Post by smashbro on Jan 20, 2010 16:22:44 GMT -5
Jumping out of the fire truck, he bounded toward the house, taking in his surrounding quickly. The house was in a wooded area, with thick pine trees obscuring much from view, despite much from view, despite being on top of a hill. He was the only one at the station that day, so he took the truck himself and after putting on his gear, quickly made it to the sight of the fire.
So, with a hose around one arm and an axe in the other hand, he decided to barge in through the front door to find the fire, which must have not reached the outside of the house yet.
Crashing through the door, he tightened his grip on his axe and was about to yell for someone, but instead found himself silent, face to face with a man in his fifties, wearing a brown checkered sweater and staring at him.
Both stood, motionless for a minute, not sure what to say to each other.
“So why are you here?” the man in the sweater asked, looking a little fearful, yet unsurprised.
“There was a call?” the firefighter asked, looking around. “About…a fire…?” The man shook his head. Looking around again, the firefighter saw over a dozen people in the house, most sitting and eating in a parlor, two women were listening to a man in a black suit speaking, and a man and woman came down the stairs. It seemed like everyone was having a good time. And yet…nothing seemed to fit. What were all these people doing if a fire had been called?
The firefighter and the man in the sweater turned when they heard a door open, and a woman emerged from a passage under the stairs. She looked at the fireman, and got a questioning look on her face too. Around age 28, she was fairly thin and had her brunette hair tied in a ponytail. Interestingly enough, her outfit gave her away as an electrician.
“Everything is fine with the power…” she began, looking at the newcomer. She breathed in quickly, and frowned. “Ok, now we need an explanation.”
The man in the sweater seemed to understand, and followed her into the kitchen. The firefighter also came, but walked slowly to take everything in. The house had an odd feeling about it, maybe due to its grandiose architecture and elaborate decorations. Whoever owned it was rich no doubt, and seemed to have good taste. The kitchen itself was nearly the size of the parking garage back at the station, which held four trucks and had reasonable room to move. It seemed like it could hold enough food to last for weeks, between all of the cabinets and refrigerators. The electrician and man in the sweater were both in the kitchen still, talking to a shady figure in the background, standing at the backdoor. He only heard a part of their conversation.
“According to everyone, it seems like you were the first one here,” the woman said, angry at the man. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know myself,” he replied in a wheezy voice. He was very nearly bald, and
seemed to be leaning on a muddy shovel for support. “I was called by a man who said that his father had died, and not wanted a funeral so I should come to talk about arrangements.” The electrician seemed to know she was not getting anywhere, but seemed to not want to give up anyway.
The firefighter, meanwhile, moved onto a dining room. In the middle was a long table, elliptical, and with twenty, various colored chairs lined up against the walls. Oddly enough, the chairs were colored, and had their colors written on the back. It seemed like this would be a great place for a banquet, or some large gathering, but the dark wood table, the crimson walls, and the ominous fireplace, already lit, gave him a bad feeling. But what intrigued him most was a note, in handwriting, on the table. And next to it, two guns.
A clicking noise made him stop, as he reached to pick up one of the guns. He listened, it seemed as if the whole house had gone silent. Then, thundering footsteps seemed to come closer, and the firefighter want back into the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, in time to see a man thunder in, nearly knock down the man leaning on his shovel, the electrician, and the sweater man in an attempt to get to the door. Once there he frantically tried to open it, but to no avail. He was muscular, a man in his later forties or early fifties, whose blond hair was frazzled, for it was not quite short enough to be a buzz cut but not quite long enough to be anything else. Patting down his grey speckled suit, he relaxed a little when his had found his side. Still, a crowd had gathered in the kitchen to follow the spectacle, and he turned to see everyone staring at him. As he scanned the crowd, his eyes rested for a moment on the firefighter, and then to the dining room.
“What’s in there?” the man asked, running toward the firefighter. The firefighter held his ground in the doorway, and held back the suited man as he tried to push through.
“Man, you’re strong,” the firefighter said, grunting.
“I should be. Fought in Cuba, Grenada, Afghanistan and ‘Nam,” he replied.
“Alright,” the firefighter said, and instead of giving up, retreated back to the guns and the note. The suited man, and everyone else, entered the dining room and froze as he held the two guns in one hand and the note in the other.
Who are you and what are you doing with those?” the grey suited man asked, holding his side.
“I just found these in here, must be a clue as to what’s going on,” he replied.
“How do we know you didn’t bring them yourself?” asked the electrician, skeptically.
“Ask Mr. Army Man here,” the firefighter replied. “You saw them on the table, right?” The man in the grey suit nodded on response.
“Then how did you find them first?” the electrician persisted.
“Did anyone else come in here before me, just now?” No one said anything. “Well, that’s that. There’s a not here, I haven’t read it yet, so I figure I should read it to everyone. We’re all stuck here together. So…grab a chair, I guess.” Everyone started to move, but soon enough he called out again. “Wait. It says here to pick your favorite color.” Within five minutes everyone was situated, a few open pizza boxes in the middle of the long table, and the firefighter walking to his seat after taking care of the guns.
There was a glass case in the room, perfect for holding the guns, and so he locked them in there, putting the key on top. He sat at that head of the table, across from a man he had seen talking earlier, who looked like a preacher. Gazing around the table, he saw what looked to be a colorful cast (pun intended) of people sitting before him. So he began to read the note.
There was a silence by all at the table, until the firefighter spoke up.
“So, I suggest we shoot someone, everyday, that we believe is part of the mafia.”
“Isn’t that a bit cruel?” replied the man sitting opposite of him. He was dressed like a preacher, and as he spoke he got up and walked around the table slowly. “If we’re here to prevent deaths by killing the mafia, isn’t it the antithesis of what we should do? Killing someone if we don’t know that they are the mafia?”
The firefighter breathed heavily. “Yes, I know it sounds horrible, but our instincts are what we need to go by. It’s all we have here. No one is going to flat out say they’re mafia, right?” The group seemed to be in agreement.
“If we must do this, then why not wait until tomorrow, to find out more about everyone else here? We need proof.” The preacher then sat down again.
“Alright. So we’ll go around the table, tell a little bit about ourselves, and then we’ll decide what we want to do,” replied the firefighter.
“I’m Mr. Burgundy,” the fireman said, checking the back of his chair. It was obvious, despite his baggy outfit, that he was muscular. “I’m 31, single, and have no idea why I’m here. I’m a firefighter, and I was called here by some guy, saying there was a fire. I know it’s bad, but like I said, we need to get rid of the mafia.”
“My name is Mr. Slate,” replied the large man in a grey suit. “I’m a war vet. I’m 48 years old. Was in the army most of my life, just got out a few years ago. Came here for some reunion. And I say we start today.”
Next it was the man in the checked sweater’s turn. He was balding, and had an average frame, maybe a little overweight. “Hi. I’m Mr. Sepia. And I’m the regional packaging manager for my company. Oh, I’m 58. But why not wait for night and see who acts?”
“We have to sleep sometime,” replied Mr. Burgundy. “Next.”
“Mr. Jade,” said a man who had some pounds on him, but would look to be average sized in a passing glance. “I work as a cashier at a foodmart near here. Someone called and said they needed me to check if their food had been recalled, which I thought was odd, but came anyways. I’m 38, and I’m against doing this.”
“Mr. Russet,” said the creepy, old man who had been standing alone with his shovel before. “72. Gravedigger. Called to bury Mister’s father. The more voting, the more bodies, but no way around it. I’m for.”
“I’m Miss Orchid, I’m 29,” said a woman with short, light brown hair, with dark highlights. “I was called here to fix a toilet, I’m a plumber. But there wasn’t a broken one. And I’m with the idea of taking someone out right away.”
“I’m Ms. Coral,” replied a woman, wearing a knee length skirt and a blue, button up blouse. Her black hair was tied in a bun, and wore rectangular rimmed glasses. She cleared her throat and continued. “I’m a teacher, 35, and I was asked to tutor Mister in private sessions. But for us now, I would abhor to kill anyone. My vote is no.”
“I’m Miss Fuchsia, 27, and I’m a professional poker player,” an average woman said. She had a kind look on her face and long, blond hair with streaks of purple flowed down to her upper back, giving her a cute girl look. “Online it said a tournament was going to be held here, so I came. And…there’s got to be a better way than this to find out who is in the mafia. No.”
“I’m Mr. Iris,” replied a skinny man, who actually pulled off the look of a light brown mullet. “I’m 26, a cook, and I came here to prepare a meal for some party. And I’m against this whole thing too.”
“I’m Mrs. Olive,” replied a larger lady, in her early 40’s, who sported a short, reddish brown hairstyle. “I’m a stay at home mom and I don’t need to tell you my age.” She chuckled. “I was supposed to come to take laundry, to do for extra money. But we should get out of here as quickly as possible; I have kids to get back to. So yes.”
Now it was the preacher’s turn. He got up once more, and began to pace. He had short, brown hair, which almost looked like a yam mica but covered his whole head. “I’m 34, and a preacher. My name here is Mr. Charcoal. I was asked here to come and talk about God with Mister, he said he wanted to repent. It seems like a lot of people here agree with me. The killing won’t do anything, we need to wait up, and watch to make sure the mafia don’t kill anyone. They’ll give up sooner or later.”
“And what happens until then?” Mr. Burgundy asked. “We sit here, put our lives on hold?”
“Does this situation really make it permissible to kill?” replied Mr. Charcoal, angry.
“Yes!” Mr. Burgundy yelled.
“Well,” Mr. Charcoal said, returning to his chair. “I don’t want any part in the killing. We’ll see what the majority wants.”
“And to think,” Mr. Burgundy muttered. “We’re barely halfway through. Next.”
"I'm Miss Vermilion, an inventor," said the next woman with long, red hair. She was skinny, and would be very attractive, if they weren't all in a house to kill each other, but now she looked stressed. "I'm 31, Mister wanted to buy one of my newest inventions, so I came. And I'm against the killing."
"I'm Miss Powder Blue. 28. I'm a ski instructor and professional skier," said the next girl, with long, black hair resting on her snow jacket. "Mister was supposed to be my new trainer. But obviously not...we can't kill anyone."
"Mr. Cream, professional golfer.," replied a man with sandy brown hair. He looked overweight, and looked like he would be cocky in any other situation. "Age 40...i mean 30. And like Powder, Mister was supposed to be my trainer. But if we don't kill the mafia, how are we going to live? I vote yes."
"Mr. Goldenrod, expert lawyer," said the man with a confident smile. He had blond, wavy hair that was supposed to look professional, but just looked silly. "38. And we kill. Anyone innocent dies, and I'll represent them in court." He winked after this, but no one smiled. "Mister wanted me to represent him on a case. And yes, we kill."
"Mr. Cobalt, 39, and I'm a travelling salesman," replied a meek man. "I just came on buisness, Mister saw me at a convention and asked to see some products. Nobody should be killed, at least on day 1."
"Ms. Azure, age 28," replied a professional looking woman with his short, blond hair. "I'm a dentist, and i was acked to deliver some x-ray scans for him. Apparently he has bad teeth, he's with another dentist so I don't know. The mafia should at least be restrained, so we can be safe.
"I'm, uhh, Mr. Saffron," said a man with a large nose and ears. "I'm the pizza guy, uhh...28. And Mister called for pizza. And I'm not gonna want to kill anyone, its like, not right."
"Mr. Beige, 32," said the next man with long, black hair and multiple piercings. "I'm in a band, and it sucks, but I offered a solo gig, so I came here for that. And no, way we can get by without killing anyone. Yes."
Finally it was the electrician's turn. "This is rediculous," she yelled, standing up. "Amber, 28. Electrician, wiring problem. We can't kill anyone this way."
Mr. Burgundy stood up quickly too, "What?!? Do you want the mafia to have easy targets?"
It was Charcoal's turn to stand. "We don't want anyone dead!"
"Who is Mister?" Mr. Sepia whispered, but only Miss Amber actually heard him.
"What was the count?" Miss Amber asked.
"Even, 10 for, 10 against," replied Mr. Burgundy.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I will be posting parts of the story, based on the party game mafia. During the day, you can vote on who you would like to kill, and who you would like to follow at night. At night there will be a death, and I will explain some of what the chosen character(s) do that night. This will not prove them to be mafia by showing a killing, but it will give you insight into the character's personality, helping to guess if they are mafia. This first post will also keep a log of the characters alive, and how many mafia and doctors are left.
So, during the day, you will be prompted to vote for 1 lynch (kill) or to not lynch at all, and one character you would like to follow. Discuss in this thread your ideas, and put your personal final votes in bold.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
mafia left: 4
doctors left: 2
players left: 20
Mr. Burgundy = firefighter
Mr. Slate = war vet
Mr. Sepia = sweater man = regional packaging manager
Mr. Jade = cashier
Mr. Russet = gravedigger
Miss Orchid = plumber
Miss Fuchsia = poker player
Mr. Iris = cook
Mrs. Olive = stay at home mom
Mr. Charcoal = preacher
Miss Vermilion = inventor
Miss Powder = skier
Mr. Cream = golfer
Mr. Goldenrod = lawyer
Mr. Cobalt = salesman
Ms. Azure = dentist
Mr. Saffron = pizza boy
Mr. Beige = band member
Miss Amber = electrician
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
So, with a hose around one arm and an axe in the other hand, he decided to barge in through the front door to find the fire, which must have not reached the outside of the house yet.
Crashing through the door, he tightened his grip on his axe and was about to yell for someone, but instead found himself silent, face to face with a man in his fifties, wearing a brown checkered sweater and staring at him.
Both stood, motionless for a minute, not sure what to say to each other.
“So why are you here?” the man in the sweater asked, looking a little fearful, yet unsurprised.
“There was a call?” the firefighter asked, looking around. “About…a fire…?” The man shook his head. Looking around again, the firefighter saw over a dozen people in the house, most sitting and eating in a parlor, two women were listening to a man in a black suit speaking, and a man and woman came down the stairs. It seemed like everyone was having a good time. And yet…nothing seemed to fit. What were all these people doing if a fire had been called?
The firefighter and the man in the sweater turned when they heard a door open, and a woman emerged from a passage under the stairs. She looked at the fireman, and got a questioning look on her face too. Around age 28, she was fairly thin and had her brunette hair tied in a ponytail. Interestingly enough, her outfit gave her away as an electrician.
“Everything is fine with the power…” she began, looking at the newcomer. She breathed in quickly, and frowned. “Ok, now we need an explanation.”
The man in the sweater seemed to understand, and followed her into the kitchen. The firefighter also came, but walked slowly to take everything in. The house had an odd feeling about it, maybe due to its grandiose architecture and elaborate decorations. Whoever owned it was rich no doubt, and seemed to have good taste. The kitchen itself was nearly the size of the parking garage back at the station, which held four trucks and had reasonable room to move. It seemed like it could hold enough food to last for weeks, between all of the cabinets and refrigerators. The electrician and man in the sweater were both in the kitchen still, talking to a shady figure in the background, standing at the backdoor. He only heard a part of their conversation.
“According to everyone, it seems like you were the first one here,” the woman said, angry at the man. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know myself,” he replied in a wheezy voice. He was very nearly bald, and
seemed to be leaning on a muddy shovel for support. “I was called by a man who said that his father had died, and not wanted a funeral so I should come to talk about arrangements.” The electrician seemed to know she was not getting anywhere, but seemed to not want to give up anyway.
The firefighter, meanwhile, moved onto a dining room. In the middle was a long table, elliptical, and with twenty, various colored chairs lined up against the walls. Oddly enough, the chairs were colored, and had their colors written on the back. It seemed like this would be a great place for a banquet, or some large gathering, but the dark wood table, the crimson walls, and the ominous fireplace, already lit, gave him a bad feeling. But what intrigued him most was a note, in handwriting, on the table. And next to it, two guns.
A clicking noise made him stop, as he reached to pick up one of the guns. He listened, it seemed as if the whole house had gone silent. Then, thundering footsteps seemed to come closer, and the firefighter want back into the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, in time to see a man thunder in, nearly knock down the man leaning on his shovel, the electrician, and the sweater man in an attempt to get to the door. Once there he frantically tried to open it, but to no avail. He was muscular, a man in his later forties or early fifties, whose blond hair was frazzled, for it was not quite short enough to be a buzz cut but not quite long enough to be anything else. Patting down his grey speckled suit, he relaxed a little when his had found his side. Still, a crowd had gathered in the kitchen to follow the spectacle, and he turned to see everyone staring at him. As he scanned the crowd, his eyes rested for a moment on the firefighter, and then to the dining room.
“What’s in there?” the man asked, running toward the firefighter. The firefighter held his ground in the doorway, and held back the suited man as he tried to push through.
“Man, you’re strong,” the firefighter said, grunting.
“I should be. Fought in Cuba, Grenada, Afghanistan and ‘Nam,” he replied.
“Alright,” the firefighter said, and instead of giving up, retreated back to the guns and the note. The suited man, and everyone else, entered the dining room and froze as he held the two guns in one hand and the note in the other.
Who are you and what are you doing with those?” the grey suited man asked, holding his side.
“I just found these in here, must be a clue as to what’s going on,” he replied.
“How do we know you didn’t bring them yourself?” asked the electrician, skeptically.
“Ask Mr. Army Man here,” the firefighter replied. “You saw them on the table, right?” The man in the grey suit nodded on response.
“Then how did you find them first?” the electrician persisted.
“Did anyone else come in here before me, just now?” No one said anything. “Well, that’s that. There’s a not here, I haven’t read it yet, so I figure I should read it to everyone. We’re all stuck here together. So…grab a chair, I guess.” Everyone started to move, but soon enough he called out again. “Wait. It says here to pick your favorite color.” Within five minutes everyone was situated, a few open pizza boxes in the middle of the long table, and the firefighter walking to his seat after taking care of the guns.
There was a glass case in the room, perfect for holding the guns, and so he locked them in there, putting the key on top. He sat at that head of the table, across from a man he had seen talking earlier, who looked like a preacher. Gazing around the table, he saw what looked to be a colorful cast (pun intended) of people sitting before him. So he began to read the note.
‘First, before I say anymore, go ahead and find a chair, everyone, of your favorite color. Now that you are sitting, this note if from the man who owns this house, please called me Mister. I have brought you here because I have reason to suspect that four of you are involved with the mafia.’ Everyone gasped in surprise at this point and looked around the room right away. ‘My sources are usually accurate, since I am my own source, but the problem is, I don’t know which four of you it is. So I have brought the 18 of you I suspect here to find out. Now, you may be thinking that there are 20 of you, this is because I have invited 2 doctors in case anything goes wrong. I am trusting you to find the mafia, and kill them. Each night the mafia will likely kill someone, so you must find this out quickly. For your own safety, please do not use your own names, but instead use the color names on the back of your chairs. Doctors, if you reveal yourselves, you may become a target, so you may find it advantageous to keep quiet about who you are. The guns are to be used on the Mafia members. Good Luck.
Mister’
Mister’
There was a silence by all at the table, until the firefighter spoke up.
“So, I suggest we shoot someone, everyday, that we believe is part of the mafia.”
“Isn’t that a bit cruel?” replied the man sitting opposite of him. He was dressed like a preacher, and as he spoke he got up and walked around the table slowly. “If we’re here to prevent deaths by killing the mafia, isn’t it the antithesis of what we should do? Killing someone if we don’t know that they are the mafia?”
The firefighter breathed heavily. “Yes, I know it sounds horrible, but our instincts are what we need to go by. It’s all we have here. No one is going to flat out say they’re mafia, right?” The group seemed to be in agreement.
“If we must do this, then why not wait until tomorrow, to find out more about everyone else here? We need proof.” The preacher then sat down again.
“Alright. So we’ll go around the table, tell a little bit about ourselves, and then we’ll decide what we want to do,” replied the firefighter.
“I’m Mr. Burgundy,” the fireman said, checking the back of his chair. It was obvious, despite his baggy outfit, that he was muscular. “I’m 31, single, and have no idea why I’m here. I’m a firefighter, and I was called here by some guy, saying there was a fire. I know it’s bad, but like I said, we need to get rid of the mafia.”
“My name is Mr. Slate,” replied the large man in a grey suit. “I’m a war vet. I’m 48 years old. Was in the army most of my life, just got out a few years ago. Came here for some reunion. And I say we start today.”
Next it was the man in the checked sweater’s turn. He was balding, and had an average frame, maybe a little overweight. “Hi. I’m Mr. Sepia. And I’m the regional packaging manager for my company. Oh, I’m 58. But why not wait for night and see who acts?”
“We have to sleep sometime,” replied Mr. Burgundy. “Next.”
“Mr. Jade,” said a man who had some pounds on him, but would look to be average sized in a passing glance. “I work as a cashier at a foodmart near here. Someone called and said they needed me to check if their food had been recalled, which I thought was odd, but came anyways. I’m 38, and I’m against doing this.”
“Mr. Russet,” said the creepy, old man who had been standing alone with his shovel before. “72. Gravedigger. Called to bury Mister’s father. The more voting, the more bodies, but no way around it. I’m for.”
“I’m Miss Orchid, I’m 29,” said a woman with short, light brown hair, with dark highlights. “I was called here to fix a toilet, I’m a plumber. But there wasn’t a broken one. And I’m with the idea of taking someone out right away.”
“I’m Ms. Coral,” replied a woman, wearing a knee length skirt and a blue, button up blouse. Her black hair was tied in a bun, and wore rectangular rimmed glasses. She cleared her throat and continued. “I’m a teacher, 35, and I was asked to tutor Mister in private sessions. But for us now, I would abhor to kill anyone. My vote is no.”
“I’m Miss Fuchsia, 27, and I’m a professional poker player,” an average woman said. She had a kind look on her face and long, blond hair with streaks of purple flowed down to her upper back, giving her a cute girl look. “Online it said a tournament was going to be held here, so I came. And…there’s got to be a better way than this to find out who is in the mafia. No.”
“I’m Mr. Iris,” replied a skinny man, who actually pulled off the look of a light brown mullet. “I’m 26, a cook, and I came here to prepare a meal for some party. And I’m against this whole thing too.”
“I’m Mrs. Olive,” replied a larger lady, in her early 40’s, who sported a short, reddish brown hairstyle. “I’m a stay at home mom and I don’t need to tell you my age.” She chuckled. “I was supposed to come to take laundry, to do for extra money. But we should get out of here as quickly as possible; I have kids to get back to. So yes.”
Now it was the preacher’s turn. He got up once more, and began to pace. He had short, brown hair, which almost looked like a yam mica but covered his whole head. “I’m 34, and a preacher. My name here is Mr. Charcoal. I was asked here to come and talk about God with Mister, he said he wanted to repent. It seems like a lot of people here agree with me. The killing won’t do anything, we need to wait up, and watch to make sure the mafia don’t kill anyone. They’ll give up sooner or later.”
“And what happens until then?” Mr. Burgundy asked. “We sit here, put our lives on hold?”
“Does this situation really make it permissible to kill?” replied Mr. Charcoal, angry.
“Yes!” Mr. Burgundy yelled.
“Well,” Mr. Charcoal said, returning to his chair. “I don’t want any part in the killing. We’ll see what the majority wants.”
“And to think,” Mr. Burgundy muttered. “We’re barely halfway through. Next.”
"I'm Miss Vermilion, an inventor," said the next woman with long, red hair. She was skinny, and would be very attractive, if they weren't all in a house to kill each other, but now she looked stressed. "I'm 31, Mister wanted to buy one of my newest inventions, so I came. And I'm against the killing."
"I'm Miss Powder Blue. 28. I'm a ski instructor and professional skier," said the next girl, with long, black hair resting on her snow jacket. "Mister was supposed to be my new trainer. But obviously not...we can't kill anyone."
"Mr. Cream, professional golfer.," replied a man with sandy brown hair. He looked overweight, and looked like he would be cocky in any other situation. "Age 40...i mean 30. And like Powder, Mister was supposed to be my trainer. But if we don't kill the mafia, how are we going to live? I vote yes."
"Mr. Goldenrod, expert lawyer," said the man with a confident smile. He had blond, wavy hair that was supposed to look professional, but just looked silly. "38. And we kill. Anyone innocent dies, and I'll represent them in court." He winked after this, but no one smiled. "Mister wanted me to represent him on a case. And yes, we kill."
"Mr. Cobalt, 39, and I'm a travelling salesman," replied a meek man. "I just came on buisness, Mister saw me at a convention and asked to see some products. Nobody should be killed, at least on day 1."
"Ms. Azure, age 28," replied a professional looking woman with his short, blond hair. "I'm a dentist, and i was acked to deliver some x-ray scans for him. Apparently he has bad teeth, he's with another dentist so I don't know. The mafia should at least be restrained, so we can be safe.
"I'm, uhh, Mr. Saffron," said a man with a large nose and ears. "I'm the pizza guy, uhh...28. And Mister called for pizza. And I'm not gonna want to kill anyone, its like, not right."
"Mr. Beige, 32," said the next man with long, black hair and multiple piercings. "I'm in a band, and it sucks, but I offered a solo gig, so I came here for that. And no, way we can get by without killing anyone. Yes."
Finally it was the electrician's turn. "This is rediculous," she yelled, standing up. "Amber, 28. Electrician, wiring problem. We can't kill anyone this way."
Mr. Burgundy stood up quickly too, "What?!? Do you want the mafia to have easy targets?"
It was Charcoal's turn to stand. "We don't want anyone dead!"
"Who is Mister?" Mr. Sepia whispered, but only Miss Amber actually heard him.
"What was the count?" Miss Amber asked.
"Even, 10 for, 10 against," replied Mr. Burgundy.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I will be posting parts of the story, based on the party game mafia. During the day, you can vote on who you would like to kill, and who you would like to follow at night. At night there will be a death, and I will explain some of what the chosen character(s) do that night. This will not prove them to be mafia by showing a killing, but it will give you insight into the character's personality, helping to guess if they are mafia. This first post will also keep a log of the characters alive, and how many mafia and doctors are left.
So, during the day, you will be prompted to vote for 1 lynch (kill) or to not lynch at all, and one character you would like to follow. Discuss in this thread your ideas, and put your personal final votes in bold.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
mafia left: 4
doctors left: 2
players left: 20
Mr. Burgundy = firefighter
Mr. Slate = war vet
Mr. Sepia = sweater man = regional packaging manager
Mr. Jade = cashier
Mr. Russet = gravedigger
Miss Orchid = plumber
Miss Fuchsia = poker player
Mr. Iris = cook
Mrs. Olive = stay at home mom
Mr. Charcoal = preacher
Miss Vermilion = inventor
Miss Powder = skier
Mr. Cream = golfer
Mr. Goldenrod = lawyer
Mr. Cobalt = salesman
Ms. Azure = dentist
Mr. Saffron = pizza boy
Mr. Beige = band member
Miss Amber = electrician
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
smashbro ~~~ Authority: 20 ~~~ Combat: 10
