Setup: Texas Holdem Mafia Fusion. Informed Minority chooses deck's card sequence. Cards Recycle. Poorest player dies at dawn. Voting only while it's a player's turn. Deadline for lynch 51 hours. No additional nightkill for mafia.
Tunneling Calais, France, ferry port to Dover, UK. Donna is still looking for someone to take her across, citing as reason for her stranding the fact that they recently disallowed on-foot-would-be passenger boarding. It's showtime —hiding her own unwell-being— as she's inquiring about the cast's (that's keeping a terminal gate arivee's arm static) coming to being; perfectly camouflageing her vulnerable soul's chronic disfigurement —grinding off chunks of psychosis-proofability failsafes further still— as the for-ice-breaking-discussion-invoked circumstance gets light-shed-on.
Life anti-matter being exchanged in a farce of verbal and facial-gestural utility proves quasi futile; for in terms of getting lucky this is also a nonezo, gradually revealing ifself to become a problem dichotomy: how to keep hidden the unpleasantness of getting fed up getting fed insight into an uninteresting, potentially past-borderline pathetic stranger's woes, having-asked-for-it notwithstanding AND fancy keeping a gay demeanor about one's own misgiven fissures of constitution & grim-situation-in-tandem?
While she may or may not be his type (could easily pass as targaryan) Cupid ain't up in this bitch, but the muse of mafia hellyee, so.. behold: the story of how it came to be (fittingly called Area Saint-Quentin Mafia) featuring aliens..
All-Stars 'A dog that likes to catch the frisbees I throw'.
'An infinite supply of perfectly balanced skateboards with permanently epic wheel gyration and the fitness to ride them most godlike—performing stylish trick combos on a superlatively regular basis.'
A trip to the southern hemisphere to see all the stars, so I can wear Converse sneakers with the flex charm activated, conforming to the All-Stars-inherent philosophy gimmick the way it must've been envisioned since its inception—in-a-manner-of-the-context-of-a-dimension-where-everything-is optimality-and-sense-driven speaking.'
ETA-@-skatepark-4-minutes-promenading past the lighthouse he refused to pay 5€ to mount they started building up mafia-hosting-chemistry-synergy prior to even the awareness of that eventuality materialising. The next day, Donna was petting Meta the Dog who was wearing a collar-sign saying Will Host Internet Forum Mafia Games 4 Food while he whose name remains the number 0633605663330 for now was singing Michael Jackson songs in an Elvis Presley voice, for a couple of minutes to warm up, and then the intricacies of a poker-fusioned setup, to the x-files theme song.
He convinced her to stay in France (abandondoning her ambitions to hitch a ride on a ferry/traversing the Eurotunnel towards her homeland) by confessing that he felt like they had something to do, together; as if divinity had use if not need for them to converge; even so much as finding out what it was might dud hard but was worth pursuing from his perspective—he said at the zenith of his articulation.
For writing The Book on Mafia there is such a high demand collective-existence-wise that gravity (in the philosophical sense) made use of its prerogative to un-determinism-chain particular instances in spacetime, granting supernatural intuition for possible awesomeness to the most promising would-be-architects-of-its-happening is basically what happens as they click —and subconsciously home-in on grooving with their newfound purpose of spreading the good word of lycanthroptimality— brainstorming cross-life improvements (a game of displaying one's perception and empathy with the conversation partner) in first-person.
After a brief promenade in the garden of the Chaos Sanctuary from Diablo 2 they arrive at the water-spewing, partly remote-controlled mechanical dragon and make their way past one of the beach lockers and three quarters of the way to a second one, at the skatepark before they realise they should stash their luggage and continue onward a hell of a lot more lightly, only to wind up staying put for pretty much the remainder of the day, share-dreaming of playing Pokermafia till dawn with a deck of 51 in his tent that heavily-starlit night.
Optimally Getting right down to the core of mafia wherewithal, in an attempt to please Donna (+ Show Spoiler [aloha!] +
Bought another 1€ train ticket to Calais (cal means horse in romanian) => my departure from this place, scheduled for wednesday; perhaps for good. It's relevant only because I've linked my RL to the flavor of the game I volunteer to cohost with you. It should also be well known that one can't justify getting noticed and taken seriously talking, philosophising even about mafia if one does not concurrently play/try to host/advertise a game no matter if it fills or not
) with something a bit more substance-laden, I'll say
First of all: No bullshit. In the face of the objectively pure entity that is the concept of mafia one should only carry as much dirt going in to meet it as one can handle getting thrown back a thousand-fold. That is why I have to make it unmistakably clear, in-tune and truthful, my foreword.
Bottom line is, and if you have the sense that a couple of dozens of years of living bestows upon a person you should know this (and no amount of halfwit trolls and highlanders could sway you; whoever you are) we are not responsible for anything but the suffering-sentient, ostensibly intelligent life we create—or rather drag out of the comfort of voided nothing which all non-existence revels in, happily? who is to beg to differ.
Any other type of moral entanglement is voluntary and should yield to the mother of all: we should make this place/life the best thing it can be collectively modded to become, for all existence to enjoy and seek satisfaction in co-creating.. as we are all in the same boat of developers for the only game that can be in pre-alpha and post-cult-classic-omega @ the same timespace. It's chaos because most of y'all don't even know that this is why we're here, or you don't limit yourself to this essential and singular piece of dichotomous objective (D.O.), and drift off into insignificance and objectively unjustifiable prioritisation instead.
The more you exclude (damn to silence/depriority) every other attempt to out-influence or out-govern intelligence-capable life, the more intricacy and divinity you find in conforming to the one (2) that matter(s). Slowly you will come to appreciate mafia for its simplicity, elegance and unlimited power in coming to your aid; again, only if your quest is true, and only if your world is imperfect. Mafia, in game-to-be, essentially in thought (galvanized by the prospect of mafia-imbued gaming) becomes the timelessly optimal tool for crafting heavenly artifacts of lively abundance, worthy of anyone's investment of time, attention, creativity and being. 'tis the only universal pendulum to choreograph our little big dances to—I dare you to name something else and suffer humiliation as I disambiguate its incapability to hold a candle to mafia.
Knowing that this is so, you can suffer immense pain when sensing the incapability to rise to the standard that zealous conformation to the dichotomous accountability philosophy (D.A.P.) vanguards. Feel disgusted when you know mafia could improve an unacceptable situation yet nobody is doing anything! or worse.. people's apparent ambition becomes to pile up being a part of the problem and take up arms against the solution—which can without exception be found in the return to the afore-elaborated-on base of the dichotomous accountability philosophy (D.A.B.); hardly a perverted, debased and corrupted shadow of a halfass attempt at a carcass thereoff.
Despite their ostensibly best efforts, this game's signup stage turned out to dud. Should Donna and Marcelu' Şmecher Valaho-Francez(numberguy—read blog) wake up to the fact that this, hosting internet forum mafia games for english-speakers resident or travelling through Calais (perhaps via the ferry port, looking for a pleasurable social experience involving their fellow passengers) is their only free from professional-hierarch-dependency-enabled-tyranny, potentially awesome-life-sustaining source of income now, a service objectively rated at 8-10€/£ per player even though they'll happily take any spare change, food or even vestimentary/other-sort-of-useful item, and wrestle out sovereignty over their inhibitions to approach potential benefactors directly in an attempt to pitch them the aquisition of a spot on an upcoming/reloading game's signup list of players, to the satisfactory (mayhaps signalled as such via TL+ subscription gifts) completion of which they'd no doubt enthusiastically devote painstaking attention, they're not going to resourface as succesful businesspeople —in the aforementioned regard— out of their psycho-physical quicksand-slump.