((Viral Phallology T. 2) Infected Win, Discussion Open
Charles Kinbote
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
Night 1 Narration
Night 2 Narration
Night 3 Narration
Night 4 Narration
Night 6 Narration
Night 7 Narration
The Black Plague: Fourteenth Century Europe.
Smallpox: Sixteenth Century America.
Cholera: Nineteenth Century Europe.
Sometimes, when nature's most successful experiment isn't doing a good enough job of killing itself off, its erstwhile mother steps in, culling the flock, tending the herd with the steady hand of the most experienced butcher. An effective contingency to our own relentless need to grow, to expand, to propagate, a virus will sweep across the land we have laid claim to as our own. Over a period of years, hundreds, thousands, millions will perish as disease and contagion holds sway over what once was governed by man. Despite thrising death toll, no matter how great the numbers of our fallen must be, we have, as a race, rebuilt and carried on the torch of our forefathers. The greatest plagues, wars, catastrophes, have
done nothing to loosen the knot we tie around planet Earth.
America: Present Day.
If there had been time, news stations would have switched to a 24-hour broadcast of "QUARANTINE IN PLACE", with snappy graphics and booming sound clips. If there had been time, medical institutions all across the world would have done tests and, perhaps, discovered the nature of the virus and the means by which the virus, a small bacteriophage under the scientific classification of Phallogolus Immune Inhibitor, with alarming alacrity, committed a genocide (after a manner) of every white blood cell within the victim's body, as well as conveying the properties of the common flu. If there had been time, the United States Military would, undoubtedly, have set up thousands of roadblocks across the country, quarantining cities and towns with signs of infection.
If there had been time.
No one knows, or is alive to tell, how the disease originated. Whether it was a science fair project gone wrong, an infected monkey, a slight evolution in some previous virus, it began with a small city block in New York first complaining of similar symptons, then staggering out of their homes to collapse in others' vomit in the streets, and finally perishing. This all occurred within a time-frame of about a half an hour.
Within another hour, Queens was a ghost town.
With the mass evacuation of panicked citizens came the opportunity for the virus to become more than just a footnote in American history. As millions of hopeful victims fled, unaware their fate had already been sealed, they dragged their race down with them.
In Washington, D.C, the national circuits had lit up with normally rational g-men babbling about a "forest of flesh" in the streets of New York, then "carpets of corpses" in Connecticut and New Jersey, then equally lunatic and alliterative metaphors to describe the sheer mass of the fallen in Pennsylvania, Rhode Island - as far west as Ohio came the eerily poetic reports from sick and dying men of the level of mayhem. Capitol Hill wasted no time in mobilizing the available military, and within thirty minutes there were roadblocks, spike strips and armed guards standing in complete circumference of the political sector. Every man had the same orders: no cars were to get near, no wrecks were to be checked for survivors. A few of the less nationalistic soldiers slipped off when others weren't looking, but for the most part, they stayed.
The first eighteen automobiles to approach were easily dispatched, and left burning were they fell. The nineteenth vehicle, an enormous long-haul truck with Quebec tags, made it over six spike-strips and through approximately 3000 rounds of small-arms fire before the cab pitch over and squealed along the ground, ending a mere four or five yards from the line of shaken soldiers. The cargo car, however, wasn't quite spent. Sliding along a pendulum's path towards the soldiers, the door at the rear snapped, and one limp, bloody horse after another thumped out, falling just enough distance from the lip of the trailer to the pavement to rupture the skin. Finally pushed to the limit, the military's formation broke, and they fled back to Capitol Hill, running from what they already carried within them. They didn't make it far; just far enough to get the job done.
In Boston, Massachusetts, a car, going 65 miles over the speed limit, plowed into a ritzy four-star hotel near the Boston Commons. The driver was too busy being dead to obey traffic laws that were, at this point, a bygone formality. The concierge who was unfortunate enough to open the driver's side door immediately straightened up, turned around, and divulged the contents of his breakfast onto a visiting Saudi oil baron. He undoubtedly would have protested the staining of his $200,000 dollar suit, but for some reason, he didn't mind the slightest bit. His legs, already strained by the hundreds of decadent meals such a man enjoyed, gave out, and were as still as the rest of his body.
In Los Angeles, California, a Boeing 737 made an "emergency landing" of sorts straight down the middle of the 210. Those who didn't die in the explosion stopped their car to gawk (from a safe distance) before getting back in and continuing on home, bringing the gifts of love and fatal infections. When a helicopter news team showed up to do a report on the crash and speculate on why there were so many crashed cars further down the highway, they were broadcasting for all of about thirteen seconds before the helicopter's pilot slumped forward onto the yolk. As the rotors drove the airborne meat wagon straight towards downtown L.A., body after body plummeted from the Channel 4 News Chopper to the city below, spreading the joy.
All across the country, through the air, the water, the fleeing populace, what had taken thousands of years to build was, in the space of about a day, undone.
And among all this there stood men and women who found themselves unaffected. Found themselves standing alone in a sea of rotting friends and family. Found themselves staring into the bloated, pus-covered faces of their mothers, their fathers, their wives and husbands and wishing that God had had the decency to take them too.
Every single one of them lasted a day or two before realizing that not only was there nothing for them there, but they couldn't stand by and watch what had been their companions become nothing more than stinking bags of blood and bone. They packed up supplies, loaded up a car, and headed out of town, pretending that that was just a speed bump, that was just a speed bump, that was just a mushy, wet speed bump. And maybe on a billboard outside of town, maybe in the next town down the way, maybe after a week of being on the road, they all saw the signs.
CRESTED BUTTE: SAFE HAVEN FOR SAFE BODIES
GET YOUR DUDE WALKIN' DOWN TO CRESTED BUTTE
GUNNISON TO CREST. BUTTE. A PLACE TO SET YOUR FEET
CRESTED BUTTE: RADIO FREE ZONE. ER, VIRUS FREE ZONE.
Direction is a wonderful thing.
---
You crest the hill, and pause for a moment, wondering if you got something wrong. Below you is a small, mountain village. The view is certainly majestic, but it's not what you expected. Every waking thought you've had since you saw the fresh paint proclaiming "CRESTED BUTTE: YOU'RE NOT ALONE" on a highway sign in Florida has been about this moment. Thinking about the thousands of like-minded survivors, the collaborated effort, the motherly black woman who would run things and serve as a convenient religious allegory, and most of all, the sight of people bustling like ants, a sight you never thought you would miss. Instead, you are confronted by a ghost town, one just the same as the hundreds you passed through on your way here; the only difference being that this one held your every hope for the future. As you feel a crushing despair settle in, you hear a car engine below, and jerk your head to the foreground to see a rusted Jeep climbing the hill towards you. A spark of hope relights within you, and as the car pulls level you look into the honest face of a clearly exhausted man who, nonetheless, smiles at you, and says in a Texan drawl, "Howdy, number 60. Stu Redman, and I'm the man who runs things around here. And you are?"
On the ride back into town, Stu explained the situation. "It never really got above a trickle. Every day, one, two, three people. You're the 60th to arrive...52nd still in town.. We think there are more out there, but they're either taking their sweet time or just afraid. As to why you didn't see a whole lot of activity...well, people have been dying. Being killed." He grimly nods at your expression of surprise. "Three nights ago, we found a friend, Nick, in the street, showing all the symptoms of the Phallogolus Virus. At first we thought there was the threat of even us Immunes getting sick, and there was a...bit of panic, to put it mildly. Then Dr. Brautigan ran some tests...turns out, this wasn't natural. He had a hypodermic needle mark on his shoulder, and traces of another's blood in his veins. Since then, six more have been killed, and folks have been holing up in their homes. Tonight we're meeting at the town hall, to vote on who we suspect and cast them out. We can't have the few survivors still left in this country dying to some maniac...or some maniacs.
It's been hard, trying to keep these people together. I'm not a politician, or a genius, I'm just the only goddamn one who seems to understand that none of us are going to pull through this alone. Everyone shows up in town, and everyone's angry that the electricity is spotty, that there's no running water, that we don't have a full system of government, with checks and balances and a collection of representatives. It was hard, at first, but other good ones have come in. I'll introduce you to them tonight.
As to what we're actually doin' here, well, we're just trying to survive. Some people believe America's the only country that got infected, and while that may not make a lick of sense to me, hope's a powerful tool, and I don't take it away from'em. Some people think the entire nation will be reborn from us...and that's a nice thought, but it's a far-fetched one. Me, I don't really know what's down the road for us...I'm just trying ta make it to the next sunrise."
"One question," you say, "You say you're the leader...did you write the signs?"
"Hah, no, not me," laughs Stu, "They're all over the country. Truth is, no one really knows who did...I've asked everyone who's shown up, but no one has fessed up. I don't know why you wouldn't want to...the man who did it would probably be treated like a hero, despite all that's going wrong."
As the car slowed to a stop on Elk Avenue, a frantic-looking man ran up to the car, yelling about another death. Paling quickly, Stu parked and the two of you followed the still-yelling man into a house. As soon as you crossed the threshold, the stench of decay hit your nose, and you pulled your shirt up over your face to block the smell. On the floor, a distended figure lay, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes leaking blood and pus, and a reddish fluid leaking from a hole on his arm. You and the two men with you stand quietly, and after a moment, you turn around, just to gauge Stu's reaction.
Somber-looking, Stu considers you, before opening his mouth to speak. Instead of words, however, he produces a jarring yelp and the both of you turn your heads down, shifting your gaze to the stiletto that sprouted from his chest. Gasping, Stu grabs the doorframe, and leans over, letting a thin trickle of dark blood escape from his mouth. Turning his eyes up to you, you see in them a series of emotions: fright, wonder, anger, and a little look of "I told you so" that you know will be haunting your dreams for quite some time. Turning his eyes back to the rapidly growing marsh of blood at his feet, he seems to regard his blood-spotted shoes for a moment, before up and keeling over, making a disgusting meaty thud upon the hardwood floor. Screaming in anger and fright, the man who led you in here rushes over Stu's body out the doors, yelling threats and promises to the assumed assailant. As his ragged voice bounces off the closed doors all along the street, you kneel down, and pluck a small sheaf of paper pinned to Stu's back by the thin blade.
"Mankind falls, and the tower crumbles. The old ways are not a cure; they are the disease. The Crimson King holds the torch."
As the man comes back inside, gasping something about there not being anyone outside, you draw the stiletto from Stu's back, and consider the elegant engraving of an eye upon it's hilt. Letting the bloody metal fall to the ground, you drop your head into your hands.
Is there so safety or sanity left, even here?
Doors on the street open, and men and women trickle into the street to see the commotion. At the sight of Stu Redman's prone corpse in the doorway, some drop to their knees and openly wail, some bow their head in reverence, and a few slowly draw back into their homes to pull the shades.
Why were we brought here? To rebuild our world, or to destroy ourselves?
Head still in hands, still kneeling by the door, the cryptic message crumpled in your hands, you weigh the odds of survival here against those on your own, as many miles away as your feet can take you.
Night 2 Narration
Night 3 Narration
Night 4 Narration
Night 6 Narration
Night 7 Narration
The Black Plague: Fourteenth Century Europe.
Smallpox: Sixteenth Century America.
Cholera: Nineteenth Century Europe.
Sometimes, when nature's most successful experiment isn't doing a good enough job of killing itself off, its erstwhile mother steps in, culling the flock, tending the herd with the steady hand of the most experienced butcher. An effective contingency to our own relentless need to grow, to expand, to propagate, a virus will sweep across the land we have laid claim to as our own. Over a period of years, hundreds, thousands, millions will perish as disease and contagion holds sway over what once was governed by man. Despite thrising death toll, no matter how great the numbers of our fallen must be, we have, as a race, rebuilt and carried on the torch of our forefathers. The greatest plagues, wars, catastrophes, have
done nothing to loosen the knot we tie around planet Earth.
America: Present Day.
If there had been time, news stations would have switched to a 24-hour broadcast of "QUARANTINE IN PLACE", with snappy graphics and booming sound clips. If there had been time, medical institutions all across the world would have done tests and, perhaps, discovered the nature of the virus and the means by which the virus, a small bacteriophage under the scientific classification of Phallogolus Immune Inhibitor, with alarming alacrity, committed a genocide (after a manner) of every white blood cell within the victim's body, as well as conveying the properties of the common flu. If there had been time, the United States Military would, undoubtedly, have set up thousands of roadblocks across the country, quarantining cities and towns with signs of infection.
If there had been time.
No one knows, or is alive to tell, how the disease originated. Whether it was a science fair project gone wrong, an infected monkey, a slight evolution in some previous virus, it began with a small city block in New York first complaining of similar symptons, then staggering out of their homes to collapse in others' vomit in the streets, and finally perishing. This all occurred within a time-frame of about a half an hour.
Within another hour, Queens was a ghost town.
With the mass evacuation of panicked citizens came the opportunity for the virus to become more than just a footnote in American history. As millions of hopeful victims fled, unaware their fate had already been sealed, they dragged their race down with them.
In Washington, D.C, the national circuits had lit up with normally rational g-men babbling about a "forest of flesh" in the streets of New York, then "carpets of corpses" in Connecticut and New Jersey, then equally lunatic and alliterative metaphors to describe the sheer mass of the fallen in Pennsylvania, Rhode Island - as far west as Ohio came the eerily poetic reports from sick and dying men of the level of mayhem. Capitol Hill wasted no time in mobilizing the available military, and within thirty minutes there were roadblocks, spike strips and armed guards standing in complete circumference of the political sector. Every man had the same orders: no cars were to get near, no wrecks were to be checked for survivors. A few of the less nationalistic soldiers slipped off when others weren't looking, but for the most part, they stayed.
The first eighteen automobiles to approach were easily dispatched, and left burning were they fell. The nineteenth vehicle, an enormous long-haul truck with Quebec tags, made it over six spike-strips and through approximately 3000 rounds of small-arms fire before the cab pitch over and squealed along the ground, ending a mere four or five yards from the line of shaken soldiers. The cargo car, however, wasn't quite spent. Sliding along a pendulum's path towards the soldiers, the door at the rear snapped, and one limp, bloody horse after another thumped out, falling just enough distance from the lip of the trailer to the pavement to rupture the skin. Finally pushed to the limit, the military's formation broke, and they fled back to Capitol Hill, running from what they already carried within them. They didn't make it far; just far enough to get the job done.
In Boston, Massachusetts, a car, going 65 miles over the speed limit, plowed into a ritzy four-star hotel near the Boston Commons. The driver was too busy being dead to obey traffic laws that were, at this point, a bygone formality. The concierge who was unfortunate enough to open the driver's side door immediately straightened up, turned around, and divulged the contents of his breakfast onto a visiting Saudi oil baron. He undoubtedly would have protested the staining of his $200,000 dollar suit, but for some reason, he didn't mind the slightest bit. His legs, already strained by the hundreds of decadent meals such a man enjoyed, gave out, and were as still as the rest of his body.
In Los Angeles, California, a Boeing 737 made an "emergency landing" of sorts straight down the middle of the 210. Those who didn't die in the explosion stopped their car to gawk (from a safe distance) before getting back in and continuing on home, bringing the gifts of love and fatal infections. When a helicopter news team showed up to do a report on the crash and speculate on why there were so many crashed cars further down the highway, they were broadcasting for all of about thirteen seconds before the helicopter's pilot slumped forward onto the yolk. As the rotors drove the airborne meat wagon straight towards downtown L.A., body after body plummeted from the Channel 4 News Chopper to the city below, spreading the joy.
All across the country, through the air, the water, the fleeing populace, what had taken thousands of years to build was, in the space of about a day, undone.
And among all this there stood men and women who found themselves unaffected. Found themselves standing alone in a sea of rotting friends and family. Found themselves staring into the bloated, pus-covered faces of their mothers, their fathers, their wives and husbands and wishing that God had had the decency to take them too.
Every single one of them lasted a day or two before realizing that not only was there nothing for them there, but they couldn't stand by and watch what had been their companions become nothing more than stinking bags of blood and bone. They packed up supplies, loaded up a car, and headed out of town, pretending that that was just a speed bump, that was just a speed bump, that was just a mushy, wet speed bump. And maybe on a billboard outside of town, maybe in the next town down the way, maybe after a week of being on the road, they all saw the signs.
CRESTED BUTTE: SAFE HAVEN FOR SAFE BODIES
GET YOUR DUDE WALKIN' DOWN TO CRESTED BUTTE
GUNNISON TO CREST. BUTTE. A PLACE TO SET YOUR FEET
CRESTED BUTTE: RADIO FREE ZONE. ER, VIRUS FREE ZONE.
Direction is a wonderful thing.
---
You crest the hill, and pause for a moment, wondering if you got something wrong. Below you is a small, mountain village. The view is certainly majestic, but it's not what you expected. Every waking thought you've had since you saw the fresh paint proclaiming "CRESTED BUTTE: YOU'RE NOT ALONE" on a highway sign in Florida has been about this moment. Thinking about the thousands of like-minded survivors, the collaborated effort, the motherly black woman who would run things and serve as a convenient religious allegory, and most of all, the sight of people bustling like ants, a sight you never thought you would miss. Instead, you are confronted by a ghost town, one just the same as the hundreds you passed through on your way here; the only difference being that this one held your every hope for the future. As you feel a crushing despair settle in, you hear a car engine below, and jerk your head to the foreground to see a rusted Jeep climbing the hill towards you. A spark of hope relights within you, and as the car pulls level you look into the honest face of a clearly exhausted man who, nonetheless, smiles at you, and says in a Texan drawl, "Howdy, number 60. Stu Redman, and I'm the man who runs things around here. And you are?"
On the ride back into town, Stu explained the situation. "It never really got above a trickle. Every day, one, two, three people. You're the 60th to arrive...52nd still in town.. We think there are more out there, but they're either taking their sweet time or just afraid. As to why you didn't see a whole lot of activity...well, people have been dying. Being killed." He grimly nods at your expression of surprise. "Three nights ago, we found a friend, Nick, in the street, showing all the symptoms of the Phallogolus Virus. At first we thought there was the threat of even us Immunes getting sick, and there was a...bit of panic, to put it mildly. Then Dr. Brautigan ran some tests...turns out, this wasn't natural. He had a hypodermic needle mark on his shoulder, and traces of another's blood in his veins. Since then, six more have been killed, and folks have been holing up in their homes. Tonight we're meeting at the town hall, to vote on who we suspect and cast them out. We can't have the few survivors still left in this country dying to some maniac...or some maniacs.
It's been hard, trying to keep these people together. I'm not a politician, or a genius, I'm just the only goddamn one who seems to understand that none of us are going to pull through this alone. Everyone shows up in town, and everyone's angry that the electricity is spotty, that there's no running water, that we don't have a full system of government, with checks and balances and a collection of representatives. It was hard, at first, but other good ones have come in. I'll introduce you to them tonight.
As to what we're actually doin' here, well, we're just trying to survive. Some people believe America's the only country that got infected, and while that may not make a lick of sense to me, hope's a powerful tool, and I don't take it away from'em. Some people think the entire nation will be reborn from us...and that's a nice thought, but it's a far-fetched one. Me, I don't really know what's down the road for us...I'm just trying ta make it to the next sunrise."
"One question," you say, "You say you're the leader...did you write the signs?"
"Hah, no, not me," laughs Stu, "They're all over the country. Truth is, no one really knows who did...I've asked everyone who's shown up, but no one has fessed up. I don't know why you wouldn't want to...the man who did it would probably be treated like a hero, despite all that's going wrong."
As the car slowed to a stop on Elk Avenue, a frantic-looking man ran up to the car, yelling about another death. Paling quickly, Stu parked and the two of you followed the still-yelling man into a house. As soon as you crossed the threshold, the stench of decay hit your nose, and you pulled your shirt up over your face to block the smell. On the floor, a distended figure lay, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes leaking blood and pus, and a reddish fluid leaking from a hole on his arm. You and the two men with you stand quietly, and after a moment, you turn around, just to gauge Stu's reaction.
Somber-looking, Stu considers you, before opening his mouth to speak. Instead of words, however, he produces a jarring yelp and the both of you turn your heads down, shifting your gaze to the stiletto that sprouted from his chest. Gasping, Stu grabs the doorframe, and leans over, letting a thin trickle of dark blood escape from his mouth. Turning his eyes up to you, you see in them a series of emotions: fright, wonder, anger, and a little look of "I told you so" that you know will be haunting your dreams for quite some time. Turning his eyes back to the rapidly growing marsh of blood at his feet, he seems to regard his blood-spotted shoes for a moment, before up and keeling over, making a disgusting meaty thud upon the hardwood floor. Screaming in anger and fright, the man who led you in here rushes over Stu's body out the doors, yelling threats and promises to the assumed assailant. As his ragged voice bounces off the closed doors all along the street, you kneel down, and pluck a small sheaf of paper pinned to Stu's back by the thin blade.
"Mankind falls, and the tower crumbles. The old ways are not a cure; they are the disease. The Crimson King holds the torch."
As the man comes back inside, gasping something about there not being anyone outside, you draw the stiletto from Stu's back, and consider the elegant engraving of an eye upon it's hilt. Letting the bloody metal fall to the ground, you drop your head into your hands.
Is there so safety or sanity left, even here?
Doors on the street open, and men and women trickle into the street to see the commotion. At the sight of Stu Redman's prone corpse in the doorway, some drop to their knees and openly wail, some bow their head in reverence, and a few slowly draw back into their homes to pull the shades.
Why were we brought here? To rebuild our world, or to destroy ourselves?
Head still in hands, still kneeling by the door, the cryptic message crumpled in your hands, you weigh the odds of survival here against those on your own, as many miles away as your feet can take you.
Charles Kinbote on
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Posts
Player List:
1.PRËTËNTIÖüS - *DEAD* - Infected from Castle Rock
2. Killjoy - Villager
3. Nuzak - replaced, psychocucumber - Villager
4. Bogerton - *DEAD* - Villager from San Diego
5. Zzulu - *DEAD* - Villager from Los Angeles
6.Skull Man - *DEAD* - Marine
7. Durax - *DEAD* - Villager
8. Marshmallow - *DEAD* - Villager from Colorado Springs
9. Dave the Rave - Villager
10. Orestes - *DEAD* - Villager
11. cj iwakura - *DEAD* - Villager from Roswell
12. Squashua - *DEAD* - Cultist from Derry
13. BoyAzul (ChicoBlue) - *DEAD* - Villager from Houston
14. Theidar - *DEAD* - Doctor from Truth or Consequences
15. Mr. Embarkation - *DEAD* - Villager from Kingston
16. Koshian - *DEAD* - Villager from Ft. Worth
17. Wiggin - *DEAD* - Villager from Boston
18. B:L - *DEAD* - Gadgeteer from Calla Bryn Sturgis
19.Strato - *DEAD* - Villager from Denver
20. Jimothy - Villager
21. Walter O'Dim - *DEAD* - Infected from Castle Rock
22. Dakal - *DEAD* - Villager
23. Seta 3000 - *DEAD* - Villager from Tombstone
24. Osvik - *DEAD* - Infected from Castle Rock
25. PotU - *DEAD* - Villager from Memphis
26. Cogliostro - Villager
27. The Munkus The Beaver -*DEAD*-Villager from Birmingham
28.NATIK - Villager
29. Zot - *DEAD* - Villager from Little Rock
30. redimpulse - *DEAD* - Villager from Dallas
31. Soup - Villager
32. 150cc - *DEAD* - Villager from Reno
33. neville - *DEAD* - Cultist from Derry
34. Bendery - *DEAD* - Snoop from Boulder
35. Kovak - *DEAD* - Family Member from Santa Fe
36. Raneados - *DEAD* - Cultist from Derry
37. State of the Art Robot - *DEAD* - Villager from Espanola
38. Endomatic - Villager
39. TehSpectre - *DEAD*- Villager from Tres Piedras
40. SojakFA (Shorn Scrotum Man?) - *DEAD* - Snoop from Boulder
41. Green - *DEAD* - Family Member from Santa Fe
42. Critical - *DEAD* - Cultist from Derry
43. scarlet ave. - *DEAD* - Villager from Alamosa
44. the wook - Family Member
45. Kusuguttai - Infected
46. Frosteey - *DEAD* - Villager from Antonito
47. precisionk - Infected
48. Qorzm - Infected
49. One Thousand Dicks - replaced, iamtheaznman - Villager
50. Seriously - *DEAD* - Special Ops from Washington, D.C.
Reserves:
1. Psycho Cucumber
2. iamtheaznman
3. FreeAgent
4. Fembot
5. Dogbone33
More Reserves Always Welcome!
Rules
Every day, the mob will vote a random player to be killed. The general idea is that you vote for people you find suspicious - however, naturally,
the bad guys have another agenda. You may only vote for one player at a time, everyone can vote, and you may retract your vote to vote for someone
else. To vote, post:
!vote Shankill Butcher
To retract, post:
!retract Shankill Butcher
Please try to avoid quoting posts with votes in them; if you must, please edit the votes out of the quoted segment.
If you have any questions that you think are realistically able to be answered (not "What's the name of the seer role?" or "What town are the Cultists from?") you may request for me to answer your query with the following command:
!clarification blahdelbhwehadl
A couple/few/thousand/single roles have abilities that do more than kill people or report information. These abilities are generally consumable, and limited use (usually one). Many of these abilities, although they will not appear in the summary, will either be noted in the narration (with varying degrees of subtlety) or be mentioned beneath the summary and the narration.
Roles:
This game has three essential "factions": the good guys (specials and villagers), the Cultists, and the Infected. Not all victory conditions are as cut and dry as they may seem, and that's all I'm going to say about that. There are 8 different roles occupied by 18 different players.
Many roles from previous iterations of Phalla are making a return, but not a single role has been left the way it usually is.
Inactivity:
An inactivity policy will be strictly enforced. You must make at least 2 posts per day, and must vote every day. Your two required posts must be posts of some substance. If you're only going to be making two posts per day, they will not be of such wonderful content as "I like cheese" or "!vote blah" "!retract blah, "!vote Wiggin". If you do not think you will be able to at least attempt to contribute at least twice a day, please consult me before signing up. I will give warnings before kicking people. I am the final word on the substantial quality of posts.
If you know, for whatever reason, that you are going to be inactive, if you give me forewarning I will publicly note it and your spot will not be given to another player. If you do not tell me beforehand, all bets are off, although I will warn.
Mechanics:
This game has 50 players in total, plus me, the narrator. Every player has a hometown and a role (not necessarily a special one). Every day, before a set time, all specials, good and bad, must PM me (Shankill Butcher) with their orders for the day regarding their special roles. You may not define back-ups (in case of guarding or some other resistance), or any contingencies.
Hometowns can be used to implicate players with each other and with a certain role. Knowledge of King books will probably help with this; if a town sounds familiar, it's for a reason.
The voting will close at 7:00 PST/8:00 Mountain/9:00 Central/10:00 EDT every night. There will be no retractions after this time.
If you start a board, please inform me, and give me access. If these terms are not met I'll eat your fucking hands.
Meta-Gaming and Death:
I trust the mods will aid me in enforcing these rules.
-There will be no PM sharing. You may not cut and paste PMs, you may not take screenshots and post them, and you may not send them to other players.
-There will be no anonymous communication between players. You may IM, MSN or whatnot with other players, but if you are prompted for your forum tag, you are required to give the factual one. If you need me, my IM tag is in my profile.
-There will be no cross alive-dead communication, including PMs, proboards, anything. There will be no dead thread. You may reference the game in other topics, but you may not discuss mechanics, roles, etc. Just how pissed you are about dying.
-You may have a single "ghost post". This ghost post MAY NOT reference any mechanics, roles, hunches, superstitions, anything. This will be strictly enforced.
-If you are not in the game, please avoid posting in this thread. Posts regarding game mechanics from non-playing forumers are not allowed.
My Job:
If there will be any narration delays, I will do my best to inform you ahead of time. The vote closing will never be delayed as the result of my schedule. Please be patient with me; this is my first Phalla hosting, and I have to sort through about 20 PMs and 50 votes a night.
If you make message boards at a third-party site for the purpose of anonymity, ease of networking or whatever reason, please give me the URL to the boards and approve my account. I will tell you what the name of my account is when I register.
XBox LIVE: Bogestrom | Destiny
PSN: Bogestrom
but a chicken wing
Why did we need a new thread again?
I've come to haunt your new thread.
ooOooooOooo
Steam
I'm allergic to them actually.
I have an epi-pen in my locker.
But not because of my bee allergy.
Okay here's some day 1 info for people still alive:
Killjoy: 1 post, no vote
Nuzak: 4 posts, Frosteey
Zzulu: 7 posts, Frosteey
Durax: 8 posts, Frosteey
DavetheRave: 2, Frosteey
Orestes: 20, Frosteey->Wiggin
Squashua: 2, Zot
ChicoBlue: 13, Skull man
Theidar: 2, Frosteey
Koshian: 10, Frosteey
Strato: 2, Frosteey
Jimothy: 5, Frosteey
Randall Flag: 16, Frosteey
Dakal: 7, Frosteey
Osvik: 2, Frosteey
PoTU: 19, Frosteey
Coglistro: 0, no vote
NATIK: 3, Frosteey
Soup 1, Frosteey
Kovak: 5, Frosteey
Endomatic: 1, Frosteey
Wook: 3, Frosteey
PrecisionK: 2, Frosteey
Qorzm 23, Frosteey
1,000 Dicks: 2 Frosteey
Conifrmed Cultists voted:
Neville: Frosteey
Critical: Skull man
Squashua: Zot
Raneados(not a cultist yet we think): Frosteey
Pretentious(only confirmed Infected): voted Frosteey
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
Killjoy: 2 posts, no vote
Nuzak: 0, dropped out for this round
Zzulu: 9 posts, no vote
Durax: 5 posts, Critical
DavetheRave: 2, Critical
Orestes: 10, Neville->retracted couldn't find a new vote
Squashua: 17, Critical
ChicoBlue: 10, Critical
Theidar: 9, Critical
Koshian: 9, Critical
Strato: 1, no vote
Jimothy: 5, Seriously
Randall Flag: 32, Wiggin->Critical
Dakal: 9, Critical
Osvik: 5, Critical
PoTU: 7, Seriously
Coglistro: 0, no vote
NATIK: 2, Seriously
Soup:4, Wiggin->Seriously
Kovak: 9, Critical
Endomatic: 0, no vote
Wook: 0, no vote
PrecisionK: 2, Critical
Qorz: 8, Critical
1,000 Dicks: 1, Critical
Conifrmed Cultists voted:
Neville: Wiggin->Critical
Critical: B;L
Squashua: Critical
Raneados(not a cultist yet we think): Critical
Pretentious(only confirmed Infected): voted Critical
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
what has even been happening doggies.
Killjoy: 0 posts, no vote
Nuzak: not here anymore
Zzulu: 4 posts, 150
Durax: 6 posts, 150
DavetheRave: 1, 150
Orestes: 5, Obbi(who isn't even actually in the game)
Squashua: 11, the wook->150
ChicoBlue: 3, 150
Theidar: 8, 150
Koshian: 1, 150
Strato: 4, 150
Jimothy: 3, 150
Randall Flag: 12, 150
Dakal: 8, 150
Osvik: 7, 150
PoTU: 8, 150
Coglistro: 0, no vote
NATIK: 5, 150
Soup: 5, the wook
Kovak: 4, 150
Endomatic: 2, 150
Wook: 7, 150
PrecisionK: 4, 150
Qorzm: 6, 150
1,000 Dicks: 1, 150
Conifrmed Cultists voted:
Neville: 150
Squashua: 15
Raneados(now a cultist we think): 150
Pretentious(only confirmed Infected): voted 150
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
OoOoooOOOoooO
I'm guessing to avoid the 200+ page ultrathread that the last Phalla became
OOOooooOooooO
Killjoy: 0 posts, no vote
Nuzak: gone
Zzulu: 4 posts, 1,000 Dicks
Durax: 3 posts, red impulse
DavetheRave: 1, no vote
Orestes: 3, Obbi(again)->Squashua(after being told Obbi isn't playing)
Squashua: 7, red impulse
ChicoBlue: 6, Zot
Theidar: 5, red impulse
Koshian: 4, Dakal->Randall Flagg
Strato: 4, Pretentious->red impulse->Randall Flagg
Jimothy: 5, Randall Flag
Randall Flag: 26, Dakal->red impulse
Dakal: 17, scalet ave->Pretentious->Randall Flagg->no one->Randall Flagg
Osvik: 3, red impulse
PoTU: 3, red impulse
Coglistro: 0, no vote
NATIK: 14, Pretentious-> redimpulse
Soup: 2, Pretentious
Kovak: 3, red impulse
Endomatic: 4, 1,000 dicks->Pretentious
Wook: 3, red impulse
PrecisionK: 1, red impulse
Qorz: 6, red impulse
1,000 Dicks(becomes iamaznman): 3, red impulse
Conifrmed Cultists voted:
Squashua: red impulse
Raneados: red impulse
Pretentious(only confirmed Infected): voted red impulse
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
if there wasn't such overwhelming bandwagon-riding, that information might be useful
Killjoy: 0 posts, no vote
Nuzak: gone
Zzulu: 7 posts, Precision K
Durax: 0, no vote
DavetheRave: 1, Randal
Orestes: 0, no vote
Squashua: 17, PoTU
ChicoBlue: 7, Zot
Theidar: 10, PoTU
Koshian: 0, no vote
Strato: 14, Randall
Jimothy: 7, Randall
Randall Flag: 11, no vote
Dakal: 4, Randall
Osvik: 4, Randall
PoTU: 2, Randall
Coglistro: 0, no vote
NATIK: 2, Seriously
Soup:2, PoTU
Kovak: 2, Randall
Endomatic: 2, Randall
Wook: 2, Randall
PrecisionK: 2, Randall
Qorzm: 14, Randall
iamaznman: 2, Randall
Conifrmed Cultists voted:
Squashua: Critical
Pretentious(only confirmed Infected): DEAD
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
Last night: we totally had Randall Flagg voted to die, but through evil magic scarlet took his place
Also I got seer results that Squashua is a cultist
Our guardian apparently was huffing paint and decided to guard a dead cultist, but that's okay cause he's dead now too.
IF THERE IS ANOTHER GUARDIAN OUT THERE GUARD ME
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
Squashua:12
Qorzm
Soup
Dakal
Osvik
Endomatic
PoTU
Randall Flag
Precision K
Strato
Natik
ChicoBlue
Theidar
Randall Flagg: 1
Zzulu
Killjoy:1
Orestes
Theidar:1
Squashua, duh not Orestes(who only voted for Killjoy)
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
Day 1: 9 posts, votes frosteey
Day 2: 5 posts, no vote?
Day 3: 4 posts, votes 150
Day 4: 4 posts, no vote
Day 5: no posts
Let me know if I missed anything.
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
I thought I retracted Theidar.
If I didn't my bad.
!retract Theidar
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
ghost postin' to get me a blue dot
ooooOOOOOooooo
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
Italian
Burgers
or Subs
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
OOOOOOoooooOOooOoo
Burgers
OoOOOOOooooOo
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST
squashua is a cultist eh
!vote Squashua
oh ho ho we will pull this out yet
an hour til the vote closes
@Bryceforvice on Twitter Facebook
!retract Squashua
!vote Randall_Flagg
I feel like the seers are just jerking us around...
But that was awesome.
Oh hey, !vote Randall_Flagg for the third day in a row.
!vote Randall_Flagg
I want him in 2nd over our seer just in case the bad guys pull some more crazy special shit out again.
AIM: Yarrfooey
Squashua:13
Qorzm
Soup
Osvik
Endomatic
PoTU
Randall Flag
Precision K
Natik
ChicoBlue
Theidar
the wook
Kusu
Durax
Randall Flagg: 4
Zzulu
Strato
Jimothy
Dakal
Killjoy:1
Orestes
Theidar:1
Squashua, duh not Orestes(who only voted for Killjoy)
Wii Friend Code: 0072 4984 2399 2126
PSN ID : Theidar
Facebook
Behold the annhilation of the extraterrestrial and the rise of the machines.
Hail Satan!
WISHLIST