TL Mafia V: The Town Strikes Back - Page 13

On December 29 2008 18:35 mikeymoo wrote:


I don't like this. Everyone should be encouraged to be active.
Otherwise I like your points.

On December 29 2008 18:43 BloodyC0bbler wrote:


Everyone should be encouraged to be active yes, but we all know random greens will a) be large faggots and be inactive, or b) do what they want to make the game fun or c) be a 0cz3c and be hilarious yet annoying.

On December 29 2008 18:35 mikeymoo wrote:


I don't like this. Everyone should be encouraged to be active.
Otherwise I like your points.

On December 29 2008 17:13 nevake wrote:
Crap, just letting you guys know that I'll be very inactive/not posting tomorrow and possibly the day after. I'm afraid of these new rules xP!

On December 30 2008 01:30 Caller wrote:

DAY


It was a bright day in Liquidia and Caller was doing what men usually do on a Saturday morning: struggle out of a bed with a strange woman. It was an unlucky hour for him, struggling with the crap in his head and stumbling to and fro. Finally, after carefully making sure that he didn’t wake her up, he tip-toed over to his desk and tried to think through his massive hangover.
He flipped through pages and pages of information, but there was just so much of it that keeping his files together was impossible in his completely confused state. This was odd, Caller thought, as Caller lacks alcohol dehydrogenase and can only have one or two drinks before passing out.
Caller proceeded to stumble down the stairs into his kitchen and started brewing some tea, to keep him up to focus on his work as mayor of Liquidia. He figured that the mafia would soon be on to him, and that he had to get his information out in a coherent form-one of his mayoral opponents denounced him for speaking in gibberish and being very poor with using lubricant and honoring bets. That guy had left the town a long time ago, though, and he definitely wasn’t in any of the papers.
Caller then heard someone coming down the steps. Assuming it was the hooker, Caller waved a hand nonchalantly toward the stairway when suddenly the person darted about and threw a knife at him, barely missing Caller’s vas deferens. Caller retaliated by pulling out his pistol when suddenly another figure rose out of the ground, knocking him down on the marble floor and banging his neck against the hard kitchen counter. Caller tried to move but couldn’t: his spine had been broken and he was now a quadriplegic.
“You shouldn’t have vetoed the free wheelchairs bill,” smirked a new man, clearly the mafia leader, who strolled in the door, banging to some music on his iPod.
“You won’t get away with this…” gasped Caller as a henchman stopped to admire and memorize the scene. Caller knew this man as an artist, and his memory was perfect.
Before Caller could do anything else, somebody cut his jugular vein, and the blood spilled out, staining the otherwise clean floor. He was finished. One of the mafia stayed to close his eyelids, placing a coin on each. Then they were gone, as fast as they had come.
The town found Caller’s body later that day.

NoClueZone

Time to vote to kill somebody! Please vote in the appropriate blog thread.

On December 30 2008 01:30 Caller wrote:

It was a bright day in Liquidia and Caller was doing what men usually do on a Saturday morning: struggle out of a bed with a strange woman. It was an unlucky hour for him, struggling with the crap in his head and stumbling to and fro. Finally, after carefully making sure that he didn’t wake her up, he tip-toed over to his desk and tried to think through his massive hangover.
He flipped through pages and pages of information, but there was just so much of it that keeping his files together was impossible in his completely confused state. This was odd, Caller thought, as Caller lacks alcohol dehydrogenase and can only have one or two drinks before passing out.
Caller proceeded to stumble down the stairs into his kitchen and started brewing some tea, to keep him up to focus on his work as mayor of Liquidia. He figured that the mafia would soon be on to him, and that he had to get his information out in a coherent form-one of his mayoral opponents denounced him for speaking in gibberish and being very poor with using lubricant and honoring bets. That guy had left the town a long time ago, though, and he definitely wasn’t in any of the papers.
Caller then heard someone coming down the steps. Assuming it was the hooker, Caller waved a hand nonchalantly toward the stairway when suddenly the person darted about and threw a knife at him, barely missing Caller’s vas deferens. Caller retaliated by pulling out his pistol when suddenly another figure rose out of the ground, knocking him down on the marble floor and banging his neck against the hard kitchen counter. Caller tried to move but couldn’t: his spine had been broken and he was now a quadriplegic.
“You shouldn’t have vetoed the free wheelchairs bill,” smirked a new man, clearly the mafia leader, who strolled in the door, banging to some music on his iPod.
“You won’t get away with this…” gasped Caller as a henchman stopped to admire and memorize the scene. Caller knew this man as an artist, and his memory was perfect.
Before Caller could do anything else, somebody cut his jugular vein, and the blood spilled out, staining the otherwise clean floor. He was finished. One of the mafia stayed to close his eyelids, placing a coin on each. Then they were gone, as fast as they had come.
The town found Caller’s body later that day.