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You wanna talk about buyer's remorse?...

I have that with Deadfall Adventures.  Checkpoint saves combined with cheap death traps is a horrible combination.  The game would be decent despite bad enemy AI, but its boring falling into a spike trap for no reason and then having to replay from the checkpoint over and over until you learn where the cheap traps are through trial and error.

I also bought the new Shadow Warrior, which is kind of fun.

  So 8 contestants and three voters, c'mon folks please vote

  Also, my apologies to Ponch for not being specific enough on the deadline.  I should have given a time (and time zone as well) on Tuesday for the end of the comp.

>>TELL MERCHANT WE SHALL THINK ON IT.  THEN INVITE MANDARB TO SHARE HIS WARES WITH MERCHANT

+1 Vote

[Character:]

Looks like that is going to be it...The story is above in an easier-to-read form.  So time to VOTE; we'll go with a modified version of the criteria that Sinitrena used in the previous competition.


The contestants: Eric, Baron, Ghost, Sane Co., Miguel (first entry), Stupot+, WHAM, and Sinitrena

Character: The writer(s) introduced the most believable/captivating/magnetic/unique character
Atmosphere: The writer(s) contribution added the most excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity
Word Choice/Style: This writer(s) combined words in especially clever and/or gripping way(s)
Plot Twist and/or Subplot addition: This writer(s) made the best plot twist and/or added a cool subplot
Plot: The writer(s) contribution to the overall plot was the most well-organized, coherent, and well-executed with appropriate pacing...basically the best addition to the story

You can vote up to two contestants per category.  Plot is worth two points, as this is the writer (or writers) who added the most value to the overall story.  Give me a day or two after the voting results for trophies.  VOTE!

The Ballad of Hardboiled Gerald

Gerald pointed the Buick Regal down the dark alley and sat breathing heavily for a moment while the warm engine sizzled under the cold rain. He threw the gearshift a bit early and the transmission ground the car to a stop. He ran a hand through the few strands of hair still tenuously clinging to his scalp and ground the heel of his palm into his forehead, doing nothing at all to dampen the growing headache that lie beneath.

He breathed and breathed and gripped the steering wheel, which didn't turn, and the rain fell and fell. All was still in the alley. All was dark. Gerald was glad no one was there to see him, mostly because it would've made things messy, but partially because he was embarrassed at what a cock-up he'd made of this job.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," he whispered. His chest heaved and strained the buttons on the too-tight dress shirt Emory had left for him at the hotel earlier today. This disguise had been completely useless and ill-fitting, and the constraint of the suit jacket across his shoulders did nothing to improve his feeling that he was being pinned in on this one. Someone had set him up. Probably not Emory, but someone, dammit. This was the kind of thing he'd spent his whole life looking over one shoulder to avoid, and he'd screwed it all up now...because of her.

A door opened at the end of the alley, and a man stepped out from the sudden pool of light holding a trash can. He looked briefly toward the Buick, then hustled over to a dumpster and emptied the garbage into it. He looked back at the Buick again before going inside.

Gerald's breathing had slowed now. He was quickly blowing past the point of no longer caring. No longer caring whether the man taking out the trash would recognize the Buick from the police reports. No longer caring that the man might have seen the details of his face. Not caring that the license plate was clearly visible and could be easily tied back to him.

And most of all, not caring whether or not the man had seen the two other occupants of the car: the dead body of the woman in the front seat, or the child slumbering fitfully in the back.

"Uncle Gerry?"
    Shit!
     The rain pounded hypnotically on the roof of the car.  Maybe the kid would just fall back asleep.
    "Uncle Gerry, are we home yet?"
    Gerald rubbed his hand over his balding scalp again, and slowly exhaled.  This wasn't going to end well:  "No kiddo.  It's still a long way."
    "Mommy-?"
    "Mommy's sleeping."
    There was a long pause.  Gerald looked over at the slouched body in the passenger seat, still clutching the crocodile-skinned briefcase.  It was dark in the alley, and from behind it would be hard to see the blood streaked over her face anyway.  Gerald wondered if there might be enough blood to soak through the seat and pool on the floor, but then put the thought out of his mind.  A light flicked on in a window above the alley, but it was the wrong window.
     "Can you sing me a song?" the kid asked, plaintively.
     Gerald bit his lip.
     "Mommy always sings me the ducky song."
     "I don't know the ducky song."
     "It goes like this-"
     "Let's just listen to some jazz," Gerald said, turning on the radio.  "That shit always puts me to sleep."
     He winced, not meaning to swear in front of the kid, but he didn't seem to notice.  Shit, the kid probably heard worse every time his mom opened her big fat mouth.  Poor kid.  Gerald sat, staring out into the rain as they were serenaded by the canting lilt of a soporific saxophone to the beat of the drumming rain.  He checked his messages, but there was nothing from Emory.  Was that rhythmic breathing coming again from the back seat?  'Cause it sure as hell wasn't coming from the radio.  Shit, he hated jazz. 
     The rain continued, unrelenting.  They'd have to move soon.  Los Amigos were out there, looking for him.  Looking for them.  He glanced over at the body again.  There was the glint of the necklace he'd given her on the island.  Stupid whore.  But he couldn't keep moving for long without a wad of cash to help things along, and there was only one place he knew where a guy like him could make a withdrawal of that magnitude at this hour.  He stared across the alley at the back door to the titty bar, hand instinctively reaching for the piece concealed inside his coat.  Only one shot left, he knew.  This was going to take some dramatics to pull off.
     Another window lit up: third storey, second from the end.  Gerald checked in the mirror that the kid was out, leaned over to kiss the corpse on the cheek, then slipped quietly out into the rain.

He knew he'd get the money. Perkins always made a point of showing off his power, but he had that odd sense of honour and Gerald could usually talk the man into yet another favour. And yet he felt nervous as he was ushered into the bar's back room. He'd hardly glanced at the dancers but had quietly checked the guests. No hitmen, no hired guns. Tables stood wide apart tonight, to allow the girls to be better seen. If shit hit the windmill he'd be able to make a dash for the door. Or a window, whatever was closer and, preferably, not closed.
The bouncer gave him a knowing smile. They'd seen each other a couple of times now, and the man apparently tried to work up his way into the small circle of Perkins' most trusted guards. Gerald knew he had a good punch, that had to be said.
The Green Door slid open. Gerald gave the bouncer a nod and walked into a small, dimly lit room. He also walked into a wall of smoke and fumes. Cigars and good, old whiskey. Ah. Gerald knew he'd get his money.
A round table, Perkins right at the top, bald head gleaming, gold teeth glistening in the sickly yellow light. His chums around him. Half a dozen men, cheap suits and boring hats. All of them smoking.
  "Gerald! What a pleasure to see you here! And joost the rite time!", Perkins droned, voice thick with alcohol.
Gerald saw how things would go, and forced himself to smile. He could relax. This would be easy. He would not need the gun. All he'd need was a little kiss from Lady Luck. He ran his hands over his sleeves, apparently to straighten them, but mostly to make sure the two aces would not accidentally appear... to early.
He was good with cards, if he had those aces. He hated his skill. His reputation had started the whole mess. But wouldn't it be... fitting, to get the money to run away from a man... from the man himself?
Gerald smiled. Perkins smiled back.

Perkins' smile turned into a smirk. "You come back, even after what I did to you last time?"
"That's nothing compared to what I'll do this time."
"You think so? Here come play a few rounds. You will even get a few drinks on me." Perkins got up and walked around the table and pulled a chair out. He gestured for Gerald to sit down.
Gerald walked over and began to sit down. But just as his hands touched the chair to scoot in, Perkins punched him right in the jaw. Gerald fell out of the chair onto his back.
"What the heck is wrong with you?"
Perkins had shoved the chair violently to the side, and now had his foot positioned directly above Gerald's face. He slammed it down. "You piece of shit. You think I don't know about you and my wife. Just because you didn't get the pretty sister doesn't mean that you can take her." He lifted his foot yet again and slammed it on the side of Gerald's face. He could feel both side of his face burning like heck as the boot and the rough carpet tore his skin. Perkins then picked him up by the shirt. "Take his suit off, looks real nice, don't want to get blood on it."
One of the bodyguards rushed over and removed Gerald's suit, whispering, "Sorry Gerry, but we all gotta make a living." Gerry watched the guard, but as the guard removed the jacket, he noticed the hidden aces.
"Dammit", Jerry thought, "not that."
The guard, however, discreetly concealed the aces in his pocket.
"Where is my wife?" yelled Perkins.
"She's at my house," Gerald gasped, "I haven't done anything to her, she's fine."
"That better be the truth, or I'll fucking blow your brains out."

"She's there, man..." said Gerald with a taste of his own blood on his mouth. He had Jerry behind him, Perkins spitting hate in front of him and at least three other men close by.
Some of the dancing girls couldn't help screaming and one even went down on the ground like a trained marine. It came with the job.
The music halted for a moment but Perkins made a signal to the DJ, a Hispanic guy with a coco-hat and a thin moustache. This gave Gerald some brief seconds to think again. He still had the gun, half-hidden in his belt where the spine allows it.
One bullet.
Just one bullet, but nobody knew that.
Perkins smiled at some customers reassuring that all was...well...normal.
"Fuck, you make me mad, little brother!", "To me, doing this to ME?"
The last kick went hard on the ribs throwing Gerald back to where he tried to raise himself.
"Fuck Bobby! What the fuck?", coughed Gerald. "It's just a fucking whore!"
The thing is, Grace was a whore. She'd fucked half the guys Gerald and Bobby knew. She'd fuck the entire Yankee Stadium if there was coke in the end. A coked addicted whore with a face like an angel and tits like a porn star. The kind of girl a man would fuck up his life really bad. Even so, she was more than a whore to Gerald. And now he knew that that was the case with his brother Bobby.
"My Whore!", yelled Robert Perkins, commonly known has Perkins around the coke scene. Gerald called him Bobby.
Grace called him Bobby.

Gerald managed to sit but doing it aggravated the pain in the ribs.
One bullet.
The gun, why didn't Jerry take it from him? What's the guy real intentions?

At that moment an older gentleman arrived at Perkins' side.  He'd been running. Unable to talk and breath at the same time, he managed to wheeze out the words "Sir... Grace...".

Shit.. Someone had found her body.

Perkins straightened his back and looked a the man, who looked as though he was having an asthma attack.  Gerald knew he had to make a move, but the scene was playing out before him in slow motion and he was frozen in he chair, watching his brothers face turn steadily whiter. "What?", said Perkins. "Where is she?"

Gerald braced himself. He knew what was coming, but was paralyzed, glued to his chair, his face probably even whiter than his brother's. The old man's breath was coming back to him and he started to raise his arm. Gerald was beginning to feel sick.  The old man's hand began to close, but for a sole arthritic index finger which was by now pointed squarely at Gerald's chest.  "His car."

Gerald darted out of his chair and ran.  Narrowly avoiding the clutches of the bodyguard (Where had he come from anyway?), Gerald just legged it, without thinking where he was going to go.  From behind him came a heart-wrenching howl of agony.  Gerald felt the presence of the guard behind him, ducked through a small gap between two topless waitresses.  There followed, a crash of drinks, and a girls voice "watch it asshole!"  He stole a glance behind him and saw the guard scrambling to get past the two waitresses who were now deliberately obstructing his passage.  Gerald was free, for now.  He ran to the side exit of the bar, pushed the door open easily and found himself in a back street.

He ran towards the main street, but quickly decelerated when he saw his Buick surrounded by blue flashing lights.  At least his nephew was in safe hands now, he thought.  Hiding his face and trying to look as inconspicuous as he could, he turned in the opposite direction, towards the cemetery, and tried to make sense of the past couple of hours.

He remembered the piercing, haunting howl that had come out of his brother's mouth just moments before.  His big brother, whom he had loved and trusted like a father since their parents were killed.  What have I done? Gerald needed somewhere to lie low for the night.  He still needed that money, but there was no way he could go back there now, not tonight.  Without that money, I'm a dead man. He remembered he still had one bullet left, and the notion of using it on himself was something he'd been trying not to think about until now.

"Hey, you!"

"Hey, You!"
A flash-light hit Gerard's eyes making it hard to see, but he managed to glimpse a cop uniform. Straightening his back on the Cemetery wall he barely faked the pain in the ribs.
"Good-evening, officer. I-I guess I had one too many! Probably time to head home..."
Now the light was unbearable while the cop examined his beaten face, and Gerard knew he wasn't going anywhere the easy way.
"I want you to raise your hands to the back of your head, now!"
Shit. The cop had by then pointed the gun to Gerard's chest.
"Do it now!"
Fuck if I'm going to get caught after all this!. A brief moment passed but the cop got distracted by a sudden blip from his walkie-talkie and Gerard pushed him backwards and ran along the Cemetery wall.
He could hear voices behind him. There's no escape, he kept thinking while running, his ribs piercing some body organs he didn't know they existed, his bad knee crying loudly that it was there. He now had the gun in his hand although he didn't remember ever pulling it out.
In front of him, after a corner, was the Cemetery gates and right opposite a set of brown and orange buildings, one of them ringing some familiar bell in Gerard's head but he couldn't make out why.
Decisions.
The Cemetery was a dead end. They would block all exits and he would have to surrender to keep his life.
The buildings were the only option left. No way he could run much longer and from now on it was a straight avenue leading to cross roads and more open area avenues.
A shot was fired. And then another.
He could hear the cops ordering him to stop. They where on foot as well. The sidewalk was damp and slippery.
Gerard wanted to look back and access how many cops where in his pursuit, but he was afraid to loose balance and fall. 
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a black car slid and stopped on the far end of the street.
Now I'm done, he thought.
He kept going a while longer and the black car drove towards him.
"I'm trapped!"
Gerard hesitated and tried to figure out if he'd walk right in the Cemetery or make a run for the building and pray that a door would be open.
That was enough for the cops to get closer and he could hear their footsteps really close.
Then a shot was fired again. But this time from the black car. And then another two shots.
The cops had to take cover and shot back at the car.
Gerard saw a man yelling at him from inside the car and he made a run towards it. A bullet came flying close to his hair. And another one hit the car front window.
"Get in!"
The car turned back and drove at full speed while the bullets kept missing it until they stopped.
"Jerry?", "Thanks man, I..."
Jerry, the guard from his brother's bar didn't allowed him to finish his thanks, he plunged his right open hand on Gerard's chest and said:
- Shut the fuck up! I do the talking here!
Then he looked at the gun Gerard was holding and took it. "Give me that!"
"Hey...Okay, okay, man!", "Shit...I'm all fucked up...shit..."
The car drove fast between the city avenues. No sign of the cops.
"Where are you taking me, man? I think I need an hospital...".
The last thing Gerard remembered before passing out was looking at his hand covered with blood.

Silence.

Gerald stirred, thought he would have preferred the oblivion of unconsciousness to the scene he found himself in. He was strapped to an old wooden chair, probably leftover from some renovation to one of Bobby's places, in some dingy storage that had corrugated steel walls and that smelled of blood and smoke. Trains rumbled and blew their horns somewhere not that far away, but their noise was drowned out by two distinct sounds: a grown man weeping and a small child sobbing.

It took all the effort in the world to get his eyes open. Perkins was there, on his knees, cradling the dead woman he so loved. Next to him were three men, Jerry, the guard, and two others. Gerald couldn't remember their names. His neck cracked as he turned his head. There was a table nearby, his things were on it: his wallet, gun, papers, and the ring. Grace's ring, the one she'd taken off, the one he'd held on to.

“Fucking Gerry!” -Perkins bursted out, sobbing.

“Why!?” -he demanded, his voice trembling, barely in control. Gerald pondered his answer, his options, but his mind was a blur of random thoughts, that eluded his grasp. Only the thought of getting out of here and saving his kid mattered. He had to focus! He had to clear his head! He had to get free!

“Uncle Gerry?” -came the frail voice of a child and it broke Gerald's heart. The things he must have seen by now, poor kid. Gerald opened his lips to answer, but Perkins did the talking in his place.

“SHUT UP YOU LITTLE FUCK!”

He moved fast, standing up, letting Grace's body fall to the cold concrete floor like a sack of potatoes, as he turned, stepped towards the kid and smacked him in the face. He slumped down, and one of the burly guards, a black man with a slick bald head and black shades, stepped forward to hold his slender frame upright. Gerald winced and wanted to look away, but couldn't. There was blood on his face now.

“Bobby...” -Gerald tried to speak, but talking made his sides hurt like hell. He wondered how many ribs he'd broken tonight.

“SHUT UP!” -came the standard response from Perkins. He turned once more, this time to face Gerald, and closed the distance in five strides. His hands had blood on them as he grabbed Gerald by the hair and pulled his head back.

“You - LIED - to me!”

There were tears in his eyes, and something else, something darker and more malevolent.

“What else did you lie to me about!? HUH? Grace was mine, MINE! And you took her from me...”

Perkins let go and stepped back, wiping his face, leaving streaks of blood across his sweaty brow.

“What else, Gerry? Was everything a lie? Is the boy a lie, too?”

It took Gerald's hazed mind a moment to realize what Perkins was talking about, but as the realization set in, his insides turned to ice. He was talking about the kid, about little six-year-old Carl, the sweet little boy who had called him uncle, and now stood there, shaking and shivering, swallowing his own blood.

Perkins was shaking with rage now, gone were the tears, replaced by smears of blood that painted his face into a vivid image of hate.

“DID YOU FUCK MY WIFE!?”

There it was. A misconception that was now too late to correct.

“Bobby, I... No...”

“Don't talk to me, you sick FUCK!”

A swing sent Gerald tumbling sideways, crashing onto the cold floor. He could feel the chair give, the bindings on his hands loosen, but the crash blew the wind out of him. He felt like a fish on dry land, gasping for a breath that just would not come.

“You think I'm blind, Gerry? You think I didn't notice it in Grace's eyes. She was afraid of something. I always thought it was the business, the booze, the drugs, but it was the truth all along. She was afraid I'd find out!”

Bobby swirled in place and planted the sole of his boot right in Gerald's face, cracking his nose.

“YOU FUCK!” -the words rang in Gerald's head as he struggled to stay conscious. Perkins fell silent, and for a moment all Gerald could hear was the trains. The fluorescent lights gave a flicker whenever one passed close by.

“You'll fucking pay...” -Bobby whispered. “You'll both pay. I won't stand for this.”

Perkins stepped up to the table, picked up the gun, Gerald's gun, and clicked the safety off. He gave an odd chuckle as he turned back to face his brother, kneeled down and stuffed the gun into Gerald's mouth. The taste of metal mixed with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

“You...” -Perkins started, but paused. His eyes were glancing around wildly, then he paused again.

“No... Not like this, not you first. You... Gerry, you did this to us, to Grace, to me, your BROTHER! You won't get out of it this easy, no, you'll have to WATCH!” -Perkins stepped back, dropping the gun only inches away from Gerald's face. Gerald watched as his crazed brother stepped up to Carl, who now seemed to be in shock.

“Give me that knife!” -Bobby snapped to one of the guards. Jerry, the guard, swung his arm to reveal a switchblade hidden in his sleeve, which he offered to Perkins. Bobby must pay well, Gerald thought, for these muscles to not even wince at what was happening before their eyes.

“I'll make my...  No. Fuck that! I'll make your little liar-bastard-son scream, Gerry, and THEN you will pay. Nobody, not my wife, not my son, not even my own flesh-and-blood brother, will get away with this!” -spittle sprayed from Perkins' mouth as he snapped at the air like a rabid dog. He lifted the blade, grabbed at Carl's hair with his free hand, and pressed the smooth metal edge against the little boy's soft cheek.

A voice boomed inside Gerald's head. It's words were senseless, but it's tone made the outrage abundantly clear. Gerald swung his arm, breaking his bonds on the cracked chair, and reached for his gun.

“One bullet.” -he thought, as his hand closed around the curved grip and his finger slid into the trigger guard. The pain almost blinded him as he lifted the weapon. Perkins' guards reacted, moving in slow-motion. The lights flickered as a train howled past the building.

The gunshot deafened him, the muzzle flash blinded him, the recoil shook him to the core, and as the loud bang cleared out of his ears, all Gerald could hear was the splatter of brains and skull fragments as they fell onto the floor. And the trains.

Shocked silence filled the room. He heard the splatter of brains and skull fragments falling to the floor. He opened his eyes after just a short second. He had missed. He had missed. Not Perkins lay on the cold concrete floor. Carl did. His small skull not recognizable anymore, the body still in his brothers arms and the carnage all over him.

Perkins screamed. That was the first thing Gerald heard when the deafening gunshot and the shock were gone. He couldn't say if it was rage or pain, hatred or grief. The bodyguards didn't move, just as shocked and confused as the two brothers.

“I didn't mean... I wanted... I don't... I'm sorry.”, Gerry stammered. He couldn't believe this. This couldn't be real. It was completely impossible that he had just shot his own nephew. It really was his nephew. His nephew Carl, Bobby's son. And for what? For what? There wasn't anything between Gerry and Grace. He loved her, yes, but he hadn't slept with her. He wanted to, sure, who wouldn't? But he hadn't done it.

And he hadn't killed her either. It was just a job. She was a distraction, nothing more. And the job went wrong and Grace was shot, and Carl was there, and now they were both dead and Bobby looked at him like he was a monster.

Hadn't he meant to kill his son himself just moments before? But this was too much, too unbelievable, too brutal, even for Perkins.
“Kill him! Kill him now!”, he screamed, cradling the body of his dead son...

Gerald ducked behind the crusty porta-potty in the back of the storage room.  The stench was just barely preferable to catching one of the bullets that now whizzed past.  Perkins, cradling the body, renewed his threats with, “You are dead to me now, and after I finish with you dear brother, I'm going for Emor-” and was cut off by an explosion that rattled the corrugated steel wall near Gerald.  His ears popped, and he stole a glance from behind his smelly cover and could see the front of the storage unit had been completely blown off.  Perkins was now a moaning heap; Jerry had been blown to the back of the room near Gerald and appeared to be unconscious.  The other two hench-man were both lying face down near where the front door used to be, and their clothes had been scorched and tattered from the explosion.  Perkins was known for being tough, and Gerald was no slouch earning the nickname “hardboiled” for fighting his way out of scrapes through a combination of both luck and sheer determination.  But neither will ever be as ruthless or as heavily-armed as the notorious Los Amigos, the leader of whom had just swaggered into the smoldering room holding an M47 Dragon shoulder mounted rocket launcher.

The head Amigo, Pablo Escuela, shouted, “Gerald, hola cabron!  You should try one of these bazooka things man.  It's a blast.  No pun intended, as you gringos would say.”  He walked over to look down at Perkins who was still moaning, and continued, “I know you are behind that shitter.”  The way Pablo pronounced “shitter” sounded to Gerald more like “sheeter”.  Five armed Los Amigos thugs entered and secured the front of the now open storage room, which looked like it had been haphazardly opened with a dull can opener.  One of Perkins's unnamed henchman slowly army crawled towards the front, and an Amigo ended his progress with a knife to the back of the head.  Pablo walked slowly toward the back of the room and said, “I invested in you to do a job homes, and I expected a return on my investment with no excuses.  Simply consider this cutting my losses.”  Perkins tried to sit up, and an Amigo grabbed him and looked at Pablo who nodded in response.  Pablo had just stepped behind the porta-potty when Gerald heard his brother's neck snap.

Gerald sighed and said, “I was setup…But you do what you go to do Pablo.”  Pablo's right-hand thug, a burly sadistic murderer known as “Lil' Angel”, walked over and handed Pablo a shell (this one was anti-personnel) for his rocket launcher.  He began reloading it while replying, “Word on the street is that your girl got caught in the crossfire.  Tragic or whatever, but I only care about the dinero.  So what you say homey?”  Gerald shook his head and said, “Pablo, after she got shot…Man, I couldn't deal with those shooters and help her at the same time.”  One of Pablo's Amigos flipped Jerry over and shot him twice in the chest with a small handgun, though Gerald knew the guy always wore a vest which was well hidden by his bulky frame.

Lil' Angel advised, “Jefe, we need to roll.”  Pablo finished reloading the rocket launcher, and walked away from Gerald â€" who had moved a few feet in front of the portable toilet in curiosity as to what fate Pablo had in store for him.  Pablo said, “No ese, I'm not letting you go.  Just need some room for this bad boy,” and he flipped the huge launcher around in one of his large, meaty hands.  While putting some distance between himself and Gerald, Pablo added, “It costs thousands just to shoot this cannon once, but it is worth every stinkin' peso…By the way vato, you should know before I blowed you up, Emory sold you out.  That loco cobarde sold us both out; so you know what that means.”  Gerald wondered if Pablo was lying, as Lil' Angel and Pablo both chuckled.  And then he saw Jerry's arm on the downswing of a throwing motion, which could only mean one thing and Gerald dove inside the porta-potty.

Pablo turned around near the front of the open storage room, and raised the rocket launcher at the same moment he heard a “plink” sound next to him.  He looked down for the source of the noise, and tried to jump back after seeing the live grenade.  The boss of the Los Amigos was a half of second into his leap before he disintegrated from the force of the grenade, which in-turn blew up the anti-personnel shell in the rocket launcher.  The shell lived up to its name for Pablo's and what was left of Perkin's personnel, as the shrapnel tore into their bodies with reckless abandon.  Lil' Angel, who had been loaded down with a variety of different types of ordnance, simply disappeared into a bloody mist from a chain reaction of secondary explosions.  Gerald's porta-potty turned shield had been knocked over and while the brunt of the force was absorbed by the fiberglass door, his back was still peppered with anti-personnel shot.  He thought about everyone around him dying, and decided that drowning in lye and excrement would be a fitting end for the longest and worst day of his life.

Sgt. Emory Vasquez, having just been pulled from the career-maker of an undercover assignment, arrived first on the scene and took in the devastation with a gasp.  Sgt. Vasquez carefully walked to the back of what remained of the room, glanced at Jerry's disembodied head, and opened the battered porta-potty door.  Gerald slowly turned over.  After wiping away the chemicals and excrement from his eyes, he saw Emory and a gleaming badge, and his shoulders slumped.  Vasquez said, “You ruined my collar Gerald.  And you look like shit â€" literally.”

  Time Stone or Heatwave.

We need more people!

  The deadline is extended until Tuesday, Dec 3rd.

  Yea, I've been checking it out and picked up Chivalry Medieval Warfare for a good deal.  I was hoping ARMA III would get a better discount, but I guess the game is too recent of a release. 

  I had just bought Mount and Blade: Warband a few weeks ago, and now the sale has it for super cheap

Somebody write something: we're running out of time!

On the edge of my seat here as well...I'm pretty sure Ponch and/or Sinitrena will chime in.

  I'm already curious to escape.  Good luck finishing it up.

  If someone granted an audience happens to displease the King, I would imagine (ok hope) that there is a hidden trap-door that leads straight down into a lion pit. 

I say we forgive Miguel and vote based on his first entry alone, and just roll on with the competition.

Agreed.

It might be fun to try a free-for-all continuation story competition like that at some point to see what happens, I just think it would be too disjointed, people could post at the same time frequently, and everybody would be trying to write their favorite ending (ok maybe that's just me ) near the end of the competition.

Alright per WHAM's idea, if it seems that the story doesn't have a proper ending then I'll write my version assuming no voter has an issue with that.  Nothing wrong with an open-ended ending or cliffhanger though

  Miguel, did you just submit a second entry?  One post (or part of the story) per person for the competition.  The story will be big enough as it is.

  This was fun, and maybe my 2nd or 3rd graphics contest on here.  Congrats Ghost!

  The entries are a bit brief, but that makes sense when you consider all will be combined into one whole story.  Great stuff!  The mental images being conjured up play like a Michael Mann movie. 

As the plot thickens...

  Looking forward to seeing you jump into the fray...

  I just dropped 5 bones for it on Steam.  Hey, the Onion AV Club reviewed The Shivah and gave it a really good rating!  I didn't know they reviewed games.

Is everybody limited to one post or could I post the, let's say, first part, then wait for two or three other writers and then post the third or fourth part?

Just one post per person, however short or lengthy their contribution may be.  It would be too disjointed otherwise.

Hell of a start, man!  If nobody minds, I'm reserving the second writer's seat here. Will post within the weekend.

Sorry WHAM, the second writer is up when the next one posts their segment.  I don't want to hold up the game.


I'll be checking this thread twice daily (at least) to see what the regulars, and hopefully some new blood as well, are cooking up.

[GO!]

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  The next competition is a continuation-game story.  So one poster begins the story, the next picks up, and so on.  You can encapsulate your own subplot, advance a main plot established by a previous poster, or go through kind of plot twist you want - but its going to all be one story so please try to segue accordingly from the previous poster.  You can drastically the change the setting, plots, subplots, characters, etc...all within reason.  You can end in a cliffhanger for the next guy or gal writer...BUT keep in mind that the only real rule is that you can't paint the next poster into a corner.  For example, finishing with, "...and then the super-mega hydrogen bomb exploded into the nearby black hole, and they all died." makes it hard for the next person to take over.  Any kind of main story in any setting is fine.  We'll be voting using most of the usual criteria, but with a few extra that apply to this kind of game. There will be a tailor made trophy with some kind of teamwork theme, and it will include avatars, and it will rock your socks off junior.

  So the first poster has the luxury (or responsibility) of kicking this thing off!  The deadline is December 1st. GO!

Dropsy news on RPS:

http://www.rockpapershotgun.com/2013/11/21/coulrophobia-begone-devolver-to-publish-dropsy/#more-177076

  Cool, thanks Sinitrena!  I'll come up with a new comp and put it up very soon!