun. “Don’t fucking try it!” The Shotcaller quickly responds, pointing his gun at The Spy as his underling slams his foot down onto The Spy’s wrist. “Now you gonna really answer some questions or I’m gonna give you an ass whooping like... ” (cont.)
>>4960999(cont.)“Think fast chucklenuts.” From the ceiling, you see something small drop, bouncing with a metallic sound. You stare at it for a second, not able to tell what it is at first in the dim lighting of the mall, and the sudden chaos of Gamblers looking around up to the ceiling. You stare at it until it finally hits you as to what it is, then you simply slam your eyes shut, thinking, goddamnit if this thing leaves you-BANG! Eeeeeeeeeeee! Once again, you’re deafened, but not blinded. The Shotcaller seems to have had the same wisdom as you, and is now quickly looking around the room while his goons are all blinded. You can’t hear it, but about twenty feet away, you can see a Boston native with a baseball cap laughing his ass off at the group of blinded Gamblers. The Shotcaller sees it too, which is why he immediately points his gun at the scout, yet each time he pulls the trigger, the scout suddenly ducks, dips, and dodges, each time contorting himself to prevent a fifty American Eagle from tearing his ribcage open, until he finally dives behind an advertisement for “Nuclear Powered Maid Bot by Gray Gravel Co. Cancer free before the first week or your money back guaranteed.”(cont.)
>>4961000(cont.)>You need to hammer out this deal with Senator Mann goddamnit, shove The Representative into the phone booth and protect him until his hearing returns so he can make a deal with his cousin. >No way you’re gonna lose a golden opportunity at information and answers, grab the spy and try to restrain him into cover before he either escapes or… who knows maybe takes a cyanide pill. >Tinnitus is bad enough, bullet wounds are worse. You made a living off that fact, so it’s time to leave. Grab the phone booth still calling Mann’s campaign team and yell for help. >This bastard loves to run, so you ought to make sure he doesn’t run away. Join the Shotcaller in shooting at The Scout. (Roll 3d6, succeed with a 18)>That wasn’t a frag grenade, so maybe he has intentions other than “slugging.” Quickly move forwards and prevent the Shotcaller from shooting anymore so you can try discussing a deal… once your hearing returns. >Write in.
>>4961001>Kick the spy unconcious while you can, and frisk him for some of his ridiculous technology. Maybe you can disguise yourself and Mann out of here…or even better, get out invisibly.
>Kick the spy unconscious while you can, and frisk him for some of his ridiculous technology. Maybe you can disguise yourself and Mann out of here…or even better, get out invisibly.Your ears still ring as you see the Spy begin to move, himself hit just as badly if not worse than you by the flashbang, still on the ground and in between the legs of a dazed and confused gambler. By the time you catch a glimpse at an ornate wood grip on a Colt Python, you’re already sprinting towards the spy. In the corner of your eye, you swear you see The Shotcaller shout, “What the fuck are you doing?” before you raise your dress shoe high into the air, the last thing you hear before slamming it down to the ground…“Ohhhhh Merde... “ The Spy groans before your stomp smashes against his face, leaving his nose dripping with blood, and a tooth that somehow in spite of a regular intake of tobacco was kept perfectly white is now missing from his unconscious mouth left agap. You take a second to watch him, ready to kick again in case he moves, and then remembering his little ploy earlier where he faked an easy kill for The Gamblers, you kick him again anyway, making sure he’s really unconscious, then immediately after swinging around at the air to feel for any invisible frenchmen. Touching nothing in the air, you kneel down, rifling through his pockets. As you search for anything of use on The unconscious Spy, the Shotcaller’s gun fires again, sending fifty calibre pistol rounds into advertisements and mannequins until finally the magazine runs empty, and the slide locks back. The Shotcaller checks the breach quickly before he turns around, and begins to grab some of his men. The shouting commands he gives to his men are futile, but even just barely seeing the blurred outline of him pointing his gun they understand. Soon pistols and submachine guns are filling the air with their reports, killing the hope of your hearing returning undamaged as the shots fly over your head. You’ve yet to have the pleasure of selling something stolen from an underground lab funded by the United States government, but given your experience with United States special forces equipment you’d expect too things: sleek forms and gunmetal black, mostly because a general somewhere has watched a few too many James Bond movies and ordered someone be court martialed every day until a laser wrist watch was put on his desk to be put in a museum shortly after. Instinct tells you that whatever The Spy uses to disguise himself- to make himself downright invisible for that matter, has to be something similar. That’s why that torn paper mask on the floor is making your brain spin almost as much as the flashbang. That couldn’t have been his disguise, you can’t be that stupid as to fall for that… but… god does it make any less sense than the rest of this all? You did see The Sniper shoot himself from a helicopter earlier. (cont.)
>>4962529(cont.)You shake your head in the hopes of clearing your thoughts, but that damn ringing in your ears makes it impossible, so instead you simply begin grabbing anything that’s either useful, or possibly connected to his disguises. Pocket watch… tap tap, oh yeah, you can pawn that baby for a lot. Colt Python… Christmas came early... butterfly knife? You’re better off with a gun. Cigarette case? You prefer cigar-You’ve got these bastards now, you think as you click open the case, immediately seeing the words “Spytron 4000”, alongside a few cigars lined up. This is it… the laser wristtwatch you were looking for. Really with all your experience out in the world you should’ve known that the French would have preferred to hide their special equipment in plain sight rather than the laser blasters The Germans like to sell to the United States. The old cigarette case with an LCD screen within screams France, from it’s respect for the classics of espionage… to the fact that all of the menus are written in french. Che due palle. Фpaнцyзcкaя cyкa. Unazungumza lugha nne tofauti, and you still can’t understand a lick of this damn device. Why would you ever need to learn french, you had asked yourself in your younger years. No war criminals are interested in a Famas. And why should you have to learn french? Can’t this damn thing have some symbols in it’s design for exactly this sort of situation? You begin pressing buttons, cycling through indecipherable menus as the Gamblers and The Scout clash. Despite the lack of intelligence from the underlings, The Shotcaller coordinates his men well, suppressing The Scout behind pillars and mannequins with their small arns, but even if his loudmouth falls on deaf ears, he is still the cockiest son of Boston ever to beat a man to death. With each tiny gap in their line of fire, the scout bounces forwards, getting closer and closer in range. With the first dive through gun fire, the scout blasts a wide shot from his sawed off at the poor goons pushing him, catching some in the gut, others in the ribs, and one unlucky bastard in the eye. The men in the back move forwards to cover their wounded almost immediately, only to suddenly start running for cover themselves when the goon who tried to help the man with wounded eyes suddenly got blasted back, flying, flipping, twirling through the air at a high velocity- until he slammed into the phone booth. (cont.)
>>4962531(cont.)Immediately, you’re yanked away from the LCD screen, not even needing to hear to notice the crash right next to you, chunks of phone booth flying out as shrapnel and chunks of gore splatter across you, small fragments of the metal casing stabbing you like flying needles. To your luck, the phone that had called Senator Mann is mostly untouched, if a little bent on its post, but the phone that had been calling Representative Mann’s campaign team is beyond saving. I’m going to be setting up a pastebin for Tim’s inventory soon to help you guys keep track of things you’re carrying.>Quickly rifle through the indecipherable settings and select a random disguise, and try to use whatever you get to fool The Scout into standing down. >Quickly grab the mask of Representative Mann and slip it on, then try talking to Senator Mann telling him you’re interested in his deal with The Representative’s voice. >You feel you’ve made a good return on your investment, time to cash in. Quickly pull Representative Mann out and hijack a cab. >Don’t take any chances with any fancy disguises or technology or anything like that. Sure, he just sent a man flying like some kind of force of nature, but your experienced in reasoning with the unreasonable. >Screw all these fancy disguises, show this sissy Frenchman the American way to fire three-fifty-seven magnum, by loudly shooting it at even louder targets. (Roll 3d6, succeed with a 18)>Write in.
>>4962533>Quickly rifle through the indecipherable settings and select a random disguise, and try to use whatever you get to fool The Scout into standing down.
>>4962871https://youtu.be/xhwualtquVUYou only spare a glance towards the carnage within the phone booth besides you as you begin randomly pressing the buttons of The Disguise Kit. Each button brings up a brand new menu, never easier to understand than the last, until finally one of the buttons suddenly sends you into a blind coughing fit as a puff of smoke totally surrounds you. “Mr. Bout!” Representative Mann shouts, still barely able to see and unable to hear his own voice. “Mr. Bout are you alright?” He begins coughing as he approaches the puff of smoke. Up ahead, the war between The Scout and The Gamblers continues, with The Scout taking cover behind a mannequin with broken feet, forcing him to stand at a thirty-five degree angle to the ground to avoid the consistent hail of gunfire, as though gravity had changed for The Scout, but for no one else. To a deaf audience, The Scout shouts, “Shoulda finished your coffee slugger.” He says, closing the break of shis shotgun. “Winding up a fast-”As he spoke to no-one, the shot caller was loading a second magazine of Fifty American Eagle and taking aim to put three holes in the mannequin. Avoiding the first, the scout nearly flips, leaving himself in the Flying Crow yoga pose, the next dodge having the only part of his body touching the ground being the back of his neck, while his legs are both splayed into a V in the air. Finally, he dodges into a dolphin dive, while a fog of powderized plastic leaves it impossible to see whether the round hit, but when the dust settles, the Scouts' dodge has left him laying in the middle of the hall, unmoving. Some of the goons begin to move in, the quickest ones hoping he’s still alive so that they can beat the living shit out of him, but the shot caller shouts to deaf ears, “Stay back! Might be a trick.” Only those already hesitating to approach barely hear him, and turn around to see him signalling them back. The men who couldn’t hear him continue to approach. The Shotcaller, rolling his eyes at his own men, aims his gun at the still Scout, firing off another two shots, though in a blur The Scout is back on his feet after avoiding them both. By now the poof of cigarette smoke that had surrounded you has begun to fade, and you immediately see him jump back, confused and startled at what he’s seeing. Without a mirror on hand, you immediately look down to see your hands, noticing that the device seems to have given you a nice tan, and has changed your suit jacket from a smooth, humble, and professional black to an extravagant and eye white that screams… well you don’t know what it screams, though it does sing the words sex bomb, sex bomb, you’re my sexbomb, especially after noticing the cross on your chest, the afro on your head, and the unbuttoned jacket exposing a distinct lack of any undershirt.(cont.)
>>4963603(cont.)Now maybe in a world where you weren’t married to a twitchy political dissident, who would pack a bomb in your lunch if you suggested anything like this, the ability to turn into Tom Jones on demand would be great in the bedroom. It is not great however in the presence of a murderous bostonian whom you are desperately trying to prevent from killing you, and your associates. Even if he wasn’t a sociopathic murder machine you still wouldn’t want to disguise as Tom Jones on the job- the guy was found dead in his apartment over twenty years ago with his head twisted one-hundred-eighty degrees around his neck. Not even The Scout would be stupid enough to think you’re really-He’s staring at you with a baffled look on his face, holding his weapons at his side. You still can’t hear that far due to the flashbang, but you can see his mouth moving, a look of astonishment still on his face. As he speaks, he begins to tear up. He really thinks you’re the real Tom Jones, doesn’t he? You think, before he suddenly dashes towards you at a full sprint. Unable to reach your gun in time, you only flinch, waiting to be killed instantly by either buckshot or baseball bat, only to find yourself squeezed in a hug. “Dad!” The Scout mutters. “I- I- They told me you were dead but… I know you were still alive dad! Oh my god you’re really alive dad! We- we- we gotta play catch dad, you gotta see me toss a ball- you are gonna flip.” >”I love you son. So what’s new pussycat? What you’ve been upto, been doing any devious schemes involving duplication of people or security measures around a briefcase with those friends of yours at MannCo?” >He thinks you're his father, so give him some fatherly advice. Try to convince The Scout that he’s better off finding a woman to drop a sex bomb on than killing people. >Try and push your luck, he already believes you’re the late Tom Jones. Tell him you were dead, but were resurrected by god to tell him that he needs to shut down MannCo tower’s security systems. >You’re his dad, so frankly you ought to ground him on account of shooting at you. Tell the little shit to go to his room. >Play things safe, and try to kill him while he’s still hugging you. Make a mess of this fake white suit by shooting him with the Colt Python. >Write in.
>>4963604>>He thinks you're his father, so give him some fatherly advice. Try to convince The Scout that he’s better off finding a woman to drop a sex bomb on than killing people.
>>4963604>He thinks you're his father, so give him some fatherly advice. Try to convince The Scout that he’s better off finding a woman to drop a sex bomb on than killing people.Gotta drop the whole "Your mother and I have been waiting so long to meet our grandchildren, you know!" line on him
>>4959720The threads amazing and a fun read keep at it>>4963792Supporting
>>4963632>>4964354'I'm really glad you're enjoying man, It's great to know you guys are having fun. I know this goes without saying, but don't be afraid to toss any criticism my way as well of course. >>4963792>>He thinks you're his father, so give him some fatherly advice. Try to convince The Scout that he’s better off finding a woman to drop a sex bomb on than killing people.https://youtu.be/k-HdGnzYdFQ“Nah, who told you I was dead Jeremy?” You ask, hugging him back. “I was just down in brazil. Beautiful country, have you ever seen the amazons? Some of the most beautiful ladies down there, I would’ve probably stayed down there for longer but… the truth is son- I missed your mother too much. I couldn’t live with myself down there- enjoying the tropical beaches… clear water… beautiful women… more cocaine than you could ever-” You stop yourself, and shake your head. “Look, the point is, I regret not stopping to settle down with someone earlier.” “Wh-what are you talking about dad?” The scout says chuckling. “What do you need to settle down for? You’re still young as last time, ‘member, when I died? And god told me to have sex with every woman on earth? Though you weren’t there for that part… wait… were you?” “How could I have been there if I wasn’t dead, son?” You reply, “But anyway, Me and your mother have been talking a little, and you know she’s starting to get old.” “Nah, you ain’t gotta worry about anyone getting old more dad.” He replies. The mythical australium that MannCo apparently holds. The stuff used to be a damn cornerstone of the world, but that was back when australia was the king of world trade, what with being the only place in the known universe it could be found. The stuff could do anything, it made the australians eight feet tall, sent monkeys into space, and importantly it kept people. Crazy people. And it seems that it still is, considering that the scout still seems as young as he was twenty years ago. Wouldn’t it be nice if the briefcase could tell you something about that. “They got that australium stuff now. I mean, it’s what’s keeping me looking… I mean… look at this-” he steps away, gesturing towards his skinny chest, then flexing his barely existent muscles. “-I mean… come on you seeing this?” You nod approvingly to The Scout, glancing behind him to see the Shotcaller glaring at the two of you, clearly wondering what in the name of god is going on. He gestures finger guns towards the scout as he glares into your eyes questioningly, but you subtly nod no. Looking back to the scout, you chuckle and say “Oh I’m seeing it. You could strike a man like a thunderball with those muscles son.” “Yeah… yeah… and the ladies… the ladies…” He trails off for a moment, still flexing. “...they don’t know what they’re missing. God said so himself.” (cont.)
>>4964817(cont.)“Well you know, that’s kinda what I was hoping to talk about son.” You respond, looking deep into his eyes, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Your mother wants to meet her grandchildren.”“Grandkids?” The scout says chuckling about grandkids. “Who cares about grandkids? All grandkids do is steal all your cookies and ask you to make french toast. What’d grandkid get ma?” “Jeremy, you’re mother’d love to make some french toast for your kids.” You explain. You’re about to say, “Isn’t there someone you’d like to settle down with?” but instead The Scout interrupts. “W- well… why doesn’t she make french toast for that backstabbing bag-a-baccy.” He turns around and kicks the unconscious spy, then noticing all the glares he’s getting from the men whom he was just shooting at a minute ago. Most of them are still pointing their guns at the kid. “I’m talking to my dad here, d’ya mind?” He shouts out, before turning back to you. “Y’know if she really wanted grandkids maybe she shouldn’ta slept with… with… she slept with the spy!” You’d have to be a real manipulative bastard to abuse a person’s mommy issues for personal gain, but for you that would be a pretty strange line to draw considering the amount of war criminals you’ve supplied. “Oh son… you can’t blame her for that, it was just because I had left. I’ve talked to her… she was heart stricken. I wish I could’ve settled down sooner. And I think it’s time for you to settle down too, so you don’t make the same mistakes I did.” “Same mistakes you did!” The Scout shouts. “You’re rich and famous, you’re down in brazil surrounding by bazongas on all sides, I mean… you made me didn’t you? What mistakes have you made! I wish I was like you dad.” “I left your mother behind for twenty years Jeremy.” “Twenty years! You left her behind for more than twenty years! You said you left her when I was born right?” The scout asks, and interrupts you before you can respond. “And- and who can blame you. She screwed that guy!” The Scout points down to the unconscious Spy. “Who’d screw this guy? A whore! A whore that’s who! My mother’s a whore!” The Gamblers behind him begin cracking up, but he either doesn’t hear them, or doesn’t care. His voice shakes as he speaks. “So you know… you know… I don’t worry about what she thinks, cuz my mothers a whore… but you... you’re cool dad.” You pull the scout into another hug, gently patting him on the back. “I know son, but you know, it’s time for you to drop your own sexbomb. So how about it, isn’t there some lucky lady out there you wanna settle down with? It’s not unusual. It happens everyday, no matter what you say.” The scout wipes his eyes as he pulls away from the hug, muttering “yeah… yeah, I know a girl.” (cont.)
>>4964819(cont.)“Go and get her son.” You say, giving him a little shove. “Don’t worry about your mum Jeremy, this is about you, and remember I’m right behind you the whole time.” The scout takes a deep breathe, then with a big smile gasps, “Awesome,” as he begins to march off out of the mall towards the door. You wave to him like a truly proud father as you watch him push the door open, and take a step into the fresh air. He takes a deep, enthusiastic breath of the polluted inner city air, then looks down at something you can’t see from this far away. “Hey dad!” He shouts out, waving to you. “You see a guy with an eyepatch anywhere around here? He left some sorta crap here.”“Uhhh…. No I don’t think I have.” You respond, as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Aahhh no worries,” The scout responds, “I’ll just let him know about it when I see him.” With that, he takes another big step, bringing his knee high into the air, his foot raising high and proud for continued march forwards. Kaboom!A pillar of fire rips through the mall’s entrance, shattering the glass and buckling its metal frames, sending shrapnel in and out of the mall entrance. You don’t even see the poor few civilians who are shredded in the blast because you quite literally jump out of your skin tackling Representative Mann into cover. When the dust settles, the once shiny entrance to the mall is now gone, in its place rubble, debris, and a single sneaker from the scout, his disembodied foot still in it. “Yo what the FUCK!” One of the gamblers shouts. That mine was probably meant for you.>Quick, before you get kicked out, have Representative Mann talk to The Senator. Finally get this damn deal out of the way while people aren’t shooting you. >”Well friends, it’s been nice, I think it might be best to avoid damages if me and my associate left quickly as possible, we’re clearly inviting unwanted attention to your neighborhood.>Tell Representative Mann you need him to stay here, and try to convince The Gamblers to keep an eye on him for you while you go minesweeping for any more. >You know, you could use people like The Gamblers on your side in this heist. Convince them to join you in stealing the briefcase. (The success of this prompt is dependent on an argument or sales pitch from voting players, so feel free to write one in.) >Let Senator Mann wait a little while longer. For now, get a bucket of ice water and splash it in the spies face. Time to get some goddamn answers about MannCo’s friendly fire and extra snipers. >Write in.
>>4964820>Quick, before you get kicked out, have Representative Mann talk to The Senator. Finally get this damn deal out of the way while people aren’t shooting you. Holy fuck that was hilarious
No update today, today is my last day before moving back over to college, so I'm occupied all day with family plans. Apologies. >>4964868Ha, glad I gotta laugh outta ya man.
>>4964820>>Quick, before you get kicked out, have Representative Mann talk to The Senator. Finally get this damn deal out of the way while people aren’t shooting you.
>>4964868>>4965839>Quick, before you get kicked out, have Representative Mann talk to The Senator. Finally get this damn deal out of the way while people aren’t shooting you. Apologies if this one feels a little janky at any points, it was a little awkwards writing it due to moving, but I managed to find the time.As the Gamblers look on in confusion, you look back with a smile, no longer wearing the face of Sir Thomas John Woodward, but now an expression that says, “I don’t understand any more than you guys,” even if you unfortunately do understand. The Gamblers remain baffled for a moment, even the quick thinking Shotcaller still stands stock still, jaw on the floor, not sure whether to glare at you or the catastrophe at the Malls’ front entrance. You just nod to the men unassumingly, then quickly begin to shuttle Representative Mann towards the phone booth, holding him on both shoulders and shoving him towards the phone as you arrive.“Mr. Bout, what is going on?” Rep. Mann mutters, as you push the phone in your hand. “Don’t overstay our welcome Brandon,” You reply. “Your cousin’s on the phone, and he has a deal for you, don’t worry, I wrote the terms. It benefits you both, no one’s gonna get screwed over, because I’ll make sure of it. If both of you succeed, then I succeed double.” “Mr. Bout… are you truly suggesting I-” “Believe me Representative sir you won’t regret this.” You shove the phone up to Representative Mann’s ear and turn around, holding him in the booth, idly listening into him as you watch to make sure none of The Gamblers decide it’s time for you to leave- or worse, decide you’re at fault for the explosion at the mall entrance. As you were convincing Representative Mann to pick up the phone with what’s known in The Business as a “hard sell,” the Shotcaller ushered all of his men forwards to immediately begin searching the rubble for those who might’ve been caught underneath. The Shotcaller himself however stands back, either talking to those pulled out to get them to a doctor, or make sure their heads are on straight, all while coordinating the rescue. Silently, you thank General William Tecumseh Sherman for inventing civilian casualties in 1864, without him, not only would you not be given a short reprieve from the wrath and suspicion of The Gamblers, but you would probably not find your business anywhere near as profitable. Civilian casualties today, vengeful warriors tomorrow. You ought to look at setting up shop in this mall some day, but today is not that day. Today, you are more worried from the strange- barely english sounds you are hearing behind you. They begin as an angry rabbling, letting you only decipher occasional words like, “What nerve!” and “you rat!” (cont.)
>>4966844(cont.)Then you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on their ends as Representative Mann mutters, “Bout?” and “That rat!” mixed into his regular rabbling. However as he continues, occasionally pausing to listen in to Senator Mann on the other side of the phone, the angry rabbling turns into the “Hmm” and “Huhhh...” of intrigue, drawing a smile back onto your face. Then, your heart jumps into the heavens as you begin to hear “that’s genius!” and “Yes, we need Mr. Bout!” You’re about ready to turn around and hug the man. Double the Mann, double the pay and double the resources. This is perfect, who woulda thunk you got these two madmen to actually agree on something! Who woulda thunk that a warmonger would be the man to mend america’s political…“Mr. Bout, you’re a genius, another civil war is exactly what this country needs!”You don’t remember telling Senator Mann anything about a civil war. Feigning humility, you say, “Oh it was nothing big, you sure you wouldn’t maybe wanna try sharing the oval office?” “Oh do not be a fool Mr. Bout! That Russel Mann is a slime! I thought it would be obvious.” The Representative shouts. “But he did see right through you Mr. Bout, I’m sure had you come to me first, I would’ve done the same myself as well. We know your type.” The Representative explains. Initiating a nuclear civil war in The United States was not your intention, but you’re interested to hear him. “He knew that you knew that him and I knew that this would never work. We would be pulled apart by our fundamental differences. Our loyal constituents would grow to hate each other through our proxy, and would raise arms at each other, with both of us rightful presidents at the helm of half the country, and it would finally give me the chance to kill that son of a bitch and all of his damn supporters!”While on instinct the sound of a civil war on your home countries soil sounds dangerous… you could sell a lotta guns. A lotta guns… and all you’d need to do is get that brief case for those two. Of course, you’d have to worm your way into first dibs, all of this would be mute if Lockheed Martin or Colt got all the money. But then again, the best part about supplying other people’s wars is that you always have the option to step away from the wartorn country to have sex with STD free women including but not limited to your redheaded wife. Maybe you should think about this prospect, the choice can always come later if you so choose. (cont.)
>>4966846(cont.)>Support the Mann’s civil war plans, and try to worn your way in on first dibs for any arms deals that the war produces. After all, you are charismatic, clever, connected, and cultured. (Feel free to write in any arguments to the mann brothers for greater effect.) >Try to talk down the Mann’s from creating a civil war in your backyard, you like your backyard, those woods are nice when not radioactive. (Feel free to write in any arguments to the mann brothers for better effect.)>War planning can come when you have answers, for now, grab The Unconscious spy, jack a car, and get the hell out of Gambler territory.>You’ll talk about this later, You have to make sure no one stabs you in the back while you’re leaving, shoot The unconscious spy and get a move out of here. >You know this is an interesting business proposal, you’ll have to run it through some analysts, in the meantime you have to run like hell from the mall. >Write in.
>>4966848>War planning can come when you have answers, for now, grab The Unconscious spy, jack a car, and get the hell out of Gambler territory.
Apologies guys, but I slept like shit last night, and have been helping a few friends move into their dorms nearby, which has left me kind of exhausted. I'd rather not give you guys something phoned in, so the next update will be out tomorrow. Hope you guys had a good weekend though.
>>4966848>>War planning can come when you have answers, for now, grab The Unconscious spy, jack a car, and get the hell out of Gambler territory
>>4966848>You’ll talk about this later, You have to make sure no one stabs you in the back while you’re leaving, shoot The unconscious spy and get a move out of here.For the love of god dont take him with us hell find something sharp and stab us if we do.
>>4967559>>4968698>>4968967>War planning can come when you have answers, for now, grab The Unconscious spy, jack a car, and get the hell out of Gambler territory.“I’m gonna be honest with you representative, that was not my original plan, and frankly I’m not sure it is that great of an idea yet, it can be nice to have a place where you can get away from it all and The States has always been one of those places, though then again they’re also one of my biggest competitors.” You begin to explain, only to shake your head and interrupt yourself, holding onto Representative Mann’s shoulder and pulling him away from the phone booth. “Look, all that war-planning can wait, right now we need answers, and there’s currently a whole load of answers sitting on the ground in the Frenchmen, and I’d like to leave before The Gamblers start trying to pull answers out of us first.” “There’s no time to wait for war-planning Mr. Bout, this is business! Haven’t you read a word of Sun Tzu’s Art of war?” He says, nearly shouting as if he were standing behind a debate podium. “If he is taking his ease, assure him no rest! It is the very root of Einsteins theory of financial relativity. Money and time exist in the inseparable fabric that is Money-Time, all centered around the observer, me! Mr. Bout, I am the observer, and you shall aid me in the war-effort.” “I’m not about to gamble in this situation. House always wins.” You respond, and grab him by the scruff of his shirt like a bully would grab a kid in high school. You’re no fighter, most of your success in combat today have been due to the help of drugs, or immeasurably convenient products that you had forgotten you brought with you today, but irregardless, you’re a man whose been both shoved into, and thrown others into- the trunks of Mercedes back in Serbia. Mann however, the most strenuous thing he’s ever done is cheated in a game of golf. “Look Mann, I understand you want to get to business quick, but right now, I’m the closest thing you have to security, and I’m making the executive decision to evacuate the premises. Move.” (cont.)
>>4969419(cont.)Without even listening to his slightly defeated response, you begin to pull the politician with you towards the unconscious Spy, whom you grab by the arm, and begin recklessly dragging along the floor, paying no mind as broken glass crunches beneath your feet, the spy’s face slowly dragging over it. With The Gamblers around you occupied by the commotion of their rescue mission, you simply throw a few passing and friendly waves to the men desperately trying to free their surviving neighbors, friends and family, beginning to move faster and faster the closer you get to the parking lot, listening closely for the choop-choop-choop of the helicopter you heard earlier, while also watching the ground in front of you for anymore of those damn landmines. Most of the cars ahead of you are cheap, with a few luxury cars mixed in, that your soul seems to be dragged towards, however you’re not a fool. IOdds are good that The Demo left a bomb in some of these cars. If he were smart, which he’s not, the man has a blood-alcohol-content on par with hand sanitizer but he often has smart people speaking in his ear, he’s probably rigged one of these cars to blow. “OOooouuugh-oH! HO HO hoaugh!” Your heart sinks as you hear a scottish laugh rip over the parking lot. As he chuckles, The Demo seems to caress a weapon that… you surprisingly don’t recognize. It’s clearly some sort of grenade, launcher, with a drum feed at that, but with a second forward pistol grip, a non-detachable magazine, and no stock. “Ooh it’s been too long since I packed that much in me charges!” Immediately you push Representative Mann’s head down, ducking down behind cheap, run down cars. The two of you disappear, yet had the scottsmen been less inebriated, he might’ve just noticed The Spy’s gloved hand sticking out behind a wheel before you yanked the Frenchman’s whole body into cover. This reverse mime shot you earlier today, so you don’t worry yourself over the head trauma the bastard might be enduring, happily letting The Spy’s head smack against the car… but this time that crack within The Spy’s skull causes him to stir as you peaked your head over the car to look at The Demo. The moment you heard “Ohh… mon dieu…” you almost immediately slam your hand over The Spy’s mouth, only to silently wince a second later as the damn frenchy bites it.“Arrgh… maybe shoulda asked the scout if he killed the spy before I bleugh him to smithereens.” You hear the Demoman groan. “Argh I’ll… I’ll look… bloody bureacrats always makin’ noise. Wut was that laddies name again? Ooh he’s gonna… gonna pay for taking my… what was it?” (cont.)
>>4969422(cont.)>Hotwire the Fiat Multipla. You’re frankly not sure what kind of inner city man would buy this thing, but it will inevitably afford some protection because any who look at it without preparation will suffer form projectile vomiting. (Feel free to write in any questions for the spy while making your getaway.)>Soft serve ice cream and hot dog vans have never done you wrong, though this ice cream van smells like pot and the bell doens’t have an off button, soft serve will keep the spirits up. (Feel free to write in any questions for the spy while making your getaway.)>All business is a gamble, steal the 72 Barracuda, and drive into the sunset with style… so long as you can find and defuse the explosives. (Roll 3d6. Feel free to write in any questions for the spy while making your getaway.) >You know what, you’re not leaving until you take the Demo’s other eye, not gonna risk leaving any damn witnesses. Fire a shot at the Demo with your new found Colt-Python. >Pull out the Spy Tron-4000, and pick a random disguise from the French menu, and try to or distcharm or distract the demo with whatever you get. >Perhaps he’s drunk enough to not recognize you and kill you, stand up and approach The Demoman as a man with a business offer regarding luxury car-bombings, and try to distract him so Mann can get away with the wounded Spy. >Stand up, and try to make a deal with The Demoman. You know where his favorite grenade launcher is, and you also happen to know where special ammo for it is. You can give it back to him in exchange for safe passage. >Write in.
>>4969425>Soft serve ice cream and hot dog vans have never done you wrong, though this ice cream van smells like pot and the bell doens’t have an off button, soft serve will keep the spirits up. (Feel free to write in any questions for the spy while making your getaway.)We can use this to threaten the Spy with cheap american food and brainfreeze. French bastard doesn’t stand a chance.Question wise, we gotta ask him why there was two Snipers first, how they keep finding us (in case the method is different than the Mann’s), why Mann Co is so desperate to steal our illicit arrangement (iirc they might not know we want the briefcase yet, this all started when we spilled the beans on a deal to spy), and who the hell is calling the shots out here.Might throw in a seemingly random question to throw them off in case they’re bugged or get out alive, like “Where does Mann Co keep their Payloads?”
I've been thinking a little bit guys, and if it's alright with you guys, I'm gonna put the quest on break until monday of next week. I've been having a lot of fun writing with you guys, but having moved back into college, I've been a bit busier than over the summer, but I've also been struggling with inspiration for writing, and it takes a lot longer to write an update when I spend a while staring at the screen. As well, this is my first semester at college without heavy 'rona restrictions, so I want to take the opportunity now to spend time getting out and meeting people before my classes drive me up the wall. When I return, I'll put up a new thread, and probably will be able to maintain a better update rate since my brain won't be running on power saver mode. Apologies guys. I hope you all have a great week.
>>4970560Just as well, bro, I was gonna be absent for the next few days as I gear up for the chunkiest part of Moving. Based timing desu
>>4970654Glad it all works out. Good luck with moving.
>>4977771New thread lads