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>Meet the developer!

https://youtu.be/awoFZaSuko4

Still sitting on your chair, you bend down to pick up a small triangular flag reading, “University of New New Zealand.” You chuckle, thinking back to those days, where you dreamt of changing the world with the amazing power of computers. Oh yes, you had the potential to go places, you were the rockstar of the computing department. Sure, you still couldn’t talk to women and you dressed like a mormon, but you were a king amongst geeks. Nowadays…

“Wellyn for fucks sake!” You remember shouting one day in the office, standing up above the cubicle walls, loose reports and papers dragged upwards by the wind your motion produced. The entire office, including Richard, stares at you with wide eyes as you continue to scream, “Your GUI looks like a fucking speak and spell. Unfuck it! Because if Conagher gets on my ass for it, I’m gonna have you writing on punch cards!”

As if your loud voice was the vengeful command of god, Wellyn just stuttered out an awkward, “Uh-huh,” and quickly began to start over from scratch.

You’re more of a tyrant among geeks. But hey, a little tyranny never hurt anyone. God, if they put you in charge of this company you’d turn the whole system into a rigid bulwark of industry, as opposed to the balsa wood frame wrapped in a shiny red and blue paint job it really is. You’ve seen the security protocols in this overdressed gravel pit, you made viruses in high school that would make the morning news if you installed them on Hale’s personal pornography viewing machine. You could rule this company if you wanted to, but right now, you have to stop yourself from getting cracked upside the head by those morons. Someday though, those nine morons will be clocking people for you.

File: Salesman.png (598 KB, 476x741)

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>Meet the Salesman!

https://youtu.be/8bl-vbBnJ3I

You reach down, picking up the small, ripped piece of looseleaf paper, the phone number barely even legible. Some of the panic of knowing who's coming fades away as you remember that perfect sale you made with this phone number.

“Don’t even think about going to Colt, let me tell you babe, those big companies Colt, HK, Remington, you name it, they’re all spending their day talking to Congressmen and military guys, all those slimy types you know are freaks.” By now you're standing up, nearly shouting into the receiver. The words come out as if you memorized them beforehand, selling guns is like singing a song. “You go to Colt, they’re going to fuck you in the ass. I mean it, Colt is going to fuck you in the ass, there’s gonna be blood, you’re not gonna walk straight for months. You buy our guns, we treat you like royalty. I’m telling you right now, MannCo’s gonna be like a night in venice. You’re gonna get quality guns, good prices, and we’re not gonna rawdog you like Remington, you get what’s on the box and for the price agreed. How’s that sound?”

With the sound of your own voice now longer filling your ears, you now hear the busy signal. You hold the phone to your ear silently while keeping up your confident expression, as a few fellow office workers stare at you. You place down the phone, looking out across the office while you confidently proclaim “Still got it.”

Your fellow office workers all give you this awe-inspired look, simultaneously horrified and dazzled, before one of them nods and starts to walk away, the rest following suit.

Letting the memory return to the back of your mind, you pin the phone number back onto the wall. You still never called that company back, you know they’re just waiting by the phone to hear your voice. Your supervisor’s are coming, and while they are dangerous men, they ain’t got a voice like a Kenedy, or the street wisdom you have. You know a thing or two about these, and one of those things is they ain’t all that smart. And if they really screw you over, oh boy do you have some good friends that’ll make them regret it. The Remington Rawdog is what they’re gonna get.

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>Meet the Manager!

https://youtu.be/ko87Mf539no

You groan a little as you lean down to pick up the old playing card that fell off your cubicle wall, it’s edges frayed and it’s face faded. Looking at the old ace of spades, it was like you could still hear the choop choop choop choop choop choop of a huey. Hell, despite your old bones and graying hair, you still remember the day you got this baby.

“One more thing comrade.” Your handler had told you as you stepped off the hind in american uniform and gear, having relentlessly studied the life of a man who had gone “Missing in Action” according to the Americans only weeks ago. You turned around to see him holding a whole deck of playing cards. “All one card. The american’s think it scares the communists here.” He hands it to you, then as you begin to walk away, he calls out, “ни пyхa, ни пepa”

“К дьявoлy” You shouted back.

A few months later, there you were in the ass end of Vietnam. Sitting on a tarp, already half covered in the mud that creeped onto everything that dared to exist in the earth’s odorous armpit giggling your ass off and high off your mind. They say don’t mix your uppers and downers, but from your experience, the greatest downer humanity had ever made was war, and you were taking every upper you could find at the time. Didn’t matter if it came from a pill, a powder, a plant or a needle, it made up the toxic cocktail that was your blood at the time.

And you know what the best part was? Your handlers probably thought you were dead. You didn’ event bother sending those stick up-the-ass prudes information anymore. Any communication to the motherland had to be carefully coordinated, and time during those days had roughly the consistency of a rollercoaster.

When you tell people about your time in vietnam- the second half, never the part about being a russian spy, the first question they ask is how you broke your addiction, and every answer you give is always bullshit. That’s not just age that’s turning your mustache white.

Still leaning down, staring at the last old card from that deck, you wipe your nose. As you begin to pull yourself back up into your chair however, something in your old spine sends a lance of pain into your lumbar, and you wince. You let out a loud groan as you slowly lean back into your chair, then begin to laugh as you remember your supervisors are coming. You may be old, you may be high, but you’re gonna give it to them this time.

Pinning what fell back onto your cubicle wall, your head begins to dart around. You still don't see your supervisors yet, but you're gonna have to think of a plan fast, but as Sun Tzu once said, you can't win unless you know the enemy AND yourself, and he knows a little more about avoiding your bosses than you. So the question still stands, who are you?

>The Developer.
>The Salesman.
>The Manager.

>>4884595
>The Manager.
I like the moustache

>>4884595
>The Salesman

I can hear his slimy voice from here and he sounds like he's on the cast of American Psycho.

>>4884593
>>The Manager.

>>4884595
The Developer

>>4884666
+1

>>4884595
>The Salesman
Rocking the art of the deal, babe.

>>4884595
>The Salesman.
The art of the goddamn DEAL, BABY

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Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>4884611
>>4884634
>>4884666
>>4884702
>>4884725
>>4884755
>>4884858
3 for The Manager, 3 for The Salesman, 1 for The Developer. I'm gonna do a tiebreaker roll, but I'm gonna leave the vote open for an hour or two afterwards in case anyone wants to throw in a final vote. I'll take that vote instead of the roll and close the vote there.

Salesman on a 1, Manager on a 2. ERECTING A TIEBREAKER

>>4884944
Wanted to vote for Developer, but oh well.
>The Salesman

Smooth like butter

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>>4885074
Sorry man, just wanted to get to writing. Thanks for breaking the tie.

With that, the vote is closed, and I'm gonna start writing. I don't want things to move as slow as they did near the end of my last quest, so feel free to give me a smack with the Disciplinary Action if it takes a while.

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>>4884611
>>4884634
>>4884666
>>4884702
>>4884725
>>4884755
>>4884858
>>4885074
https://youtu.be/k-HdGnzYdFQ

You lean far back, bending the cheap plastic spine of your office chair, spinning just a little on the swivel so your looking across the aisle, to see your fellow coworker, Richard Dickerson, writing intently on a computer screen.

“Hey Dick.” You call out, leaning towards him, elbows on your knees. “Do me a favor? Tell me if you see Jeremy.”

Richard turns to you, then nods, and just as he’s about to turn back to his paperwork, you call to him again, “Hey, just give yourself a break for a minute, I know your busy but it’s only a few minutes. You know Jeremy, in and out of the office in under the second, and with what I gotta tell him, we’ll all get shit if I can’t catch him. So can you do me a favor just this once and keep your eyes on the doors?”


Dick seems confused for a minute, but then just nods and says, “Sure Tim, this about the XLODFGJBN reports?”


“Nah.” You say, already swivelling in your chair once again, this time to turn off your computer screen. “Problems with shipping just came up, might have to renegotiate a few contracts.”

Richard nods while you look into the powerless computer screen. With one hand, you flick a little jar of hair gel out of your pocket, quickly slicking your hair back, smiling into the reflection of the computer screen. By the time you hear Richard suddenly call, “Hey Jeremy just walked in!” you’re quickly straightening up your shirt, and throwing your quality black jacket back on. When you poke your head over the cubicle to confirm Richard’s report, you see a baseball mixed in with the see of bald heads and professional haircuts. You shoot a quick, “Thanks pal,” to Richard, as you start to consider a plan to get yourself out of this situation. Sun Tzu hasn’t lead you wrong in a single sale, and it won’t lead you wrong here, so now that you know yourself as the sultry smooth handsome devil that you are, you need to think about who your enemy is, the first of nine at least.
(cont.)

>>4885198
(cont.)
Jeremy’s always the first of those nine idiots. First to go absolutely insane after the seventies ended. Fed on a diet of Australium, the life extending super metal that turned Australia into a superpower for so long, he might look as young as he did in 1972, but he only tells himself he’s the same age mentally. In reality, the constant, unrelenting boredom of the nineties has led him to crack. The bostonian bastard has been buying fast cars, gold watches, and as he’s burned more of his savings from the merc days, he's become more and more on edge. You’ve seen him slam people against their desks for things that can even be construed as insults.

You know that kind of attitude, because as the highway burglar you are, it’s your job to push that kind of attitude. The man formerly known as The Scout is suffering from Insecure Poverty in his middle age, an irrational need for luxury and wealth, and no money to pay for it all. You’re sure he’s paying off one credit card debt with another, hell, rumor has it he’s moved back in with his mother. The man’s unstable, so he’s not gonna be easy to deal with, but you’re sure if you can get him out of the way, you might be able to slip free of the rest of your supervisors with a bit more trickery.

So the question Sun Tzu is asking you from beyond the grave is a simple one, what’s the plan?

>Call up Jeremy’s mother, and schmooze her up until the scout can’t possibly get mad at you without incurring her wrath.
>Pull out your unfortunately not bottomless wallet, and be ready with a late Smissmas gift to put him in a better mood.
>Hop on the phone, but don’t call anyone. Time an imaginary conversation so you have a perfect excuse to leave the office.
>Put those acting skills to use, fake some terrible health condition, pained stomach, chest pain, start coughing, the whole plague, and run to the bathroom.
>Sun Tzu’s never lead you wrong, so pull out your copy of his book from your desk drawer, and be ready to smash it over the scout’s head.
>Write in a plan.

>>4885202
>>Call up Jeremy’s mother, and schmooze her up until the scout can’t possibly get mad at you without incurring her wrath.
well off to visit your mother- the spy

>>4885202
>Pull out your unfortunately not bottomless wallet, and be ready with a late Smissmas gift to put him in a better mood. Go like "Ah shit right, i also got this for you since i forgot, Happy Smissmas"
>Look rushed, say you need to make a quick run to sort out the damn messed up delivery situation. Say Dick can tell the rest.

>>4885875
Forgot to add, we gotta corroborate and build on our lies, gotta take advantage of the foundation we accidentally made to its fullest.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>4885777(1)
>>4885875(2)

Gonna do another tiebreaker. Like before, I'm gonna leave the vote open for a bit so people can throw in final votes.

>>4885202
>Hop on the phone, but don’t call anyone. Time an imaginary conversation so you have a perfect excuse to leave the office.
Solving a problem with fast talking bullshit sounds like our thing

>>4886369
>>4886456
Hey lazlo, do you like ties?
Cause apparently we do lol

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Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>4885777(1)
>>4885875(2)
>>4886456(3)

Alright, this tiebreaker is gonna just be definitive, if there's no objections. Sorry for the slow speed, I'm always a little hesitant to leave things up to RNG.

>>4886692
Pic.

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>>4885777
>>4885875
>>4886456
>>4886709
Apologies for the slow speed of things guys.

>Call up Jeremy’s mother, and schmooze her up until the scout can’t possibly get mad at you without incurring her wrath.

Quickly you pick up the phone, moving so quickly that the cord nearly yanks the stand off your desk as you lean down, opening the bottom drawer which holds a stack of papers, notes, and most importantly, phone numbers. Tearing through it like a minigun tears through human flesh, your nerves grow with every second that passes that you fail to find the number, knowing who’s growing closer. When you finally do pull the small slip of paper, you quickly dart up from your seat, taking a second to peak your head over the cubicle while you tap the number in one handed.

Further down the cubicle aisle, you see the scout’s shirt and legs, bent into the cubicle slightly. Despite the office ambience and the distance, you can hear his voice clearly rising over the crowd, shouting “Hey chucklenuts! Feel like doing your job anytime soon? Hey maybe if I was fat enough to sit in a chair I’ll day I’d take your job, be doing it twice as fast, no scratch that, I’d be filling out reports so fast the printer wouldn’t even keep up. I mean, you see this? All this? I’m a working machine, I’m a speedster, a real superman.”


You let out a breath as you hear the Bostonian accent chew out someone else. For the moment, you’re in luck, because you’re not the only one who was screwed over by MannCo’s restless bullshit division, giving you that extra minute you really need to schmooze this old woman. You pick up the phone, sweating just a little bit as you hear the ringtone. As you listen to the rington, you see Dick get up, stopping for a second to whisper “I’ll be in the bathroom if anyone needs me.” You give him a silent thumbs up as you hear the other end of the call pick up.

“Hello?” You hear an aged female voice say, a little cautious.

“Morning ma’am. This is Mrs… Jones right?” You ask cheerfully, knowing a retired woman is happy to talk to anyone “This is Tim, from MannCo, I’m a good friend of your son.”

“Oh that’s lovely dear! How’s he doing?” She exclaims. “He never calls me these days, I hope he’s eating right… he's always been so skinny..”

“Oh don’t you worry ma’am, I’ve been making sure he takes good care of himself. Your son’s like an ox these days. Tell ya, that Pauling lady has been all over him. Seriously, I don’t know how that guy does it. You must be a supermodel if he looks like that.”

“Oh…” You hear the old lady chuckle, practically seeing her blushing through the phone. This ain’t difficult, not with a woman like her who hasn’t been hit on thirty years at the least. “You sound nice, young man.”
(cont.)

>>4887060
“Thanks ma’am, you know you sound lovely yourself.” You respond, as you speak, you pear out of your cubicle. “I gotta business trip coming up that’ll put me down near Boston.” You suddenly duck your head as you see the scout leave the cubicle of the poor coworker he was chastising, and start to move towards you. Speaking quicker now, you ask “What do you say I stop by your place and we can share some tea, maybe I’ll take you somewhere nice for dinner?”

“Oh that’s sweet but I-”

Suddenly, the old woman is interrupted as your attention shifts to the cubicle door. “Who you talking to chucklenuts?”

You turn to face The Scout, as he stares you down. As if he were still a kid playing baseball, he still wears a dry rotted cap, and bandages around his hands. Smiling calmly to Jeremy, you softly say into the phone, “Sorry Ma’am, your son wants to talk to me for a second,” then you lower the phone, and explain, “Hey Jeremy, how’s your day going? I was just having a lovely conversation with your mother. Wanna talk to her?”

He eyes you suspiciously, snatching the phone out of your hands as if you weren’t simply handing it to him, and puts his ear to the receiver.

“Hey… ma.” He suddenly says, “Yeah, yeah I’ve been busy. W-well it’s it’s ahhhh…” He moves as far as the cord will let him, leaning down and whispering into the receiver.

“Not a disrespectful attempt at courting a woman.” Richard suddenly says, apparently having returned to his seat while you had your head down. “But I would imagine an old lady like her would prefer someone more sophisticated.”

“Yeah, sure.” You say, wanting to tell him to go fuck himself. “Look, I’ve got to go rename a ship off the coast of Africa before interpol shuts us all down. Tell The Scout why I had to go.”


“Ohh I think your ships will be just fine.” Richard says, standing up alongside you. “Stay, please. I’ll help you work everything out.” You try to move past Richard, but he steps forwards, in your path.


>”You know what Richard, you’re right, let me just go to the bathroom first, had three cups of coffee this morning and I’ve been holding it in for an hour.”
>Try your luck, hope one of Mr. Jane Doe isn’t far away, and loudly say “Wait, Richard, are you serious? You support socialism in America?”
>Just full on shove Dick out of the way, and make a move for the door.
>Lean in close to Richard, and whisper to him about an under the table deal the bosses don’t know about, offering to cut him in if he helps you get out of the office early for a “secret meeting”.
>Write in.

>>4887064
>Lean in close to Richard, and whisper to him about an under the table deal the bosses don’t know about, offering to cut him in if he helps you get out of the office early for a “secret meeting”.
SALESMAN POWERS, GO!
Might not be entirely untrue too.

>>4887064
>>Try your luck, hope one of Mr. Jane Doe isn’t far away, and loudly say “Wait, Richard, are you serious? You support socialism in America?”
GIVE ME YOUR HAT

>>4887064
>Lean in close to Richard, and whisper to him about an under the table deal the bosses don’t know about, offering to cut him in if he helps you get out of the office early for a “secret meeting”.

>>4887064
>Lean in close to Richard, and whisper to him about an under the table deal the bosses don’t know about, offering to cut him in if he helps you get out of the office early for a “secret meeting”.

>>4887371
>>4887652
>>4887657
>>4887787
Alright, vote is closed, writing.

>>4887371
>>4887652
>>4887657
>>4887787
https://youtu.be/tGsRYIFlPxc

At first, you try to shuffle past Richard, but he shuffles in the same direction, then the opposite as you try to slip past him. Quickly realizing that he’s decided not to let you pass for some strange reason, you quickly dart your head around the office, not yet seeing any of your supervisors other than the scout, who’s currently occupied by a conversation with his mother. You lean in close to Dick, whispering, “Look pal, I think you know as well as I do I ain’t telling the full story here, so let me cut you in on the details.”

“Please do.” Richard responds, smiling in a slightly creepy manner. You’ve always known him as… well you’ve never known the guy that well, he’s always been way too boring to remember, so either something’s up, or he’s just a weirder guy that you’ve realized.

“Alright, well that ship I’m talking about, it’s not one of ours, or one of our distributor’s, right? This old vessel called the Kono, old demilitarized soviet carrier, flies way under MannCo’s radar, just sitting in the docks, some guys go to tear it apart and sink it into the pacfiic, right, well it turns out it’s still loaded to the brim with weapons, parts and ammunition, hell even a few old helicopters. I caught it because they were looking to have someone dispose of it, and I convinced them that it couldn’t be disposed of without handing over the whole ship.” You’re making up total bullshit on the spot right now, but working in MannCo’s weapons department, you know enough about the industry to make it sound real to a guy like Dick. “I’m breaking some major trade laws here, major! Not even Hale has the balls left to pull a scam like this, it’s real ‘62 shit. But anyway, I’ve gotta get on a flight down near the cape of africa to talk to some guys about remodeling the ship, and believe me these are some real crazy motherfuckers, cocaine and gunpowder, every STD under the sun, the full warlord package, so they’re gonna chop my head off if I can’t be there in time, so what’dya say you forget all of this, and I hand you over about the value of a few Kh-25’s, nothing to me in the grand scheme of it all, I prolly get paid the same, but these days two of those beauties could pay off your mortgage. All you gotta do is step out of the way and keep the bosses off my ass, because I think they’ve caught a whiff of gold on me. They trust you Dick, you can do this, you’re a stand up guy who always sticks out for friends, and you know me alright, I don’t rawdog people, not like Remington.”
(cont.)

>>4888307
(cont.)
As you say that, you lean back a little, closing up your drawer to hide a denied application to the Remington sales department. As you do, Dick moves forwards, further cornering you into your cubicle. With that, a coworker passes by. At first, you don’t make out his face as he says, “Hey Tim I’m gonna go get another cup of coffee want anything?”

You just idly respond, “No I’m good, but as you wave to him, and mouth “Thanks,” you suddenly realize it’s Richard walking towards the break room from the bathroom, yet Richard is also standing right in front of you. You glance between the two Richards. You don’t see this supervisor often, no one ever does.

As the far Dick opens the door to the breakroom, you see a 6’5” figure inside, his frame simultaneously obese and muscular as he sits on one of the plastic chairs within, barely able to fit.

“Well my friend, it seems we both are surrendering secrets.” The Dick right in front of you says. “Why don’t you tell me more about this deal.” Dick begins to walk closer, pushing you further back into your cubicle. Silently, the ghost of Sun Tzu begins to chastise you for not hiding a gun in your copy of The Art Of War.

“Tell me more about this deal.” The Spy says, still wearing the face of Richard. You can’t tell if he just wants more information, is actually interested in being cut in, or is just toying around with you.

>Did you say two Kh-25’s? You meant the boat's entire stock. (For best results, write in a convincing sales pitch.)
>”Well you see, like I said, I really really gotta go, so why don’t we try and discuss it another time, because otherwise these warlords are gonna be hunting this whole office down.” As you say this, try to push past him.
>”Alright alright, the boat’s not real, but you know what is real? The pyromaniac standing right behind you.” If he looks over his shoulder, use the opportunity to clock him in the face. (3d6, pass on a 12.)
>Immediately grab the entire office’s attention, shouting out “Hey, Dick, how’d you do that? Hey everybody, aint this crazy?”
>Write in a clever plan.

>>4888310
>>”Well you see, like I said, I really really gotta go, so why don’t we try and discuss it another time, because otherwise these warlords are gonna be hunting this whole office down.” As you say this, try to push past him.

Rolled 4, 5, 4 = 13 (3d6)

>>4888310
>”Alright alright, the boat’s not real, but you know what is real? The pyromaniac standing right behind you.” If he looks over his shoulder, use the opportunity to clock him in the face. (3d6, pass on a 12.)
As tempting and funny as it would be to bullshit harder, there's only so much you can pull out of your ass before you're ripping out teeth. Also, fuck spies.

>>4888341
I should've clarified this so it's my bad, but no need to roll in the vote, I'll call for a roll when I close the vote, because I like to split up 3d6 rolls between multiple players.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>4888322(1)
>>4888341(2)
Gonna do a quick tiebreaker and finally get to writing.

>>4888322
>>4888341
>”Well you see, like I said, I really really gotta go, so why don’t we try and discuss it another time, because otherwise these warlords are gonna be hunting this whole office down.” As you say this, try to push past him.

“Look pal, I think I know what’s going on here, and I know you want your cut but uh… like I said earlier, I really gotta go so uhhh….” As you fast talk, you start to move forwards. As you approach Richard, your suspicions are confirmed, your own clothes and hand slipping through the beer-bellied disguise where a more lithe form sits underneath.

“No, no please!” The spy disguised as Richard proclaims. “I’m fascinated by your dealings with these warlords. Do tell me more.”

As he says this, he begins to wave over somewhere else, flagging someone down you don’t even bother looking for. Instead, you take your chance, pushing past the spy, seeing him shimmer slightly as you quickly say “Why don’t we try and discuss it another time… if I miss this flight this whole office is gonna look for Sierra Leone. See ya!” You finally manage to slip between the cracks between The Spy and your cubicle exit, slamming against the thing cubicle wall as you quickly begin to back off. For the first second, you quickly backstep down the aisle as the visage of Dick suddenly shimmers red, then dissolves away. You try to put on a friendly smile as you begin to turn away, but suddenly begin to sprint at full speed as The Spy reaches into his coat.

“Fat man! After him!” You hear the spy’s french accent shout, as suddenly a loud deafening bang rips through the office, followed by and ear piercing crack that whizzes right past your ears. You duck down low as you hear everyone around you yelp and shout in confusion and fright.

Reaching the end of the aisle, you roll down into cover behind the cubicles, only for another shot to blast out from the magnum, tearing straight through the thin metal and plaster of the cubicle walls like it was paper, the slowed round tumbling through barely missing you. You yelp out as you run for the door, hearing heavy footsteps, and a loud metallic shuffling behind you. Just a few more meters, past the elevator, no time to wait, then a few flights downstairs, you can still make that, you tell yourself, almost conning yourself into thinking it’s possible.

By the time you reach the door to the stairs, practically slamming your shoulder against it, you know there’s another shot being lined up, and you can hear a loud, distinctly russian warcry getting closer, “YAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
(cont.)

>>4889294
(cont.)
Just as your hand touches the doorknob, a sudden ding rings out from the elevator door next to you. Almost instantly, you change course, slamming the elevator’s exiting occupant back inside while you stand in the door. First, you slam the button taking you to the first floor, then over and over you smash the close door button, as though it would quicker hide the sight of a three-hundred pound occupant of the former soviet union stopping in place as he slowly lowers his gun- a six barreled minigun that weighs almost as much as he does.

Your breath becomes quicker as the door closes in tune with the revving of Sasha. The Heavy’s screaming continues even as you can only see him through a small crack in the elevator door, which is about the same time his weapon begins to spew custom tooled cartridges, sending ten thousands rounds straight through the door. By that point, you’ve already begun to duck to the side, but with a rapid series of reports that all merge into a continuous brrrrrrrt shots either crack through the metal, or leave dents visible from the outside. One of the rounds tumbles through, and crashes into your gut, causing you to scream out in pain.

Slowly, the gunfire subsides as you hold your agonizing wound breathing heavy, and looking down as blood seeps through your shirt. “They shot me! Those crazy morons shot me! Can you believe this!?”

Asking that question, you finally get a good look of the person you shoved back into the elevator. He’s a man you recognize almost instantly, as the world’s only black scottish cyclops, currently with his forehead against the wall of the elevator, one good eye staring down at the ground while he points to you, his other hand holding a beer . “Ah yeeeou… I’ve been looking for you laddie… ahhh you’ve I … why was I looking for you?”

Everything seems quiet for a moment, allowing the pain and blood loss to register alongside the sound of the elevator music as you stare at this drunkard. At least he’s having… a better time… than you… staying… conscious.

>Don’t even talk to him, just take his beer, and chug it down to help with the pain.
>”You were taking me to my car… because I had to go home because I’m injured. Yeah… freak accident involving a demonstration.”
>Now that they shot you, all bets are off. ”We were uhh… going to discuss buying you a new gun… I could uhhh… I could order you a new one if you handed me your old one.”
>”I wanted to talk to you about… your coworkers… the mercenaries. They’re all making fun of your eye. You gotta… you gotta get em.” Turn them against each other.
>Write in.

>>4889295
>>”I wanted to talk to you about… your coworkers… the mercenaries. They’re all making fun of your eye. You gotta… you gotta get em.” Turn them against each other.

>>4889295
>Now that they shot you, all bets are off. ”We were uhh… going to discuss buying you a new gun… I could uhhh… I could order you a new one if you handed me your old one.”
Screw it. Let's get wild.

Apologies guys, I don't think I'll be able to put out an update today, and if I do it'll be pretty late in the day, got a long shift at work today as well as some errands.

>>4889294
>Now that they shot you, all bets are off. ”We were uhh… going to discuss buying you a new gun… I could uhhh… I could order you a new one if you handed me your old one.”
KABOOM!

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS
Good to see you again Lazlo

>>4891276
Good to see you too man, hope your enjoying the new quest so far.

Gotta say after Black Mesa, it's goddamn refreshing to write something goofy and lighthearted.

>>4891333
I knew it was definitely Spy but the anons that got here sooner than me are not so crafty it seems
Can't wait to see everyone's favorite Malpractice Advocate, Medic and Spy are easily my most favorite assholes

File: Spoiler Image (246 KB, 370x491)

246 KB PNG

>>4891340
>Medic and Spy are easily my most favorite assholes
I live under the knowledge I will never be as good a writer as the screenwriter of the shot with the spy's head in the medic's fridge in Meet The Medic.

>>4889307
>>4890013
>>4890381
>Now that they shot you, all bets are off. ”We were uhh… going to discuss buying you a new gun… I could uhhh… I could order you a new one if you handed me your old one.”

https://youtu.be/rBdQDGGNg8E

Your eyes are simultaneously wide from the shocking site before you, and drooping shut as blood loss hits you, but a constant influx of adrenaline that makes your hairs stand on edge lets the shock of seeing the drunken demoman confused before you take precedent, and the natural instincts of the predatory bullshitter push through any shock. “You were… we were gonna talk about buying you a new gun… yours is… it’s old but… don’t worry bud, I’m a good… good gun dealer… I’ll give you a really good discount if you hand over your old broken gun… it’s not useful anymore. It’s just… just good for parts.” Your bloody hands are shaking as you hold one out, gesturing towards the Scotsman's custom built rotary grenade launcher.

“Yous…. Yous gonna you’s… it’s my gun.” The Demoman burps out loudly, and then begins to take another swig. “What’s it to you laddie?”

“You’ve ever shot a mark nineteen before Tavish?” You say, starting to push yourself off the wall of the elevator, moving closer to the Demoman. “Those… those 40 millimeters you got in that thing, right? You’ll... wonder why the hell you ever thought to only load four.” Why does he load only four into a six cylinder launcher, you silently asking yourself, “I’m… I’m telling you man, the mark nineteen’ll send out four hundred of those things down range every minute… that’s- that’s more than your gun can do in a second… man portable, belt fed- you know it’s good if it’s fed from a belts… cylinders, hell even magazines just don’t cut it these days… I mean… your colleague, frenchie, he couldn’t even get off three shots from a cylinder while the belt feed on that fat russian was spitting out rounds like a violin… just look at the hole in my chest.”

The Demoman looks over to you, seeing the wound. A small hole in your jacket and shirt reveals a massive crater, blown apart from your gut by a seven-six-two cartridge. He hiccups, then says, “You should get that looked at laddie,” before taking another swig. The Demoman bursts out into a great, hearty laugh, slapping his knee.

“Well before I… before I do that, why don’t you just hand me your old gun? I’ll take it, and give you a mark nineteen replacement for super cheap, real good deal pal, these don’t come around often. You’ll only be without a gun for three-four hours tops, besides, strong guy like you, even if anyone did take you by surprise in that time I’m sure they’d just be scared off. Maybe you could run after ‘em with a sword.”
(cont.)

>>4892144
(cont.)
All of this hogwash comes from your mouth with the ease of breathing, which isn’t saying much because every breath is incredibly painful right now. For your all your struggles, you’re not even sure The Demoman is still listening, with his forehead placed against the metal of the wall. The elevator door opens with a deep tone, and you start to think up more spiel about turning The Demoman of a king of destruction with a mark-nineteen, but with the music fading away, you finally notice the slight sobbing sound coming from the demoman. Hesitating from confusion, you stand stock still until he pulls out his rotary grenade launcher, and points it at you.

Another man would flinch, but years of selling weapons to anyone from warlords to gangers has you just stare down that barrel, half expecting him to say “bang,” the other half consciously realizing that he might just be insane enough to pull the trigger, and knowing damn well there’s nothing you can do about it in an elevator.

“Take good care of her laddie.” The Demoman wails unexpectedly, “She’s treated me well.”

Slowly and carefully, you reach out to grab the gun, first pushing the barrel away from your face, then lifting it out of Tavish’s hands. “C’mon Tavish, why don’t we get you back home, huh? That sound alright?”

The demoman nods as you bring him out into the lobby, but as you walk a few feet out of the elevator, you suddenly hear snoring before he collapses out cold onto the ground, nearly pulling you down with him. A trap door then open up rapidly below him, dropping the sleeping scotsman into the basement, while all around you, the building itself comes to life.

The lobby is totally empty, not a hint of the usual bustle of clients, coworkers, and staff, but every window and door is suddenly slammed closed by massive metal shutters, crack buckling against their own weight. Meanwhile, multiple security cameras, all from various points around the room, all turn to look at you, each one with a laser pointing at your head.

“Hey Mr. Connagher, it true those cameras are still loaded with nine millimeter?” You ask, “You know I know a guy who could rechamber those to .45 for you.”

You hear a texan laugh over the intercom, followed by, “I might just do that myself. Now don’t you have papers to push boy? What are you doing down here before five?”
(cont.)

>>4892147

>”Well you know, I needed to make a call and my office phone was broken so I was just sorta hoping I could use the lobby phone.” Inch your way towards the front desk, then get behind cover and call someone for help.
>”Sorry about that Dell, must’ve pressed the wrong button.” Back up, go to the floor one above you, and look for another exit out of here.
>”Well I’m heading home.” Take your hand off your bleeding gut to show the cameras, “Clearly too injured to work but I’m sure a guy whose been shot as much as you knows that this can be fixed with a little… morphine and bedrest.”
>”I’ve decided independent contracting might be a better career choice for me.” Take the grenade launcher you took from Tavish, blast a hole in the front door, and try to limp through before the tiny turrets shoot you.
>Write in.

>>4892149
>”Well I’m heading home.” Take your hand off your bleeding gut to show the cameras, “Clearly too injured to work but I’m sure a guy whose been shot as much as you knows that this can be fixed with a little… morphine and bedrest.”

>>4892149
>>”Well I’m heading home.” Take your hand off your bleeding gut to show the cameras, “Clearly too injured to work but I’m sure a guy whose been shot as much as you knows that this can be fixed with a little… morphine and bedrest.”

>>4892149
>”Well you know, I needed to make a call and my office phone was broken so I was just sorta hoping I could use the lobby phone.” Inch your way towards the front desk, then get behind cover and call someone for help.

>>4884583
Oh shid TF2 quest? Pure fucking kino

>>4892149
>”I’ve decided independent contracting might be a better career choice for me.” Take the grenade launcher you took from Tavish, blast a hole in the front door, and try to limp through before the tiny turrets shoot you.

Closing the vote and writing.
>>4892713
Thanks man, I'm glad to fill the niche.

>>4893194
Apologies guys, but the next update might take a little while longer than expected, I’m coming down with something shitty.

>>4892181
>>4892336
>>4892605
>>4893018
Apologies for the long wait on this one.
>”Well I’m heading home.” Take your hand off your bleeding gut to show the cameras, “Clearly too injured to work but I’m sure a guy whose been shot as much as you knows that this can be fixed with a little… morphine and bedrest.”

“Wasn’t feeling too well so…” you clutch your chest tighter as you speak, only half playing it up for the camera. “...thought I’d just take medical leave and head home for the day.” Wincing a little, you pull your hands off the gaping crater in your chest. The laser sights aimed at your suddenly all flick down towards the wound, scanning over the blood leaving your shoot.

“Phooowwweei boy, how’d that happen to you?” The Engineer shouts over the intercom. “Already looking pale as a ghost son. You know I gotta friend who could patch that riiiight up.”

Fear shoots through you at the mention of The Engineer’s “Friend.” In all your time as an international gun salesman, you’ve seen the worst things mankind can do to itself. You’ve seen people hurt, people killed, people sold, but none of it sticks to the back of your eyelids like what that doctor does to his “patients.” You’d rather turn this grenade launcher on yourself than end up on his table, you think. You groan as you begin to step forwards, the camera sentries all tracking you in unison, and explain, “Naaah, don’t worry about it. I know you’ve been shot plenty of times, you know how it is, just a seven-six-two, nothing that a little morphine and bedrest won’t fix.”

While the tiny sentries leave their sights on you, the door shutter begins to pull up. “Well… it’s your funeral son, but it saves us the bill...” The Engineer’s voice is drowned by the sound of things on a desk being hit by a man nearly throwing himself across it to grab the receiver.

“In my medical opinion, you should stay vhere you are!” An excited German shouts over the intercom. “Oooohhh it’s been so long zince I've had a patient! Don’t worry, intestines grow back, and if they don’t I’ve got a few alternatives. Do you prefer sharks or baboons?”

Your frozen in place at the confusing question, not sure how to answer this psychopath, only for him to answer himself quietly with, “Maybe I’ll could try both… stay zhere.”
(cont.)

>>4894901
(cont.)
The sound of running footsteps echoes through the intercom, before you hear, “Whelp, looks like you’re in a world of trouble son.” Slowly, the shutter on the main door begins to shut again. “Think I’ll let ya relax a bit ‘fore the doc gets there, less ya try something stupid with that their gun.”

As the shutter closes up once again, the tiny sentries begin to look away from you, instead scanning around the room. You quickly begin to do the same, realizing that you’re plan to “Call in sick” hasn’t gotten you far, while simultaneously bringing that psychopath who calls himself a Medic running down after you.

>”You know, I’m sure the doc has treated a few million bullet wounds in his time. I think there might be a few more interesting injuries outside you wanna tell him about. Heard one of the software guys was heading to the roof, sure he’s hit the pavement by now.”
>Run for the phone, and call a contact to get you out of here, there’s gotta be someone who owes you enough favors to bail you out.
>Time to just book it, blow open the shutter door, and run towards your car.
>You can take The Medic, but first blow up the camera-sentries so you can get into cover.
>Slow down The Medic by blowing up the elevator with the grenade launcher, then run into the basement to look for an exit.
>Write in.

>>4894903
>>Time to just book it, blow open the shutter door, and run towards your car.

>>4894903
>Time to just book it, blow open the shutter door, and run towards your car.

>>4894903
>>”You know, I’m sure the doc has treated a few million bullet wounds in his time. I think there might be a few more interesting injuries outside you wanna tell him about. Heard one of the software guys was heading to the roof, sure he’s hit the pavement by now.”

Apologies guys, but I'm gonna have to delay the update again, whatever I was sick with earlier is still getting me, so I have almost no energy at the moment, sorry.

>>4894903
>”You know, I’m sure the doc has treated a few million bullet wounds in his time. I think there might be a few more interesting injuries outside you wanna tell him about. Heard one of the software guys was heading to the roof, sure he’s hit the pavement by now.”

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>4894932
>>4894934
>Time to just book it, blow open the shutter door, and run towards your car. (1)
>>4894957
>>4897616
>”You know, I’m sure the doc has treated a few million bullet wounds in his time. I think there might be a few more interesting injuries outside you wanna tell him about. Heard one of the software guys was heading to the roof, sure he’s hit the pavement by now.” (2)

Shit, forgot to close the vote before I started writing. Gonna do a quick tiebreaker and then write. As usual, It'll stay open for the next hour or so if anyone wants to throw in a final vote while I'm writing, which will close the vote.

>>4894932
>>4894934
>>4894957
>>4897616
>>4897709
https://youtu.be/-6NQx4WRRg0
“Actually Dell, don’t let the medic book it just yet.” As you speak through clenched teeth, all of the sentry cameras turn towards you. “I think I ughhh... got a few more interesting patients for him… you know how the software guys are always moping about life right?”

“That ain’t no way to live.” The engineer muses, and you hear him sigh as he

“Oh I know, wish these guys could see how easy they have it. You know in South America they have towns whose entire economy is built around cocainec addictions? And these guys are complaining all day about computer troubles, and a few…” you wince in pain., “murderous supervisors.”

The Engineer chuckles, and says, “You seem wise boy. I’ll try and tell the medic to go easy on you when your on his table.”

“Nah… I’m sure he’s treated all kinds of bullet wounds, gotta be boring for him by now. Tell him is that some of them were on their way to the roof when I was coming down here. Bet he hit the pavement by now, guys.”

“Well since he’s in the elevator right now I think you best tell him yourself son.” The Engineer says, sending a shiver of panic down your spine.

“Well uh… why don’t you just open this big shutter door first so he can look for the patient outside when he gets here? Guy’s gonna be dead in seconds, can’t waste anytime here. “You know I ain’t getting away from the german.” You groan as you pull your hand off it. “Look at it, if I were in prison I’d have the inmates looking at that wound with hungry eyes.”

“Why don’t you hold your horses boy.” The Engineer replies. “I’ll open it up when he gets there.”

“C’mon , you know how slow those elevators are, they’re crawling like congress, guy’ll be dead by the time the shutter doors open if you don’t do it quick. You heard how happy the doc was to have two patients, he’ll be fuming if you let a second die before he got there, you’ll never hear the end of it from that psycho. You’ll wake up with dog organs or feet for hands for god's sakes, make the german-”

Like when you hear a click instead of a bang as an angry slovenian bodybuilder charges at you for reneging on a deal, the sound of the elevator’s arrival tone is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. Looking within, you immediately recognize the tall labcoat wearing german’s tall silhouette. “Ooooh you poor thing…” He says with mock sympathy as he quickly paces forwards, “So tell me vwhat calibre hit you.”
(cont.)

File: medic.jpg (69 KB, 1280x720)

69 KB JPG

>>4897946
(cont.)
“You know Doc, it might be your lucky day!” You reply quickly, grimacing as you back up against the shutter door. “One of the programmers from upstairs, you know the real scrawny guys always moping, one of them just hoped off the roof. That’s right, you got two patients today.”

The Medic’s face lights up. “Vhere is he! Did you see ze impact? Vwhat was his terminal velocity!” He quickly approaches you as you hold your gut, towering over you while grabbing your shoulders, beginning to shake you. You groan in agony as your wounds are torn further open by the medic. “Vwhere, where is he! I must treat him! It’s been so long...”

“He’s… he’s… near the dumpsters doc.” You groan, feeling as if you’re about to vomit.

“Engineer! Open zis door!” He screams, motioning towards one of the cameras.

“You got it doc…” And with that, the big heavy shutter doors begin to open.

Immediately, the medic begins to move, saying “ztay here.” With the heavy sound of the shutter mechanism buckling throughout the room, you doubt the engineer heard him over the intercom. However as the medic quickly begins to shuffle outside, and the buckling of the shutters quiets, you hear in the distance a loud booming sound, along with a… man screaming? Not a pained or fearful scream, more like a warcry.

>Now’s your chance, run straight out towards your car while the medic isn’t looking.
>Get outside, run to a payphone, and call some.. .associates, for help where no one can listen in on your conversation.
>”Hey you know doc, this guy aaaaahhh… he was scrawny but tall, real tall. You might need help carrying him, I could do that if ya patched me up real quick.”
>Get out of range of the camera-sentries, and use the grenade launcher to blast the shit out of the medic, and the lobby.
>Write in.

>>4897951
>”Hey you know doc, this guy aaaaahhh… he was scrawny but tall, real tall. You might need help carrying him, I could do that if ya patched me up real quick.”

>>4897951
>>Now’s your chance, run straight out towards your car while the medic isn’t looking.

>>4897951
>”Hey you know doc, this guy aaaaahhh… he was scrawny but tall, real tall. You might need help carrying him, I could do that if ya patched me up real quick.”

>>4898025
>>4898666
>>4898779
>”Hey you know doc, this guy aaaaahhh… he was scrawny but tall, real tall. You might need help carrying him, I could do that if ya patched me up real quick.”

“Doc, hold on a second!” You shout out to The Medic, following him out of the door. The heavy glass front door swings back into you, nearly slamming your limping body back into the lobby while the medic turns back to glare at you. “This guy ahh, this guy he was scrawny like all those tech guys but… man was this guy tall, six- seven foot probably, might have trouble carrying him on your own with all that equipment on ya too. Why don’t you just patch me up real quick and I can help ya out. Hit me with that big healing ray gun and we’ll both be on the operating table in minutes.”

The Medic taps his chin for a few minutes, then goes, “Come here! I have somezing better!”

You keep back for a moment, unsure if ‘better’ has the same definition in your world, however with your injuries, you’re damn near helpless as The Medic moves towards you, grabbing at your arm and pulling you away from the lobby. Ramming your palm into his chest, you desperately try to push yourself back, but at first, you’re practically helpless to resist. His german accent like a spit covered finger going into your ear, he says, “Don’t be szcared, you’ll just feel a sliiiight ventricular fibrillation,” before jamming god knows what into your arm.

You’ve had coke. This isn’t coke, hell it’s not even brown brown, or god damn meth. For one thing none of those are injected, and for another, none of them make you feel quite like this. Not only is your heart suddenly racing, and all the pain from your body suddenly gone, as if you hadn't been shot, but it's as if reality is no longer real. Your body doesn’t feel like it’s made up of muscles, bones, organs, limbs etc. The act of walking feels like floating forwards rather than something you have to physically do, and the massive hole in your chest doesn’t hinder floating at all. At the same time, you’re thinking as mile a minute. While you try to think of a way out, a whole world of sales, markets, foreign wars, all run through the back of your mind as if presented by an expert auction announcer, listing off numbers like one could snap their fingers. As these effects hit you all almost instantly, you let out a loud, guttural noise of shock. “Huewwuwueaaaaghhhhh!” You take deep, but rapid breaths for a few seconds while your vision blurs and your heart pounds. “What the hell was that!”

“Maybe you can figure it out!” The medic says, tossing you an empty syringe which you expertly catch, not even feeling your arm move out to steal it away from gravity. “Come! Come, ve have a patient!”
(cont.)

>>4899749
(cont.)
As you try to read the syringe bottle through blurred eyes, the medic grabs your arm again, but now you have the energy to resist, and while you don’t flat out refuse just yet, you do hesitate. You glance towards the parking lot, the payphones, the woods nearby, the stripmall across the road- hell any way out of this situation. No longer as whoozy, that distant screaming is a little more clear, as well as a high pitched whistling sound- like a bomb dropping...

“SCREEEEEAAAAAMING EEEEEAAAAGLLLLLLEEES!” Suddenly erupts through the air, before the sound of a meaty car crash explodes out from the parking lot. Immediately your eyes dart towards the parking lot… and you’re almost shocked out from your high of a lifetime as you look into the parking lot, and see you’re absolute gem of a car, a beautiful blue ‘93 Viper, crushed- almost as much as your hopes and dreams after working in this company for five years, with a rather large masculine hand poking out the side.

If you weren’t so high, you would be crying. The Medic however seems delighted. He shouts, “Gutenmorgen! Are you injured!?” He’s almost shaking as he mutters, “Mein Gott, drei Patienten an einem Tag! Drei! It’s been too long!”

>Get over to the remains of your car, and if the man who just landed on it isn’t dead, strangle him until he is.
>”Doc don’t worry I’m sure the guy’s fine, let’s just- just fine the developer who offed himself, and why don’t you tell me about your last patient while ya follow- huh?” Fast talk as a distraction while you quickly pull the medic behind the building, then knock him out with the butt the launcher.
>You fucking quit. Run across the street towards the strip mall, and look for anyone who can either get you home, get you to a hospital, or help you get back.
>Just fire a grenade round at the remains of your car, to hell with the collateral damage and to hell with this company.
>Write in.

>>4899751
>>”Doc don’t worry I’m sure the guy’s fine, let’s just- just fine the developer who offed himself, and why don’t you tell me about your last patient while ya follow- huh?” Fast talk as a distraction while you quickly pull the medic behind the building, then knock him out with the butt the launcher.

>>4899751
>>Get over to the remains of your car, and if the man who just landed on it isn’t dead, strangle him until he is.

>>4899751
>Just fire a grenade round at the remains of your car, to hell with the collateral damage and to hell with this company.
We could totally play this off as being the fault of the drugs

Sorry I couldn't have another update out for you guys today, was busy at work almost the whole day, although with how clear my schedule looks for the next few days, things should return to >1 a day speeds.

File: practicalproblems.jpg (45 KB, 700x454)

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Rolled 3 (1d3)

>>4899846 (1)
>>4900008 (2)
>>4900326 (3)
Quick tiebreaker.

File: rememberthis.jpg (363 KB, 1448x1448)

363 KB JPG

>>4899846
>>4900008
>>4900326


https://youtu.be/kbdtBLD8Lbg

Still shaking from the sudden injection of god knows what, you nearly jump sky high when a human meteor slams into your hard earned car. You’re brain is running on full speed at the moment, practically letting you watch the roof of your car cave in under the falling man’s weight in slow motion. As The Medic yells out, giddy with the promise of new patients, you’re rapidly thinking up a plan. The Medic knowingly injected you with something he has no idea the effects of, and against your will too. Having spent your years in the business studying the law just so you could expertly cite it to anyone from rival lawyers to the FBI, you know a special opportunity just fell into your lap.

It would be so easy to lob a grenade right at the absolute moron who just landed on top of your car, and have the law fully on your side, hell, this German’s a psychopath, maybe he’ll find the thought of his drug giving you murderous reflexes funny. So that’s why, as The Medic was muttering to himself in german, you quickly lifted the grenade launcher, and fired a round off.

With a distinct thunk the custom built M32 sends a fourty millimeter tumbling through the air with the same elegance as the drunkard that mixed it’s payload. The awkward spin of the round throws off the shot, and it goes slightly to the right of your car’s remains, smashing into the pavement and turning the space between your viper and a coworker’s station wagon into a fireball, sending shrapnel from both vehicle’s flying in either direction.

“Salesman! Nein!” The Medic shouts as you jump back, surprised at just how powerful that blast was. The shockwave punches you in the chest, and the heat bakes your skin. The Medic quickly grabs you, yanking at the grenade launcher, almost taking your intention away from the shotgun blast of debris that’s currently arcing towards the road. Like an old school biblical angel with a million eyes coming down from the heavens, you're simultaneously horrified and enraptured by the sight you see flung away from your car.

All clothes burnt away except for a pair of boxers that show the stars and stripes, a pair of tanker boots, and a nineteen-forties era infantry helmet, a god-damn american is flying out of the blast. You wish you were hallucinating from the drugs when you see that in his hand he’s holding a piece of the muffler from your broken viper, while somehow- defying your understanding of physics, is changing his direction in the air- to hurl towards you, all while releasing his warcry like a bald eagle swooping on its prey.

https://youtu.be/lfcqFOc9iKU

Four players roll a d6. The top three rolls will be added into a 3d6. On a 14, you will avoid being troldier’d. Optionally, as the salesman, you can try to sell me the success of this role with a sales pitch alongside the roll, the better the pitch the more I'll improve your odds.

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>4902115
Are you tired of disgusting frenchman blowing their pathetic cigarette smoke in your face? Do you want to show them what a real man inhales on an hourly basis? Then boy do we have the products for you in our special Drafted Dunce's set!
>The standard-issue Cigar, with a tauntkill that has you blow a huge amount of smoke into someone's face and suffocate them!
>The madman's muffler, still covered in greasy soot from all the environmentally-unfriendly emissions that passed through it! Marks enemies for death when struck, and reduces ubercharge/cloak meters by 20% on hit.
>America's Birthday Suit: We're not legally allowed to put this in the game without changing the rating of it. We did it anyways! Stars and stripes, boys.

Rolled 1, 1 = 2 (2d6)

>>4902115

>>4902788
Well that was a failure in everyway, at least you can choose which 1 to use

>>4902156
Even though this is technically not selling the "success of the roll" (which is an abstract thing to make a sales pitch about anyway, so I might be rethinking the specifics of the rule), it's still a pretty damn good sales pitch. This gives you guys a +4 on the roll. Others are also still free to throw in their own sales pitches.
>>4902788
>>4902791
All good my man, I'll also say that since rolling is taking quite a while, you guys can feel free to make a second roll, and since this >>4902788 was accidental it'll only count as one.

Rolled 2 (1d6)

>>4902825
My second roll, mon'amies.

Rolled 6 + 4 (1d6 + 4)

You aren’t the man you used to be. How many times have you looked up at those high school football trophies and wondered, “Where’s the guy who did all that? When you’re at the bar, and those punks in mirror shades paint up your car, you tell yourself if you were twenty years younger, you’d kick their ass. And when your third wife leaves you, you ask her what that spray tanned Tasmanian pool boy has that you don’t. But you both know the answer. And there’s no way you could ever get that back.

>UNTIL NOW!

>Introducing OZ*, the fast-acting, prescription free Australizer from the Mann who started it all! No injections, no waiting, just one pill, every three hours, in perpetuity! You’ll be a Dead Ringer for that high school buck in just fifteen days or more, or get your first twenty doses ABSOLUTELY FREE! You may not be the man you were, but by golly, they’ll never know it while you’re on OZ!

So what do you say, champ? Are you gonna keep letting life pass you by? Or are you ready to get back in the game?

>CALL NOW, as supplies may be limited!

*Oz has not been evaluated by the FDA. Common side effects include IBS, PMS, and Ludwig’s Syndrome. See our ads in HaleNHardee for more information.

File: saxtonhale.jpg (42 KB, 1024x576)

42 KB JPG

>>4902947
Shut up and take my money. +6
>>4902156
>>4902788
>>4902919
Best, three out of four (4+2+6), plus the +10 leaves you at a 22, well above the 14 threshold. The roll is locked, and I'm gonna get to writing.

Rolled 2 (1d6)

>>4902115
HEY YOU! Yeah, you, the scrawny pencil pusher!

Aren't you tired of itty bitty witty pea shooters that only shoot out those [BLEEP] snappers? I sure as [BLEEP] am!

Here at Torque, we are dedicated to EXPLOOOOSIONNNNSSSS! Big explosions! [BLEEP] huge explosions that will leave you with a stiffy for weeks! Or it could be the sign of a medical condition, I don't [BLEEP] know, I'm no fancy pants doctor! But I can make some sweet EXPLOSIONS will blow up his colleague! The Bam Bam Bigalow is just the thing the doctor DIDN'T order!

Give it a try, and just try and tell me with a straight face that it give you the biggest smile like you didn't celebrate your birthday and Christmas at once!


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>>4902156
>>4902788
>>4902919
>>4902947
>>4903007
Bit late to the party pal, but you got the spirit.
>22

The feds haven’t been able to touch you yet, and if a single one of them is gonna do it, it’s not gonna be a vet in only his American Birthday Suit coming at you with a piece of your own goddamned car. This right here is why you do everything in your power to not let the IRS even catch a whiff of your paycheck, this right here is why your rat-piss paper paychecks are practically an affront to lady liberty. You’re sure The Soldier fancies himself a patriot right now, but with how he’s robbed you of your hard earned property- the piece of art that was your pearlescent blue ‘93 viper, and using it against you, he might as well be a communist. You’ll shake hands with a thousand cartel leaders, supply a million child soldiers if it means you don’t have to work for this flying spook. With lightning speed, you reach into your coat pocket, ready to add to the toxic concoction that is your bloodstream right now. You don’t know what the hell mixing a pill of Oz’s will do when mixed in with the mystery injection, but if combat meth worked so well in the forties, this has gotta work for you.

The Medic, fearing his own creation, tries to wrestle the grenade launcher out of your hands, but you're still fresh on a high that not even Reagan could criminalize. Instead, you slam the wooden buttstock into his gut, pushing back against him in the last direction he expected, dashing his back against the building’s brick wall before he tumbles to the ground. Still intent on disrespecting your god given right to bear whatever the hell you please, he grips onto the cylinder, yanking the incredibly unsafe custom mechanism open. With a swift kick that strains your simple dress shoes, you knock him off the gun, and glance up towards The Soldier.

The Flying Fed has no trouble defying physics by tracking your movements in the air, however you’re all Ozzed up right now, and able to think fast. He’s not flying- no, he’s no superman , but somehow he’s strafing in the air, letting him follow you. That means it takes a second or two for him to turn, doesn’t it? A scared man might back up, but instead, you run forwards. Like a fighter-jet overshooting it’s target, The Soldier’s fancy tanker boots fly right overhead. He slams into the concrete with the grace of the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs, almost shaking the ground beneath him. He turns around, shouting out “You’re about to be sent after those flags we left on the moon MAGGOT!”
(cont.)

>>4903081
(cont.)
As he finishes with one last warcry, smacking the muffler against his head, he hears three distinct fourty millimeter thunks, then watches as the trio of the grenades each bounce one, some even twice, before rolling up to his feet, revealing an engraved word on each of them. “Bam bam Bigalow,” scratched in by the drunken swordsmanship of the demoman. “What is your major malfunction cupc-” is all he can scream out before he’s sent flying upwards once more, this time landing flat on his back right in front of you, his skin smoldering- though somehow, defying any reasonable logic, he’s not dead, and neither is the medic.

They must feed these bastards a LOT of australium, you conclude, and also conclude that if you can’t kill him with four total 40mm grenades you can’t kill him with anything, which means you need to move before he recovers- or before the cops come. You quickly pat him and the medic down, first finding on the medic a strange medkit filled with an odd green liquid. The words “Property of” adorn it’s plastic casing, though the actual owner has been hastily scribbled out, however on the other side you can see a logo of a stylized orange mesa that you don’t recognize. You don’t question it, and instead say “To hell with it,” knowing how much you’ve already injected or had injected into yourself, there’s not point playing straight edge now. You quickly find the bleeding from your massive wounds slowing as the blood thickens, and the holes clot up. When you check the now unconscious soldier, you do pick up the ruined muffler, and, while his fancy tanker boots and- to your horror, the patriotic pants, are ruined, you do find one thing that survived, stowed inside the boots. A package of surprisingly large cigars, labeled “Standard Issues,” over a picture of american’s pushing Omaha beach. The cardboard is torn open, and the fire of the grenades has left them already lit. Not one to be wasteful, you pull one out, and take a puff.

“Eughhh…” You groan as the taste of gunpowder and copper fills your mouth, carried by the creamy smoke of the cigars. You blow it all out, and drop the cigar to the ground. In the distance, you can hear loud, wailing sirens of police cars. Someone’s called the cops, and you’re out of grenade launcher ammo.

You’re also probably about to have a heart attack, considering that you were able to do perform that act of egoist valor by intaking a ludicrous amount of untested narcotics. You’re heart is beating so fast, it’s become a formless quantum anomaly within your chest.
(cont.)

>>4903083
(cont.)
>Time to run, you’re still coked out enough to learn to hotwire a car, steal one of your coworker’s cars. The options that stick out in the parking lot are a 92 Firebird, a 84 buick regal, and a 93 G30 van labaled “Cormick’s International Assets.” (Pick one.)
>Cops are here, don’t run, call up the best lawyer you know, the kind thats in good with the mob. He’ll nod at the judge and you’ll be out in a day.
>Cops are coming, so quickly get back inside the lobby, and try to fast talk any of your employers outside into dealing with them. Lie and tell them the cops are asking about the “Poopy Joe” incident.
>Cops are coming, so that means you don’t work here, and you saw nothing. Run over to the stripmall, and try to blend in.
>Write in.

>>4903092
>Time to run, you’re still coked out enough to learn to hotwire a car, steal one of your coworker’s cars. The options that stick out in the parking lot are a 92 Firebird, a 84 buick regal, and a 93 G30 van labaled “Cormick’s International Assets.”
The buick. Fuck you spy, I’m stealing your car!

>>4903211
Screw it, seconding this; maybe blast some Eurobeats as you drift out of there.

>>4903211
supporting

>>4903211
>>4903330
>>4903802
>Time to run, you’re still coked out enough to learn to hotwire a car, steal your coworker’s buick regal.

If there’s any car owned by that frenchie who shot at your in your own office, it has to be the buick regal, and when you smash it’s window in with the wooden stock of the M32, you almost instantly recognize the smell of quality cigarettes seeped into the leather seats. Wasting no time now that the distant sirens of the law are drowned out by the deafening Honk! Honk! Honk! of the car’s alarm, you lean over, ignoring a stack of documents sitting on the passenger seat to pop open the glove box. Rifling past a few boxes of Dunhill cigarettes, the car manual, and… a picture of The Scout’s mother… to find a small box of tools. There’s a strange variety within, and it damn near confirms the suspicions you had this is one of your supervisor’s vehicles. Lockpicks, small cameras, a butterfly knife, wirecutters, and most importantly a flathead screwdriver can all be found within.

Quickly, you grab the screwdriver, remove the panel covering the wires to the ignition mechanism, and lean in, looking up at bundles of wires, a trio of whom run up to the key. You yank out the key wires, and strip all three of them. First, you stick together the red and blue wire, getting nothing, but then as you touch the red wire, there’s a sudden spark from the ignition, and the engine comes to life. Partially in celebration, and mostly because of the chemical cocktail currently flooding your bloodstream, you shout “Woooh, bad deal MannCo!” as you speed away, leaving tiremarks on the pavement, but quickly slow down as you remember the incoming police looking for the source of the explosion. You’re quick to pull out and head down the road, passing by the police while you fiddle with the radio. You had hoped to celebrate this victory against management with some music, but it seems your hotwiring job left the radio unpowered, as well as the steering, given how hard you need to force the wheel with every turn, yet with your wired reactions right now, you have no trouble driving, while also examining the interior of the vehicle.
(cont.)

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>>4904256
(cont.)
In the seat next to you is a folder labeled, “Property of Cormick’s International Assets. TOP SECRET.” One hand on the wheel, you open it up and begin to glaze over the contents of the docket. The first page details the MannCo office building. Eight stories, not including an extra underground parking garage and maintenance area, marked with a symbol of fire, then moving onto the lobby, marked with a wrench, a food court and gym marked with a picture of a foot, the marketing department, which is marked with a picture of a bomb, the insurance and security department, which is marked with a fist, the research and development department on the same floor as a small sick bay is marked with a red cross, while the international affairs department is marked with a rocket symbol, the sales department is marked with a knife, and finally the roof is marked by a rifle’s scope reticle. All of this is nothing interesting to you, you’ve worked there years now and the building’s a shadow of it’s former self on all floors except apparently the tenth floor.

“VERY IMPORTANT BRIEFCASE.” The document reads, pointing to the tenth floor, alongside a symbol of a question mark. You prepare to flip the page to see what’s so important about this briefcase, a vengeful storm brewing in your mind, but you’re interrupted by the “Whoop!” of a police siren, the red and blue lights flashing behind you. First those bastards at the office shot you, and now because of them you’ve got the law on you. You need some compensation, and a “Very Important Briefcase” does sound like a nice settlement. You’re gonna need to get away from the law, then you’re gonna need a crew.

>Gun it! Make the officer try and catch you while you’re still on another level of human consciousness.
>Pull over onto the shoulder, hide the broken glass and rotary grenade launcher, and get ready to start talking your way out of the situation.
>Pull over, then when the officer approaches the car, grab him by the collar and try to punch him unconscious. (Requires a roll of 15.)
>Keep driving normally while you call up some less than reputable friends for some favors you’re owed.
>Write in.

>>4904257
>Pull over onto the shoulder, hide the broken glass and rotary grenade launcher, and get ready to start talking your way out of the situation.
We're the salesman, if fast-talking our way out of a bad situation is anyone's game, its gonna be ours!

What a minute…
What name is on the car registration? Should be somewhere in here.
Either gives us solid dirt, or its conveniently redacted in such a way that we can pretend to be spy given spy’s paranoia about his own identity…

>>4904361
>>4904271

Seconding these.

>>4904271
>>4904361
>>4905235
Sorry guys, I should stop promising things will get faster, and just make faster updates, because everytime I do I tempt fate. I'm not gonna be able to put out an update today due to a whole load of shit I've been sorting out with the coming semester. Things should be fine tomorrow.

>>4905598
>>4905598
Hey, if you can't make it, you can't make it. As I've said to other QMs, real life unfortunately trumps quests, so don't worry about it too much.

https://youtu.be/IO81C6tVcsc

Even as you’re still pulling into the shoulder do you start to swipe shards of broken glass under the seat, then reaching over into the passenger seat to do the same with the M32. Unable to stuff the heavy weapon under the seat, you make do with just barely putting it under the cover of the console, knowing that the officer will be coming from the driver side. You’re struggle to make the military grade and illegal weapon concealed without any sort of case is cut short, instead throwing the pile of papers down on top the same way you’d hide nudy magazines from your mother as a teenager. Of course, you never used them yourself, you’re a man of particular tastes afterall, no you were hustling since high school, scratch that- you were dealing lego bricks and crayola on the playground. You learned how to talk to law enforcement the day that old hag Mrs. Dumpson yanked your ear and threatened to call your parents, and here you are decades later about to call on those skills. First you need a good story, and that needs drama, tragedy, and above all else…

“License and registration please.” The officer says as you’re still rummaging through the glovebox. “And how you doing today sir?”

“Hold on Officer, can’t find my registration.” You say, glancing to see a man in a deputy’s uniform, smiling under a mustache. That smile can either be great or terrible. Either he doesn’t suspect you of anything, or is trying to ease your worries to put you in a false sense of calm.

“Take as much time as you need.” The cop says while you finally begin to find documents within the glove box. There’s not just one registration for this car, but two- jesus, he has ten separate registrations for this car. Not just that, but each and every one of them comes in a bag with passports, license plates, hell even birth certificates social security cards, and knick knacks to sell the deal, like one of the heavy’s custom cartridges.

“Lotta old expired registrations here…” You mutter for authenticity. “This the right one?” You add as you open up one of the bags, checking the license inside. Inside is a California driver’s license for Tom Jones, alongside Tom Jones’ picture. Tom Jones is dead isn’t he? Why would The Spy be using a dead singer as a false identity? You know what, you don’t have the answer for that, and you don’t know if you ever will, so you move on to a less obviously fake registration. The next you open comes with a texan license plate under “Dell Conagher,” once again using The Engineer’s face, but the registration is the exact same, “Tom Jones.” In fact each of these fake identity packs, which besides Tom Jones himself and one of the ladies from upper management come with the forged details of the spy’s own fellow supervisors, all have the car registered under a “Tom Jones.”
(cont.)

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>>4904271
>>4904361
>>4905235
>>4906675
(cont.)
You take a quick peek into the glove compartment, and instead of seeing any identities you missed, you just see a CD of Tom Jone’s greatest hits, as well as… a baseball signed “For my pal Jeremy,” by Tom Jones. You’re convinced that one had to have not fit in the scouts bag knowing that’s his name and The Spy’s too much of a french sissy to enjoy a good game of baseball.

Goddamnit, you’d think the Spy was the number one customer of the Sex Bomb, and how the hell does he get anywhere with ID’s using other people’s pictures… as you think that, you remember what he did upstairs in the office. That insane motherfucker probably walked into the DMV disguised as a singer who was found with his neck broken on the carpet decades ago and somehow convinced the staff to register his buick. Sometimes you feel as if you have so much to learn, and then you remember that lunatic shot you over a report, and return to the truth that you’re the Plato of weapon sales, and definitely the most intelligent man to ever set foot in MannCo.

“I should let you know officer, this isn’t my vehicle, I was borrowing it from a pale of mine, Tom Jones… Mine’s in the shop.” You say as you pull out the vehicle’s registration.

>Play full stupid, so you don’t place yourself near the scene of the crime. “Are things okay down there? Saw like a whole troop of you guys coming the opposite way. Also could I ask the reason for this stop?”
>”But thank god you’re here officer, I heard these guys throwing grenades at eachother or something, they could kill someone. Blew my window open while I was running away.” Explain the broken window so you hopefully don’t look like the carjacker you are.
>Don’t let the officer find you with an unregistered grenade launcher, so make up a cover story. “That’s actually why I’m really glad to see you here, I didn’t think this guy was the type but… he had a grenade launcher in his car! I was actually heading to the police department to turn it in, could you help me with that?”
>”You know officer, I think someone might have vandalized this thing while I was at work, had to hotwire the damn thing just to start it, think you could give me a better ride home and I’ll come round with tools tomorrow to get her fixed? I would wait for a tow tuck but the wife’ll kill me if she sees the bill, you know how it is. ”
>Write in

As the salesman, all of these options can be made more effective optionally by writing in a mock pseudo legal testimony arguing your innocence posing as your own lawyer, the more I like the testimony, the better your chances.

>>4906677
>Play full stupid, so you don’t place yourself near the scene of the crime. “Are things okay down there? Saw like a whole troop of you guys coming the opposite way. Also could I ask the reason for this stop?”
Your honor, I would like to call to the stand a Mr. Tom Jones, the owner of this so-called 'stolen' car. I say that I would like to, but the truth is that Tom Jones has been dead for over a decade. Among the effects recovered from the car, I'd like to present articles of evidence A-1 through A-10, which are clearly illegally fabricated registrations for the vehicle in question. Many of these registrations depict members of the illustrious Mann-Co, of which on the day the defendant was pulled over was investigated by a squad for 'multiple counts of gunfire' and 'explosions'. The defendant himself works for Mann-Co, which has been reported countless times in the past for crimes against humanity - and I would argue given the remains of the defendant's car found at the scene, he was in a life-threatening scenario with his only legal mode of escape destroyed...AFTER being subjected to unknown drugs against his will. Your honor, this was not larceny - Larceny bears the intent to permanently steal the object in question. This was borrowing the vehicle under extreme threat with the intent to retreat to safety. This case should not be against my Client, it should be against Mann-Co's corporate body for the repeated threats on my client's life!
Judge Tom Jones will rule it guilty anyways.

>>4906764
>Play full stupid, so you don’t place yourself near the scene of the crime. “Are things okay down there? Saw like a whole troop of you guys coming the opposite way. Also could I ask the reason for this stop?”

>>4906764
>>4906830


You hand the officer the Registration under the name Tom Jones, alongside your own real ID. As he strolls back to the patrol car with your information, thoughts begin to brew in your drug addled mind. Even if he does cut your license in half, throw you in the back of the squad car with handcuffs and make you beg someone to bail you out- the law is on your side, and god willing these men are only it’s long arm. If they screw with you, you’ll have them kissing your ass for a settlement, you’ll have MannCo on your knees, the engineer will be rebuilding your car personally… It'll be beautiful.

You didn’t get this far selling weapons without knowing a guy, no-one does. You can already see your lawyer striding into the well like he owns the place, making the damn bailiff flinch as he nods to the judge, and starts his opening statement. He calls forwards the resting soul of Tom Jones to bear, which would be unfortunately unable to attend on account of being dead. He tears apart the fake registrations of the spy’s car, alongside false IDs, dredging up the history of MannCo’s atrocities- from the teufort lead incident to the poopy joe allegations, all of which may be stricken from the record, sure, but not from the juries mind as he moves past the objections. There will be blood tests, showing the unwilling injections you were subject to, forensic examinations of your car tracing to bombs personally manufactured by The Demoman. No, you committed no crime, what you did was an act of self defense.

With a supreme confidence of your impunity, you poke your head around with a concerned furrow in your brow. “Before you do that officer, is everything alright?” You ask innocently, “Saw a whole host of you guys rolling down the opposite direction. Is there anything I need to worry about? An’ uhhh… what’s this stop for? Brake lights out or something?”

The cop peers over to your brake lights, then asks, “Might be, think I noticed on the way in here- but uh… don’t worry about that I won’t hold you up for it if you can get it fixed before I see you again.” He then opens the door to his patrol car, mutters something to his partner, and walks back towards your car without your ID and registration. “Look, we’ve been hearing reports of a major disturbance around here.”

“What kind of disturbance?” You interrupt.

“I can’t say yet,” The deputy responds. “Sure you understand, but we’re not gonna be letting anyone drive away from here without giving us some information, so I hope you don’t mind us taking down all the information on your driver’s license. Also already got your license plates so we’ll know you’ve been here. Now I understand you might be worried about sending us on a wild goose chase, but, if you heard or saw anything at all just tell me.”
(cont.)

>>4908100
(cont.)
This guys good, you think, probably why they made him deputy. If you weren’t the amazing businessman you are, you might’ve fallen for some of those tricks. Since you are an expert negotiator, you just smile, and say “Thank you officer. I… I wish I could tell you anything but I haven’t heard anything, I’m just passing by on my way home. I’ll call the department if I have anything more to say.” As you explain this, the deputy’s partner comes up behind him, and pulls a cigarette out of his mouth to say “All jotted down, you’re good to go,” with one hand waving the cigarette forward and the other handing you your papers. “Have a good day sir.” You stare at that cigarette like you had seen the mark of the devil on his wrist, entranced and horrified by the way the smoke moves. You don’t know cigarettes well enough to tell if that’s a dunhill, you’re a cigar man yourself… although tabacco is reserved for when you keep things light and legal, on the job you stick with coke, quaaludes off. This meetup went well, did it go too well? He could be anywhere! Or maybe the world’s only scrawny australian is hiding in those damn woods or… dear god… what if that maniac starts a forest fire…

“Sir?” The cop asks, having watched you stare at his cigarette for a few seconds.

“Thanks.” You respond. These drugs are getting to your head, unless… you glance back at the cops one last time, watching the officer take a long drag of his cigarette and blowing out of the window as they start their sirens, but waiting for you to pull ought. You ought to head home so you can plan out some goddamn payback, wherever home is…

>You can’t keep driving this car, too many people know. Drive until you reach a payphone and call your wife to pick you up.
>Home is in boredom county america suburbs, the least conspicuous house in an unsuspecting neighborhood that you bought with your wife. If it weren’t for street numbers there would be no telling these damn houses apart.
>Deep into the woods, you rented out the top half of a building from a smelly doomsday prepper who only wanted the basement to turn into a bunker. You’re pretty sure he’s booby trapped it, and your wife thinks he’s a creep, but no one could beat the price.
>Downtown, an apartment upstairs of a benemissimo italian place that you rent with your living expense of a wife. Apartment walls are paper thin, but that italian restaurant is a good meetup place for business, and the wife like’s the apartment.
>You practically live at the bar trying to score some good deals and avoid the wife when you’re not on the real business, so head down there. Mixing alcohol with hard drugs hasn’t killed you yet.
>Don’t leave these cops just yet, flag them down and approach them to talk to them further. (Write in anything you want to ask them.)
>Write in.

>>4908102
>Deep into the woods, you rented out the top half of a building from a smelly doomsday prepper who only wanted the basement to turn into a bunker. You’re pretty sure he’s booby trapped it, and your wife thinks he’s a creep, but no one could beat the price.

>>4908102
>>Home is in boredom county america suburbs, the least conspicuous house in an unsuspecting neighborhood that you bought with your wife. If it weren’t for street numbers there would be no telling these damn houses apart.

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Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>4908134(1)
>>4908156(2)
Donna do a quick tiebreaker roll, but unfortunately due to the my schizophrenic schedule today I don't know if the update will be done today, so I'll leave the vote open for a little while afterwards in case anyone wants to break the tie while I write.

>>4908134
>>4908156
Apologies for the delay on this one.
>Deep into the woods, you rented out the top half of a building from a smelly doomsday prepper who only wanted the basement to turn into a bunker. You’re pretty sure he’s booby trapped it, and your wife thinks he’s a creep, but no one could beat the price.

After a few miles on ninety-six, most other people would be convinced that the woods flanking the road on either side were totally devoid of human life beyond hunters and the homeless, but there is one strip of those woods that just barely fits within the definition of “civilization. Traffic around you thinks you must’ve be an eighty year old man as you turn your right blinker on in the right lane with no exit for miles, until you turn into a small parting in the trees, the Regal struggling to maintain traction on a dirt and gravel road only wide enough to fit one car going one direction. After a little bit of driving into the woods, large but partially overgrown houses begin to flank you on either side.

A few of your neighbors wave to you with a wide smile every time you have to pull over to let another car pass, but with your nerves on fire you just nod back and keep going, glancing at every single tree in the fear that one of them might just be holding a jar of piss in its branches. Eventually the houses begin to thin out once again, and your fears only grow louder as the realization that there are no witnesses here. Your brains could be blown into the backseat of the car, and your body disposed of via forest fire, and no one would be the wiser. Even as you catch glimpses of your home in the distance, your head is still on a swivel, and you practically bounce out of your seat once you see movement in the front yard.
(cont.)

>>4910403
I'll probably be doing multiple of these sorts of Meet the [allied character] decisions throughout if you guys like them, so let me know what you think.
(cont.)
“Hey there neighbor.” Your landlord shouts with a gravelly voice as you pull in. Robert has told you repeatedly he’s in his forties, and even though you’ve never actually cared about his age, he insisted on showing you his birth certificate to prove it. Frankly, it would serve his own case better if he told you he was at seventy. This man has been on this earth for fourty-two years, and somehow every single hair on his head has fallen out, he’s grown a beard almost as large as his beer-belly, and he’s lost a third of his teeth. You wish you could call him a meth addict, but meth heads are at least skinny. No, his drug is paranoia, and you can’t complain about that, because while you live under constant investigation from both MannCo and the ATF, he can be paranoid so you don’t have to. Right now he’s digging a hole, either retrieving the thousands of dollars in buried precious metals he uses in place of a bank, or planting another landmine in the front yard. Either way, you feel better in your decision to rent the second floor out from him. You’re safe from both your bosses and the feds in this house, although there is one thing your not safe from.

What the hell is your wife gonna say about you stealing a Buick because your Viper exploded?

>Meet The Wife!

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>>4910405
>Meet the mechanic!

https://youtu.be/FAvQSkK8Z8U

First, she’s gonna jump like a kid on christmas when she sees the buick, and then she’s going to skin you alive when… or more preferably if she hears what happened to your Viper. You might’ve paid for the thing, but with how much time she had put into it you’d think she was married to the car. You can’t complain though, you’ve never once had to pay for maintenance on that thing and on the freeways it almost felt like if you pulled back on the stick-shift it would pitch up and fly.

The two of you first started dating all the way back in high-school, and she was how you discovered how great it could be to have connections. She wasn’t the only kid back then who had an affair with everything with moving parts, though without her the automotive clique would’ve had even less girls than the wargames club. However for kids whose highest paying jobs were waiting tables at alcohol free restaurants, their hobbies were running them dry. When you wriggled your way into her clique you practically became their fiduciary. You renegotiated insurance, haggled for them, found them the cheapest ways to get parts, and in turn you got all access to The Mechanic and upgraded from a hand-me-down AMC Gremlin to a rebuilt Ford Mustang. Sure it was fun driving that Mustang but as you set off to college and she tried her hand at trade school you came to realize it was way more fun to sit in the back of that mustang, preferably with The Mechanic in it, and neither of you wearing any clothes. Maybe you would still have a chauffeur if MannCo didn’t insist on a 25% commission, practically theft.

You know she keeps in touch with those guys, occasionally even brings you to a party with the old gang where you all drink beers and talk about where lifes gone, hell some of them even have kids, but having moved onto wider frontiers, your wife is the only connection you have to them anymore, and while you wouldn’t say you’ve ever had a bad marriage to her, that’s always been because you paid for her hobbies and didn’t scratch the paint job she worked so hard to put on the Viper, or whatever else she puts together. You won’t lie to yourself, she’s a nice woman, and there’s nothing better than having a person who you can talk sports with after boning in the backseat, but you don’t get satisfied by simple things like a “hard day’s work” the way she does, which certainly made the honeymoon phase of your relationship short, even more so when for a few years you’re entire connection was you wiring money back to the states. Now that the Viper’s exploded, you’ll probably be sleeping on the couch for a few years, but maybe just maybe you can direct her anger at the real cause of all this, those nine morons taking the money from your sales at MannCo.

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>>4910406
>Meet The Anarchist!

https://youtu.be/n6cBRx2Ie6A

To the FBI agent/moderator reading this quest, all references to distasteful, atrocious, or criminal acts are done for the sake of community, and are in no way indicative of the opinions, ideas, or actions of the writer or readers.

She’ll probably say nothing at first, until you tell her you shot one of your bosses with an M32, which you stole from one of your other bosses. After you give her that story, she’ll probably be unable to pull herself off you.

You’re not stupid, so you’re not gonna say you don’t know what the most Irish women you’ve ever met who hums to the tune of Come Out ‘Ye Black and Tans in the shower was doing trying to buy post-soviet weapon shipments in the Balkans, but the fact that you’ve never asked is probably why she agreed to marry you. You’re sure she was better at violence, but she was not a good negotiator. Usually when she didn’t like the prices she mostly just called the Slovenians cowards and the Russian’s gay, which is why the shipments fell in your hands, but while you’re a ruthless businessman, you’re not a cruel one. Most men would see a redhead with an amazing view from the back, but you saw exactly that and a desperate customer, so while most of the tanks and guns, you held onto large quantities of the smaller stuff, bombs, kalashnikovs, and most importantly her attention. You’re pretty sure you and her single handedly kept a crisis going in Ireland, and it was practically a honeymoon before you even proposed. You schmoozed her and made millions at the same time.

Frankly it’s a bit of a shame you couldn’t keep it going for ever, but MannCo wanted you back sitting in an office chair sipping motor oil from a coffee cup, so you dragged the redhead back to america and got married quickly before anyone in immigration services could take a long look at who you two were. She told you you should have quit and come to Ireland with her, but you told her that MannCo had too much experience in doing terrible things to give up their help. Now that you’re just the breadwinner of the house as opposed to the man single handedly keeping her dreams of a Brit free Ireland alive, your relationship has gotten quieter. She has her business and you have yours, and while you still don’t ask her about it, she seems to have a knack for grabbing the attention of both other bleeding hearts and the federal government. Still, you would’ve both gone insane by now if you didn’t have each other to “blow off steam,” and she’s easy to buy presents for given her hobby of gunsmithing and shooting at the range.

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>>4910407
>Meet the Heiress!
https://youtu.be/hCuMWrfXG4E
You’d tell her the car is another gift, but then she’d chew you up for buying her a cheap gift. See it turns out that while Lenin and his gang killed most of eastern europe’s monarchs and nobles and all that capital business, they never really could kill off the rich. Sure they didn’t call themselves kings and queens or CEOs and presidents, but they were still rich all the same. They went by general, minister, secretary, however they could dress themselves up to convince the people that they were totally different from the Romanov family. You know a lot about how the soviet union failed to do what it set out for, because it’s the reason your wife is such a bitch.

You see, she almost had her seat up there, almost. Her father was the goddamn king- eherm, secretary of industry in the soviet union. Height of the Cold War this guy’s making the arsenals you ship out look like pocket pistols every single day. His daughter grew up with the luxury only state authority could buy. Like an american teenage girl with a no-spending limit credit card, she was walking around with fur coats and gold necklaces. Then the Cold War ended, and while Gorbachev was making Pizza Hut commercials, daddy revealed to the world that he really did drink the cool aid. The man went nuts, started calling the liberals treasonous, started ordering weapons factories to keep running while under orders from NATO to demilitarize, sent those guns to extremists and former soviet allies, ust to piss the US off. Of course, the man was an absolute lunatic, so he got arrested by everyone with the authority to arrest him, and had all of his assets seized, leaving little Miss Heiress broke.

Now of course, she was left with a solid job demilitarizing the Czech republic, but compared to her old lifestyle of free money, she felt like a нишчeбpoд. That was where you met her, and while you’ve come to accept that she’s a rat that conned you into marriage, at the time there was nothing not to like. Most people selling weapons for dirt cheap in post-soviet countries were old fatties trying to become the capitalist pigs there countries had warned them about, but The Heiress seemed genuinely friendly, knew the high end of slavic culture like the back of her hand, and on top of all that had a great rack, it seemed like a great deal. Once you were done in eastern europe the tone started to shift. Over the years since then she’s become a human monetary black hole, buying all sorts of expensive furs and jewelry, but you can’t bring yourself to a divorce, partially because you’d be forced to give her half your paycheck from MannCo, but mainly because you’ve come to realize you’re proud of her. Just this once you’ve been played, and while you’ve gotten her back countless times, she’s got some sorta potential. Of course, first she would have to remember how to not be a nagging ass.

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>>4910410
>Meet The Machine!
https://youtu.be/uVaek2obszM

You know exactly what she would say, because it’s what she always says. “Error, vehicle [“Buick Regal”] is not present within listed inventory. Would you like me to update my databaseTim?”

Okay okay, jokes aside this robot’s obviously not your wife, hell the thing’s not even capable of real emotion, but women are expensive and you like it when things you spend money on make money in return, and this device certainly does that. Robotics have changed a lot in thirty years, and one thing the lovely madmen running Gray Gravel Co. have realized is that it’s often just as profitable to be thinking about war as it is to be fighting it. Sun Tzu realized that, and so did Olivia Mann, Gray’s all grown up daughter. So they started selling smart robots alongside the big robots, and after those were a success they sold them to the public. The military models did insane things, hack foreign infrastructure, predict enemy movements, while the civilian stuff could tell you the weather and keep a shopping list. The machine is neither of those models. See as much as you wanted to have something that could keep you up to date on military information, you didn’t need a metal drill sergeant waking you up at five AM and trying to PT you. Since you have all sorts of friends in the weapons industry, you got friends of friends in the robotics industry, so you got yourself a custom built machine that not only cleans the house and goes shopping, but can hack federal intelligence networks to see where the next war’s gonna start.

Now if you listen to Robert he’ll tell you these things are the devil and that it’s spying on ya, and while you don’t doubt that someday Olivia Mann is gonna flip a switch and The Machine will come at you with a knife, for now your life is a tad bit easier.

>>4910414
Pulling into the shade and putting the car in park, you're still glancing around looking for lens flares in the trees when you see the front door of the house open up, you know who coming through the door ready to ask why you're home so early and why you're driving someone elses car. Actually, who is coming through that door?

>The Mechanic.
>The Anarchist.
>The Heiress.
>The Machine.

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>>4910416
>The Machine.
Didn't even need to think about it.

>>4910416
>>The Mechanic.

>>4910416
>The Anarchist.
As much as id love to have a robot waifu, an anarchist lassie who knows her way with a gun seems more useful

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>>4910407
>To the FBI agent/moderator reading this quest, all references to distasteful, atrocious, or criminal acts are done for the sake of community, and are in no way indicative of the opinions, ideas, or actions of the writer or readers.

Oh shit, just realized I wrote community instead of comedy, haha.

Apologies for not having an update once again tonight, family stuff got in the way, hopefully I should return proper to the starting pace soon.

>>4910416
>The Anarchist.

>>4910420
>>4910588
>>4910595
>>4911806
Been writing for a little bit now, but I just realized I didn't lock the vote, and since it's definitely been long enough, I'm gonna officially lock the vote.

>>4912474
>He didn't lock the vote and now some dude came in days later to make it a tie
What a grand and intoxicating innocence. How could you be so naïve?

>>4912508
It's not a tie? It's one for the machine, one for the mechanic, and two for the anarchist. That's happened in the past though, and it was painful.

>>4912512
Count again, broseph. Two for the machine right at the start.

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>>4912537
Well I accidentally revealed my trip code in that last screen shot, so from now on THIS is my new tripcode, anyone using the old one is a faker. Genuinely worried is there avote that I'm not seeing?

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>>4912555
I think it must have been deleted and i never refreshed
damn

>>4910420
>>4910588
>>4910595
>>4911806
>>4912588
>The Anarchist.

Ah, no worries. I remembered someone voting for the machine, and then when I looked after they deleted their vote I had assumed I had just misread >>4910588 since mechanic and machine aren't all too different. Since it was deleted I'm assuming they retracted or changed their vote, sorry.

It turns out your prediction was wrong, because she didn’t say nothing, she said something you love to hear. “God love you if the taxman sent ye lad! What’s brought you over here?” Your wife shouts with a smirk on her face. One arm is half concealed behind her back, but when she sees you it drops to her side, and the welcoming tone of her voice drops ever so slightly. “Tim. Fuck are you doin’ home so early? An’ what’s this you're driving?”

“Ah well the Viper broke down and, can’t say I’m a fan of the Regal so I thought I’d come get a ride here.” You say as you shut the car door and walk up to her.

She mutters “Gobshite'' as you pull her into a quick hug, and she pushes you away when you try to kiss her forehead. “So wha’d you do to the old car… an’ why the hell are you covered in blood!”

As she pushes you away, you reach around her back, grabbing at god’s greatest gift to mankind, the pinnacle of achievement, Soft, firm, straight and curved in all the right places, you pull a 1911 out of The Anarchist’s sweatpants waist by its quality leather grip, knowing the irish woman well enough to flick the thumb safety on. Most attractive redheads will steal their husbands sweaters, yet for some reason that’s not enough for her, and she takes your firearms as well. “I buy you so many guns and you still use mine. An’ what do I pay Robert to fortify the house for if you can’t feel safe greeting visitors.”

“Tha’s in case it was Robert.” She replies, smacking you in the chest lightly before she starts to pull you inside. “Now what the hell happened, ye alright?”

“Finally decided to give my two week notice and the bosses decided to pay my final paycheck with seven-six-two. Probably still in there, those aren’t cheap cartridges they shot me with… hurt’s like a bitch… would’ve passed out if they hadn’t injected me with… some sorta stimulant. ‘Less maybe you’re an angel?”

“Houl yer whisht.” She says as she tries to help you up the stairs, only to quickly realize that you’re fine on your feet. “Swear you’re away in the head. Who the hell shot ye?”

“Fat bald communist.” You respond, moving past the chipped paint and dirt. The further up the stairs you go, the further you get from The Landlord’s stench, and the cleaner the walls get. Despite being a violent Irish nationalist and hater of all things authoritarian, she does a good job of keeping your section of the house clean while you're away.

“‘Nough of that naff.”
(cont.)

>>4912735
(cont.)
https://youtu.be/IZBlqcbpmxY
“I’m serious. One of them’s a big russian guy, probably grew up in the soviet union. This was after one of my other bosses shot me, french guy, he’s pretty much the one who started all the violence. Stole his car though. And his documents.”

“‘Bout time ye grew some nads.” She replies as you open the door to your section of the house.

“My nads fuel wars.” You retort, “I’ve seen people’s hands get chopped off because a warlord somewhere was afraid of my nads. I stuck with MannCo because they’ve got the best lawyers. You’ll be glad to hear though I blew one of the guys up.”


“Jesus Tim you got shot in the fooking gut are you gonna stop being an ejitt sometime?”

“I would never lie to you honey. Do you think I’m a liar?” You nearly shout, “Because I am, I’m the best damn liar there ever was, and that’s how I got my hands on an M32, look in the buick, you’ll see one with four spent shell casings. After I got my hands on that baby I blew up the guy who wrecked the Viper, and stole the frenchie’s car.”

“Catch yourself on.” She says sternly.

“Swear to god,” you say, walking past through the small living room upstairs. If you don’t sit too close to the windows, you might almost forget that you live right above a schizophrenic doomsday prepper in the middle of nowhere, but what you have no hope of forgetting about is the fact that MannCo fucked you, and the only person you ever intend to let fuck you in life is the redhead whom you’re currently watching walk back out towards the stairs while you plop yourself down on the couch. God bless Ireland for creating such a great ass and putting it on a known criminal, but anyway, you have to get back at MannCo, and from what you saw on that Intelligence in the spy’s car, you know that MannCo has some sort of “Very Important Briefcase,” at the top of the building. If a gunrunner can sell a nine-millimeter he can tell you a little bit of MannCo’s history, but you’re the exception to that rule, because you know a lot about MannCo’s history, and that history gives you a wonderful chance to claim your debts from MannCo.

You’re gonna need a crew, you’re gonna need some intelligence, and most of all you’re gonna need a plan.
(cont.)

>>4912738
(cont.)
“Ye mus’ be mad as a box of frogs Tim.” You’re wife says, holding the empty M32 and the stack of papers from the car. “Ye fooking blew a man up.” She quickly sets the grenade launcher and intelligence down onto the coffee table. The folder is still proudly stamped “Property of ‘Cormick’s International Assets.” You saw a van with that label in the parking lot of the office, who are these guys? “You jammy dote I fookin’ love ye!” She shouts, and while the start of your prediction may have been wrong, the end of it certainly wasn’t. Once she’s on the couch next to you, she has no resistance to you pulling her in for a quick peck, in fact giggling and pushing in for a second kiss. “Hope ye showed them wage-saves a good arse-kickin.”

“Don’t worry, this is not over.” You reply as your hand moves further and further down her back. The Anarchist’s brow furrows, but her smile stays while you start to explain a bit of MannCo history, and the opportunities it opens up.

For decades those mercenaries fought over a briefcase. No one knew what was in it, it was always just called “Intelligence,” and it was stuffed full of papers. People like Robert The Prepper will tell you its full of documents from the new world order, detailing where and when every war in the next hundred years will start, but the thing is that case is so legendary that even if it were empty you would be able to sell it for millions- scratch that, billions, to some sucker who doesn’t know. Most people thought that “The Intelligence '' had been lost, digitized, or sent up with Poopy Joe… but no, according to these documents it’s right at the top of MannCo towers. That briefcase could make you rich, no matter what’s in it… and more importantly it would absolutely screw over MannCo. They shot you. That means they owe you one briefcase. Of course there’s no law saying that, but you never got anywhere by having the Fed do things for you.

Much to your disappointment, your wife sits up and starts staring at the pile of paperwork you took from The Spy’s car. A big smile is glued to her face as she says “Get rich. Get back at the rich. Sounds like craic. Where do we start Tim?”
(cont.)

>>4912740
(cont.)
>”I gotta few friends who are uhh… less than legal, meet up at an old italian place downtown. Whadya say we go see if they’re willing to throw us some information, or see if they have some people willing to help out.”
>”You’ve got your Kalashnikov, and I got a .45. Seems a little light don’t it? When’s the last time I took you shopping honey?”
>”These documents were stolen from ‘Cormick’s International Assets apparently,’ I got a few friends internationally I’m gonna call up, they might know something about who these guys are, maybe they’ll help.”
>”I’m gonna head downstairs and talk to Roberts, see if he’d be willing to help out. I know you don’t like him, but the man mines his own front yard, he could help.”
>”I’m gonna find a payphone somewhere and talk to Dick at the office about this kind of job. The least I could get is some intel.”
>”You like rigging things to explode right? Let’s go pull everything valuable out of the buick and set a bomb in it in case they try to steal it back.”
>”No rush honey, especially because I have so many drugs in me I’m pretty sure I’m about to have a heart attack. What do you say you help me sleep it off?” (Heal all injuries and flush all drugs.)
>Write in.

>>4912745
>”I gotta few friends who are uhh… less than legal, meet up at an old italian place downtown. Whadya say we go see if they’re willing to throw us some information, or see if they have some people willing to help out.”
What's next, meet the unabomber?

>>4912745
>”You like rigging things to explode right? Let’s go pull everything valuable out of the buick and set a bomb in it in case they try to steal it back.”

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>>4912796
The lone crazies don't pay all too well so you don't have much business with them, most of your disreputable comrades here in the states are in local gangs or mafia families.

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Another day without an update, sorry for the slow speed guys. Gonna have two out tomorrow since I don't want this to take a year like my last quest. As well, since both options you guys picked aren't exclusive, I'll go with both if there's no objections.

>>4912796
>>4912907
>”I gotta few friends who are uhh… less than legal, meet up at an old italian place downtown. Whadya say we go see if they’re willing to throw us some information, or see if they have some people willing to help out.”
>”You like rigging things to explode right? Let’s go pull everything valuable out of the buick and set a bomb in it in case they try to steal it back.”

“Why don’t we start by making sure my bosses don’t try and come back here to stop us.” You begin planning, “The Buick belongs to the Frenchman, and I’d bet you anything he wants it back.”

“Thinking of a ransom?” Your wife responds.

“No, no way to get the money without them shooting me afterwards- like the thought though. I was thinking that we could use it to defend the house instead.” Finally sitting back up yourself, you glance out the window. “They’ll probably open it up and search it up and down first thing they do, and when they do-” you bring your hands together in two lose fists, before splaying them out while mothing ‘pop.’ “You’re ex-IRA, set up a car bomb for me?

“Ex?” Your wife says. “Been an age, and how are ye gonna get around?”

“Not in that fucking car. They’ll be looking for it.Empty it out of anything valuable, then park it up somewhere down the road and rig it to blow.”

The Anarchist furrows her brow, looking almost offended. “And are ye gonna be sitting on yer arse the whole time while I do all the work.”

“Of course not.” She’s onto you, you think as you reassure her otherwise. “I’m gonna be going around looking for some friends to help us out on this. There’s nine of those armed buffoons huddling around the briefcase. I got friends in low places, friends that’ll kill a man- I know because they stabbed me before, that shit hurt.”

“And yer still working with these lads?” Your wife asks, halting her walk towards the downstairs door.

“It was all business honey, don’t worry, I handled it well.” Is your only response, thinking back to those good old days; around a decade ago now, while you get a fresh set of clothes, not covered in blood.

There are two places in the world where you’re truly in your element: either in a war torn country shaking hands with the most despicable people on the planet, or in the back of a trunk with your hands tied. Those mobsters, real greaseballs they were- definitely not the honorable bastards they show on TV, they had you strung up for treading in there territory. They had beaten you bloody for days, pried secrets from you, everything, and when they pulled you out to the woods and pointed a gun at your head what did you do? When they asked you why they shouldn’t kill you, you pointed out the fact that they were not far from local suburbs, well within their .44 magnum’s audible range even accounting for the trees- and just how twitchy stay at home moms were with a nine-one-one call.
(cont.)

>>4915268
(cont.)
“So Mr. Valentini,” You said, “Could I interest you in something like a Glock-17 and suppressor? Or if you prefer revolvers I’m sure I could source you a russian M1895. Other revolvers don’t won’t get much quieter if you stick a pillow on the end but this baby contains the gas in the cylinder for a faster, quieter round. Now- some people might tell you it doesn’t have the best trigger pull, but you’re a strong guy Mr. Valentini, you aren’t some girl defending her purse with a pocket pistol, what’s twenty pounds double action to a big guy like you ehh?”

Now of course, once you’ve gotta gun to your head there’s really nothing you can do, so that fat italian just laughed to his friends and started to pull the trigger. Even though it didn’t work, you were still a great salesman, because you made trigger pull sound pointless for a two-fifty pound mafiosa, but it was a big deal, because that half-second the criminal took to pull the trigger on his .44 gave enough time for some wackjob in the back of another trunk to burst out, shouting “FOOLS! MERRRRASMUS CAN BE CONTAINED BY NO MERE ROPE!” as all the rope in the areal, including the stuff binding your hands, disappeared.

The mobster who had a gun pointed at your head suddenly turned towards the black robed wackjob who had just burst out of the trunk of another car, and pointed it towards him. Immediately the incredibly trall and lanky man who looks a bit like a goat flinched and shouted “Dimenticatus!”

The mobster just began to glance around the woods for a moment confused while the wizard shouted out, “Fools! Merrrrrassmus shall now run away!” The man wearing a goat’s skull as a hat dashed off into the trees, and you never saw him again. The mobster was looking around confused while you stood up, and held your hand out for the man to shake.

“Who the fuck are you?” The mobster asked.

“Ah, see you’re a busy man, can’t blame you. I lose track of my schedule all the time. My name’s Tim, you told me to meet up here so we could discuss supplying your organization with high quality Nagant revolvers.”

You keep that old story close to heart, even if you’ve never told anyone but you’re wife, because it’s the reason why you felt no fear calling a cab to head to a den of murderers and thieves disguised as a classy italian restaurant. While you waited for the cab to arrive you cleaned the blood off you and got a new change of clothes as if you were getting ready for just another day of work- but the illusion was suddenly broken when you heard a honking outside your house, and looked out your window to see not a cab, but a limousine.
(cont.)

>>4915270
(cont.)
You holster your 1911 under your jacket as you walk down the stairs, and when your wife passes by the stairs you quickly tell her, “Get your rifle and wait by the door,” decently sure she was already planning to do the first half of the instruction.

Slowly and carefully, you peak your head out of the door. FIrst you glance around the tree line, looking for a scope glint or a jar of human urine, only to see nothing. Glancing back at the jet black, beautifully polished limousine you see that the driver, a well dressed chauffeur has stepped out, and is now standing by the open back door, welcoming you in with a smile.

“Hello Mr. Bout.” The chauffeur begins, “Mr. Mann would like to speak with you, so we thought we’d give you a ride to Valentini’s establishment.”

With a hand inside your jacket on your firearm, you slowly approach the car, nodding to the Chauffeur before you lean down, seeing a young man with a red tie inside. “Mr. Bout,” he says smiling. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me. Russel Mann, republican senator for the state of texas and heir to Redmond Mann’s fortune. My sources tell me you’ve found some information regarding the whereabouts of the briefcase. Don’t worry I don’t work with MannCo, despite the name that’s all Hale’s business. Willing to discuss your discoveries with me on the ride? I think you could solve some problems for me.”

This motherfucker has bugged your house. Or the car you stole. Or maybe he’s just been watching you from somewhere. Either way this isn’t good, but an instinct within you jumps at the idea of solving someone’s problems. People pay a lot of money when you can solve their problems. Maybe you could strike up a deal with this man on your way to Valentini’s. Alternatively you could tell him to shove it… or hey, he’s a congressman, maybe you could buy your soul back if you shot him and left.

>”I’m willing to discuss my discoveries if you’re willing to discuss buying that briefcase off me. Preferably somewhere around the price of a private island and a presidential pardon.”
>”Yeah I’ll come with you, let me just bring my wife, lovely lady, real patriot.” Bring your wife in the car with you while you discuss this deal for extra protection.
>”I think I’d rather do it in my own vehicle thank you. Have the Chauffur take the limo back, and I’ll talk to you about this deal while you drive me to Valentini’s.” Try and convince him to get in and start up the Buick your wife rigged to explode.
>”With all due respect Senator, I’d get in a car with a warlord, in fact I have gotten in a car with a warlord, but I will not step in a vehicle owned by an employee of the federal government, your boss is my biggest competitor.”
>”Actually what you’re gonna do is get out of the car.” Point your gun at him. “And you and your chauffeur are gonna get in my house and not leave.” Lock him in your landlord’s doomsday bunker, and take the limousine.
>Write in.

>>4915273
>”I’m willing to discuss my discoveries if you’re willing to discuss buying that briefcase off me. Preferably somewhere around the price of a private island and a presidential pardon.”

>>4915312
>”I’m willing to discuss my discoveries if you’re willing to discuss buying that briefcase off me. Preferably somewhere around the price of a private island and a presidential pardon.”

“Alright senator, I don’t mind sharing my discoveries with you.” You say, leaning further down into the vehicle. “But this stuff… I’m sure you understand it doesn’t come cheap. I know guy’s like you get a lotta generous donations from a lotta honorable guys, shake hands with a lotta big people, I was hoping I could getta cut of some of that pull. I mean… I’m sure if you’ve been watching me, you know the kinda guy I am, I sell bad things to bad people but your boss…” you sit yourself down inside the limo, looking for some champagne, “your boss makes me look like a chump. Seriously, I gotta shake hands with MannCo’s biggest competitor. So with how much pull you have in the government of the greatest country I’d hope for some good payment for you to hear what I have to say.”

“Mr. Bout, I’m not a pauper.” Russell Mann says as his chauffeur closes the door and moves for the driver’s seat. “My father lived for 200 years not just because of Australium, but because of the power granted to him by that briefcase. Name your price.”

“Private island and a presidential pardon after everything’s done.” You say, “especially if you want me to actually get my hands on the briefcase.”

“Believe me Mr. Bout, if I have that briefcase I will personally pardon you as president of the United States.”

You know personally that Russel Mann has no campaign other than, “Rep. Brandon Mann is a bastard,” and having seen the man’s commercials, you’re convinced that it would not change even with the briefcase, but that just means you’re gonna have to break a few kneecaps to get that pardon, or sleight of hand it over to a “competent” politician, if such a thing exist.

“You know what’s in it, Russel?” You say, opening up a small minifridge in the center of the limousine. “Australium? Nuclear codes? Saxton Hale’s social security number?”

“I have my theories.” Senator Mann responds. “The chief of which involves the nature of me and my cousin’s birth. My father and uncle were both dead by the time me and my cousin were revealed to the world. Brandon and I are too young to remember it, so it’s possible we were born from a mother we never knew but I often imagine how two two-hundred year old men managed to conceive a child.”

“Australium is crazy stuff.” You respond. Inside of that mini-fridge you had hoped contain quality champagne you instead just find, “RED-Cola! Gravel Flavor,” and shut the door. “You know they put in bombs these days? So, what makes you think I know anything about the briefcase. Since we live in a country no longer occupied by the british I am innocent of knowing anything about a briefcase.”
(cont.)

>>4916074
(cont.)
“MannCo’s been under federal surveillance ever since the Poopy-Joe incident, it’s just that few of my fellow congressman have any pull in the organization assigned to it, Cormick’s International Assets, private investigators I believe. The only other group with shares in them is my cousin, Brandon Mann.” Senator Mann explains. “They had a security leak a few days ago. Someone infiltrated their headquarters and took the information they had gathered on the briefcase. Word spread quickly that you took it.”

Normally you wouldn’t try to convince an idiot not to pay you, but with politicians you can never tell if they’re stupid or sociopaths, so you halt a little and question things. “Wait.. I don’t understand, you’re… the government’s contractors knew about the documents., so you know about the documents, and you know what’s on them. Why do you want to hire me?”

“I’m not here representing the federal government Mr. Bout, I’m here representing myself, and my stake in the Mann inheritance.” He says, almost upset at what you asked. “My cousin is apart of the United States government, and if I leave the recovery of this briefcase to the federal government, it will end up in his hands as well. I believe my brother describes himself as a ‘social democrat,’ and under his presidential rule, there will be no international weapons market other than what comes directly from the swift hands of the executive office. You’re a clever man, and I know you know just as much as I do that the reason MannCo and other private ventures can skirt the law is because the president likes it. I like the law the way you like the law Mr. Bout, wearing a breezy miniskirt. So what do you say Mr. Bout, find me that briefcase, make me president, and yourself a billionaire?”

Senator Mann says these last few sentences with the smooth voice and shiny smile of... well… yourself, a man who has shaken hands with the kind of people who employ child soldiers. Looking past him, through the window, you see the storefront of Valentini’s italian restaurant.

>”You know what Senator Mann, you got yourself a deal, so long as you can actually get me that private island after everything is said and done.”
>”Senator Mann, I still don’t know how I feel about you rolling up to my house in the middle of nowhere uninvited. Let me think about your deal here.
>”I don’t know Senator, I think I might look for other buyers. I’m still not so sure on your foreign policy, but have a good day.”
>”You have some interesting policies senator, why don’t you come inside with me and we can talk more?” Once he’s inside, tell your buddies in the mob to rough him up so he leaves you alone.
>Write in.

>>4916075
>Well, you strike a hard bargain Senator Mann. I'll accept the job on one condition, mostly because I don't like my odds otherwise. I want special support of some kind - either a professional to back me up, or some kind of classified walking warcrime of a personal defense weapon. Something or someone that'll make even Mannco's current supervisory team think twice before messing with us.

>>4916210
supporting this

>>4916210
>>4917754
Since we're a little bit into the quest I'd love to hear any feedback and especially criticisms you guys have. One thing I'm curious about is the pacing. I'm trying to move faster than my last quest, but don't want to catapult you into situations, so I'm interested to know how you guys feel about these things.

“Well, you strike a hard bargain Senator Mann.” You begin, “I'll accept the job on one condition, mostly because I don't like my odds otherwise. You’re gramps founded this company and he did not cut corners, you Mann’s don’t leave jobs unfinished. Hell I was only able to get out of there with what I knew because one of those wackjobs injected me with some sort of crazy juice. I think for both our sakes you ought to give me an advance payment, not cash, not even luxuries. I want special support of some kind - either a professional to back me up, or some kind of classified walking war crime of a personal defense weapon. Something or someone that'll make even Mannco's current supervisory team think twice before messing with us. How’s it sound?”


“I see what you mean.” Senator Mann says. “As a Mann myself I doubt my grandfather would have left his briefcase in incapable hands.”

“Exactly.” You respond. “Just think of it like insurance… and some real peace of mind, you’ll have something you can trust ensuring things go smoothly.”

“Mr. Bout, in all my years of dealing with mercenaries, I must say my dealings with you have been almost refreshing.” Senator man dusts off his tie, then adjusts it. “I think you’re terms are reasonable. I know men who can help you, a few of them I haven’t spoken with in a while and the others would need to be shuffled around a bit. Give me a few hours to make some calls, and I should have a selection of men for you to pick from.”

You give a professional yet warm smile to Senator Mann, and reach out to shake his hand. He firmly shakes back, and you nod to him. “Glad we could come to a good agreement. Just to get an idea of who I’ll be working with, who are you calling?”

“Veterans, special forces, federal law enforcement.” He responds, promising stuff, you think. “I’ll have to cast a wide net and see who I can get back to you with.”

“Alright.” You open the door of the limousine. “You’ll have to get back to me about that, I’ve got a few friends to talk to. You have a wonderful day senator.” He’ll get back to you about it, you think to yourself as you step out of the car door. If he’s smart enough to hire you, he’s smart enough to know what Valentini’s is really all about. From Senator Mann’s perspective, if he fucks you over, he fucks the italian mafia over, and that’s not good for anyone running for president.
(cont.)

>>4917816
(cont.)
You nod to the senator one last time, before you begin to walk into Valentini’s Diner, and he gives you a pleased nod back. God, you're a good negotiator. You walk through the heavy wooden door of the restaurant with a mixture of confidence and respect that a man needs to avoid being whacked in a place like this, and are immediately hit with the nostalgic stench of cigar smoke and low-quality booze sunk into high quality suits.

“Hi, welcome to Valentini's! How can I help you?” A young woman who’s slightly too bubbly for her job says at the front door, standing behind a small podium with a clipboard on it.

Before you’re able to say anything, an obese sitting in one of the booth pears his head around towards you, his friends all darting their eyes towards you as Mr. Valentini shouts, “Aaaahhyyy! The fuck is Revolver Timmy doin’ ‘ere? I heard you went legit, it true?”

>”Believe me Val, there’s no such thing as legit. I’ve been selling gun’s internationally with those saps at MannCo but I just got laid off, don’t worry I got plans, but we can talk about that later. How you doing?” Don’t get right into business, warm up the boss with some small talk.
>”I sure looked legit in those suits didn’t I Don? But really, I got something important to talk to you about. You got any guys- tough guys, who can help me out in a job? I’m telling you it’s real big money here, already got a buyer lined up.” Get straight into business, no bullshit.
>”I guess you could say I did Don and I gotta say it didn’t work out, so I’m gonna ask you real nice if you could help me out, real simple shit and I know I’ll be able to pay you back. You think I could borrow a car, real good one for just a few days? The Viper got hit- and I shit you not, with a High Explosive 40mm grenade, poor thing was wiped off the face of the earth and now I need a new ride.”
>”Ahh you know how it is, got a wife these days, Irish girl I met out in Slovenia, great ass. Anyway, as much as I’d love to catch up… and one of these days we will Don I promise you, I got things to talk to you about. You got any close connections with the guys at MannCo? Used to work there myself but I just got laid off, hoping you could give me a few ways into the top floor.”
>Write in.


With how long it’s been since you last talked to Mr. Valentini, most of your old favors are now expired, and you probably could only ask him straight for one thing, but you might be able to get yourself some more favors by writing in a convincing plea to a mob boss telling him that you always pay your debts on time. Each convincing plea is an extra favor from The Boss.

>>4917818
>”Believe me Val, there’s no such thing as legit. I’ve been selling gun’s internationally with those saps at MannCo but I just got laid off, don’t worry I got plans, but we can talk about that later. How you doing?” Don’t get right into business, warm up the boss with some small talk.
With italians, you don't talk business at the dinner table. You enjoy some good food and fine company, and afterwards you talk shop.
Besides, it's been a few years (probably), we could do with some catching up with the (sort-of) pals!

Time kinda got away from me today, so no update today, apologies.

>>4917818
>>”Believe me Val, there’s no such thing as legit. I’ve been selling gun’s internationally with those saps at MannCo but I just got laid off, don’t worry I got plans, but we can talk about that later. How you doing?” Don’t get right into business, warm up the boss with some small talk.

>>4917996
>>4919454
>”Believe me Val, there’s no such thing as legit. I’ve been selling gun’s internationally with those saps at MannCo but I just got laid off, don’t worry I got plans, but we can talk about that later. How you doing?” Don’t get right into business, warm up the boss with some small talk.

“Believe me Val, there’s no such thing as legit.” You start, hugging the jolly old fat man quickly. “‘specially in the weapons business. I just went international. MannCo breaks every law in the book, you shoulda seen the balkans, interpol was riding my ass every day.”

“You ever get pinched out there?” He asks.

“See that was the nice thing about working with MannCo. They got lawyers like you got on the world stage.” You explain, beginning to walk with The Boss towards the table he and the other mobsters are sitting. Each of them holds a pair of cards, and each of them is trying hard to peak over to the other player’s hand. “It was a good thing too because I only got a quarter of sales, they were practically robbing me every day. I’m almost glad those saps laid me off a few hours ago, but don’t worry about that I got plans. How are you doing? Is the business going okay? See you haven’t lost your old charm over the years.”

“Ahh same as always. FBI’s hovering over, the wife’s a strunz.” He holds his forehead for a second, as if he headache, “Love ‘er but the older she gets the more she acts like a skifosa. And people wonder why nobody wants to get married anymore.” He waves for his Capos to scooch over, making some room for you to just barely squeeze in the booths after he sits down, his fat body taking up most of the space. “Sit. Sit. You hungry? I could have the kitchen cook us something up.”

“Boss is always hungry.” One of the Capos jokes with one of the other mobsters, inciting a few chuckles.

Valentini twitches towards the guy, and the way he flinches you’d almost think The Boss slapped him across the face. “Perché non stai zitto? Abbiamo degli ospiti.”

The Capo just mutters, “Scusa, scusa,” even while turning away from The Boss and rolling his eyes slightly.

“Hey, suzie!” He calls to one of the waitresses, “Tell the kitchen to cook up some Focaccia and bring it out here.” The boss turns back to you, “You gotta girl these days?”

“Yeah, married a girl I met on business out in the Balkans, Irish lady was looking to buy some cheap stock and I helped her out.” You explain. “It’s pretty nice actually, she likes guns even more than I do so Christmas is easy and the view from behind is stellar. Gotta lotta crazy ideas about the government that mean she doesn’t mind my job either… so long as I don’t tell her too much.” You look to the dealer of the game, and toss some money into the pot, “Deal me in.”
(cont.)

(cont.)
“Irish?” The dealer asks as he hands you a mediocre pair of cards- a 10 and a 7, while an ace, a . Your eyes go wide when you look at the cards for a brief second, before you quickly try to hide them. “What’s she doing buying guns in the Balkans. They ain’t got guns in ireland?”

“Demilitarization. After the soviet union dissolved they left all their equipment behind in their old satellite states, the guys left with it have nothing to do with it all so they just sell it to guys like me for super cheap.” Seeing an appetizer plate out of the corner of your eye, you turn to the waitress and quickly says “Thanks,” though before you even get to get a good look at the focaccia di Recco The Boss already has his hands in it. “She had her own organizations she was supplying up in ireland. But uhhh… enough about that I’ll be sleeping on the couch if I say anymore, what’s

“Ehhh business is a mixed.” One of the Capos starts explaining, getting a side eye from The Boss. This Capo ignores it however, and continues on. “The guys at the top, old fellas in New York are all either starting to get pinched or get whacked. We’ve been running on our own out here for a little while. You picked the right time to start working for a corporation, Timmy. Anyway I’m gonna bet.”

You’re about to tell him you heard about that, when one of the Capos interjects, “The fuck are you talking business for? Can’t you let a guy enjoy the game?”

“Hey bobby, why don’t you go in the back and grab some drinks.” The Boss says as he raises. The Capo who started talking business at the dinner table just nods and walks away as the boss says, “Don’t worry about all that, business is fine.”

“You don’t have tell me Val, I see you’re eating well.” You joke, grabbing a piece of Focaccia.

“Hey, being The Boss has benefits.” Valentini says. “But uhh... you know I been hoping to retire lately but I just don’t got enough saved up.”

“Ahh here he goes.” One of the Capos interrupts.

“Hey shut up. Have some fuckin’ respect” The Boss responds, pointing to you.

“Ya fourty yeahs old boss. What’da you need to retire for?”

“To get away from your ugly mug.” The Boss says dismissively. “Yeah either retire, that or just let someone else be The Boss for a little while. Honestly kinda wish ya did really go legit, maybe you coulda grabbed me a job.”

You wish you could say you were surprised to hear this, but it’s not the early seventies anymore. In days past every business, every corporation, even the damn flower and coffee shops had to pay their dues to some mob somewhere, even al the way out west. Nowadays, in the nineties things are a different story, the big guys like MannCo run the shots out in the open, and the Mob, although they will still break a man’s legs, don’t have the nationwide pull they used to.
(cont.)

>>4920211
Of course my power dies WHILE I'm posting an update.
(cont.)
>”You know Val, I think they’re right, what’s a young guy like you planning to retire for? See what I learned selling guns is that there’s demand for the mob. Somebody’s gotta keep these guys in check, I think with some of these plans I been thinking of we could put you and your boys back on the map.”
>”Hey if you’re looking for a retirement fund I gotta good investment for you Val. Throw me a new vehicle and some good weapons and I’ll shoot you a chunk of change from this heist I been cooking up.”
>”You know I think I got some ideas that might help fix those problems coming from the world of big business. If you gave me some muscle maybe you could kick back and relax for a little while, and I’ll clear you some new territory, take all the stress off your shoulders.”
>Write in.

>>4920215
>>”You know I think I got some ideas that might help fix those problems coming from the world of big business. If you gave me some muscle maybe you could kick back and relax for a little while, and I’ll clear you some new territory, take all the stress off your shoulders.”

>>4920215
>”You know I think I got some ideas that might help fix those problems coming from the world of big business. If you gave me some muscle maybe you could kick back and relax for a little while, and I’ll clear you some new territory, take all the stress off your shoulders.”

>>4920317
>>4920380
>>”You know I think I got some ideas that might help fix those problems coming from the world of big business. If you gave me some muscle maybe you could kick back and relax for a little while, and I’ll clear you some new territory, take all the stress off your shoulders.

“Call,” you mutter, looking closely at your cards, then staring the boss dead in the eyes. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, deceitful thoughts start to churn in your conniving mind. The Boss is up the wall right now, and that leaves a wonderful opportunity in your lap. You don’t pay people to fix their problems, people pay you to fix their problems. It’s just that sometimes people don’t realize where there problems really lie, which in and of itself is a problem. In truth, you’re not about to manipulate the boss, you’re about to him a great big favor, just like the favor you you’re gonna do him by getting that briefcase. “You know Boss,” you explain, “Remember those plans I was talking about… I think I found something in those plans that might help you out. See I think a lotta your problems come from uhhh… how do you say supply and demand? Big business is meeting everyone’s needs.”

“So what, you saying I need to…” The Boss begins, but you interrupt him before he can come to a conclusion that will inevitably lead you into the back of a trunk for insulting the three hundred pound italians business prowess.

“You gotta make demand.” You explain, watching intently as The Boss nods with interest. “That’s what the boys are good at, control, controlling the competition; who does what business and where. So you gotta make sure they can’t do business.”

“Timmy, if it were that easy, the boss woulda done it.” One of The Capos replies on his behalf.

Instead of shushing his insolent Capo, the boss goes “Paulie’s right Tim, the time to do that was the eighties. FBI’s watching everything these days.”

“The time for you to do that was the eighties Paulie.” You respond, “But luckily you have a pal with no official connection to the mob, no power in the family, and a vendetta against MannCo. The FBI knows you Boss, they don’t know me- Interpol can barely figure me out.”

“MannCo?” The boss responds.

“MannCo.” You explain. “Like I said, there’s no such thing as legit. These guys are the modern day mob, hell, they practically were a mob back in the seventies. They’re on the drug market, weapons market, black grey blue and brown markets, all of them. I can get you real breathing room.” You pull your cards closer into your chest. “The stuff I’m looking at Val, it’s a kingkiller. MannCo won’t survive it, whatever walks out of it won’t be the same MannCo we know.”

“Listen to this rat.” One of the Capos says.
(cont.)

>>4921868
(cont.)
“Hey.” You nearly shout. “I am a liar, a cheater, and a conman, but I am not a rat. Like each and every one of you I am a god fearing man, I gotta beautiful wife at home, and I gotta few people I don’t screw over, and I do not screw over Mr. Valentini.” As you say this, you put energy into your voice, moving your hands the same way these men around you do with every damn word. Your finger is in your face, your mouth is in a snarl, if you were any deeper in character, they woulda made you on the spot. “Don’t you ever call me a rat. I been working with Valentini for longer he can remember. Know your place.”

The Capo shrinks back, but The Boss still holds his doubts, “Calm down Tim, calm down, he’s just busting your balls he didn’t mean anything. Be honest with me Tim, you seriously think you can put a hole in MannCo? What is this? Gonna shoot Saxton Hale?”

“Real quick history lesson about MannCo. Back in the day they used to be supplying two groups, Reliable Excavation Demolition and Builders League United both hiring mercenaries from the same lady, both running after the same damn thing; a briefcase. They’ll kill whole countries to get that damn thing until both of the idiots running it kicked the bucket, and the briefcase disappeared from the record books. Well I know exactly where it is, and with a little bit of help from your guys, I can get it from them. Whatever’s in that briefcase it’s the kind of stuff that wars were fought over, and if it gets out, it’ll topple these empires and leave a hole for you to fit in. Trust me here, I ain’t bluffing about this. You give me some o’ your guys to help me out with this last job, you can kick your feet up and let me handle things all the way through, and when I’m done you won’t have an ounce of stress in your life ever again.”

“Timmy, I just told you I wanna retire.” Valentini says, sounding tired of your promises.

“Then hey, maybe you leave something good for your kid. You’re best memories were all because of The Life and trust me… I worked in those goddamn offices, there’s no fuckin’ memories there. Not one. Carve yourself out something for your successor to run, while you sit back on the profits. How’s that sound Boss?”


“You know what Timmy? Lemme make some phone calls.” He explains. “I’ll look into it, I know I got some guys who might be able to help so I’ll think about it. Gonna take some time to work things out, but uhh… while I’m working this out, you need anything you just call.”

You know Mr. Valentini. He doesn’t “think about things.” If something sits dangling in front of him, he’ll run after it, and right into your hands. You’ve got this, you’ve got his support, and the best part is you didn’t have to waste any favors, in fact you might be able to convince him he owes you know.


“Hey you rode in on a limousine right?” One of the Capos asks. “Think you’re ride’s here.”
(cont.1)

>>4921871
(cont.1)
Peeking outside the window, you see another limousine, with different license plates from the first.

>”You know boss, I could use a bigger gun than my old fourty-five. What’re you using to whack people these days?”
>”Actually, it’s not my ride. That’s part of the reason I came here, car exploded long story but I ain’t getting in that limo. Think I could borrow a carr from you?
>”Actually I do need a favor real quick. You know that Republican Senator Russel Mann? I need you to get some guys to ask around about him and a group called ‘Cormick’s International Flowers.” Keep quiet about the actual deal.
>”Hey boss, why don’t you come with me in this limousine? I gotta guy I want you to talk to with this whole investment.”
>Tell him the details of the deal you made already with Senator Russel Mann, and tell him that this limo is probably something to do with that before you head out to talk to him.
>”Hey Val, tell your boys to line up a shot on that Limo from ins here in case something happens.” While they cover you, move outside to talk to whoever’s in THIS limousine.
>Write in any ideas or favors you want to ask of The Boss.

As before, you can garner more favors by pleading your credibility to Val, although you could probably ask for three things from him before you need to beg, just not all at once, that would be pushing it. Also, if you’d like, roll a d6 to see how well you do in the poker game, first roll will be taken.

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>4921872
>”You know boss, I got my hands on some real sweet stuff recently. You think you could set me up with a guy that can get me some 40mm pills? Maybe some experimental mixes for a real good boom. Trust me, it'll come in handy later."
Might as well use what we've got. Sorry, Tavish!

Had a long day at work today and still some errands to run now that I'm home, so I'm gonna have to delay the next update until tomorrow, apologies, although I do have a rather empty few days up ahead so updates should be >1 a day for a little bit.

>>4921888
>”You know boss, I got my hands on some real sweet stuff recently. You think you could set me up with a guy that can get me some 40mm pills? Maybe some experimental mixes for a real good boom. Trust me, it'll come in handy later.”

“You know boss, I know this is bad practice, but I had to skim the top off a shipment just this once, because I got my hands on some real sweet stuff recently.” You explain, while the boss gives you a concerned look. “You think you could set me up with a guy who knows a little chemistry? I could use some 40 millimeter pills. Even better if you can get the creative types who put together experimental mixes for better effect.”

“Jesus christ Timmy!” The Boss shouts. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“Come on boss, trust me on this. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it was necessary. It’ll come in handy later.”

“What do you mean it’ll come in handy later?” The Boss shouts, looking like he’s ready to kick you out. “You on that shit right now? You know that shit’s how the feds got the old bosses over in New York.”

“Jesus Christ Val.” You say leaning your head back. “Not those kinda pills. How the fuck am I gotta sallow a fourty millimeter fuckin’ painkiller? That’s wider than my neck. I’m talking about explosives. I got a grenade launcher with no grenades, hoping you could supply me with some.”

“Oh man.” Paulie shots, coming back with a few bottles of beer. “The hell you get a grenade launcher?”

“Woulda heard if you moved a little quicker.” The Boss says, grabbing one of the beers. “What took you so long?”


“Had to find the shit that ain’t watered down.” Paulie says. “We got guests, ain’t giving him the restaurant fugazzi garbage.”

“Ay. The restaurant ain’t a fugazzi.” The Boss says, lightly smacking him on the back of the head.

“Ah here we go.” One of the Capos says. “Can we get on with the game?”

“Hold on a second Tommy.” The Boss says, refraining still from putting his cards down. “Look, I know a guy downtown, used to work for some company doin’ weapons research. Quit his job, and asked me for a loan for some ideas he had. Guy’s really running late on some of his debts, but he’s a real pazzo so I’ve kinda put some distance between him and the made guys. I’ll call him, tell him I sent you, but you gotta go out there and talk to him yourself, I ain’t risking one of my guys at his shop. Besides, I don’t know nothing about that stuff, all I know is pistols.”
(cont.)

>>4924021
(cont.)
“You got it Boss. Thanks.” You respond. “Alright. Held the game up long enough and I need some cash on hand. Paulie, show us your cards.”

Getting a quick nod from The Dealer, Paulie does exactly that, revealing a nothing hand, followed by the next Capo who hadn’t folded revealing a single pair, while The Boss shows another high card. As they all throw down your cards, you look back out the window, seeing the limousine you saw earlier still parked in front of Valentini’s door. Just like the vehicle of Senator Mann that showed up at your house, the Chauffeur has stepped out, and opened the backdoor. Unlike Senator Mann’s vehicle however, the Chauffeur isn’t wearing a red undershirt. Instead, this well dressed man is wearing a blue bowtie. “Hey. Timmy.” The dealer says, pulling your attention away from the window. “

Throwing down your own pair of cards, you only have a rather mediocre pair of sevens, matching Tommy’s pair, and both of you are left without a kicker of any real significance. You tie with Tommy, and both split the pot, leaving you with thirty dollars in hand. Twenty more than where you started.

>”Alright Boss, it was real nice catching up with you but it seems I got some business waiting for me outside. I’d love to stay, but these aren’t guys you can keep waitin’.”
>”Hey Boss, you mind coming with me for a ride with this guy in the limousine? Think you should meet him, maybe help me talk to him. Secure your investment a little you know?”
>Keep playing the game for a little while, see if you can’t wait out the limousine while playing the game and helping yourself to some of the food and drink.
>”Hey wait here for a minute I gotta talk to somebody outside.” Just head outside and see what the limousine is about this time, don’t get in just yet.
>Write in.

>>4924022
>”Alright Boss, it was real nice catching up with you but it seems I got some business waiting for me outside. I’d love to stay, but these aren’t guys you can keep waitin’.”

>”Alright Boss, it was real nice catching up with you but it seems I got some business waiting for me outside. I’d love to stay, but these aren’t guys you can keep waitin’.”

https://youtu.be/4_4aWTAkCFY

“Well Boss, it was great catching up with you and the old gang, but if you already noticed my ride’s here.” You begin to scoot out of the booth, and look at the boss expectantly, waiting for him to move out of the way.

“Ay,” Paulie shouts out, “C’mon, you just got here. Have a beer.”

“Paulie’s right, what’s the rush?” Valentini asks. “It’s only what? Eleven? Suzie?” He nods to one of the waitresses. “What’s that clock say?”

The waitress glances towards a clock on the wall, then says “Eleven-thirty.”

“Yeah why don’t you stay for lunch.” Valentini asks, taking another bite of Focaccia.

“You know I’d love to boss, but you see the Limo outside. These guys aren’t the kind of people you can keep waiting.”

“Then who the fuck is it then?” Valentini shouts. “This got something to do with the briefcase?”

“It’s business, yeah it got something to do with the briefcase, but hey, boss,” You hold up a hand, as if signalling him to slow down. “I’m doing this to keep your blood pressure down, remember boss?”

“Hhhuuughey.” The Boss groans as he moves his obese body out of your way, standing in the aisle of The Diner. “Alright. Don’t screw me on this. And remember what I said about that chemist in the woods. Honestly I’m real tired of the guy owing me so you I want you to really shake him down for whatever explosives you need.”

“Oh believe me boss I will.” You reply. “Might even bring the wife. She loves that kinda stuff.”

“Jesus this guy is…” One of the Capos mutters.

“Hey, shut the fuck up.” The Boss replies as he sits back down, and you walk outside. “Have some respect.”


You nod to them as you push open the restaurants squeaky old wooden door, waving goodbye to the hostess as she says “Have a nice day!” in an overly enthusiastic voice for what any sane person should consider a depressing job.

“Hello Mr. Bout.” The Chauffuer says as you leave the building. “I work with Mr. Mann, he would like to speak with you.”
(cont.)

(cont.)
“Thank you.” You say to the Chauffeur, “Your boss must be a rich man to swap his Chauffeurs so quickly. What brought you…” Leaning down to peak into the back seat of the limousine, you cut yourself off from saying back so soon Senator? “What brought you to Valentini’s, Representative Mann.”

Within the Limousine is not Senator Mann, the Republican son of Redford Mann, but instead his cousin, Representative Brandon Mann, who can only be differentiated from his cousin by a professionally groomed five o’clock shadow, and a blue tie where a red one was on Russel.

“You don’t seem particularly surprised to see me, Mr. Bout.” The Democrat says, gesturing you into his vehicle.

“I’m a professional Mr. Mann, I’ve done plenty of work for the federal government, whatever you need I’m sure I can help you out.”

“In that case we can get right to business.” Representative Mann says. “My sources tell me you’ve found some information regarding the whereabouts of the briefcase. Don’t worry I don’t work with MannCo, despite the name that’s all Hale’s business. Willing to discuss your discoveries with me on the ride? I think you could solve some problems for me.”

If it weren’t for the damn tie, you’d assume this was a case of deja vu.

>”Sure, I’ll disclose what I know, then I assume you’re gonna want to hire me to take the briefcase and sell it to you. You’re gonna have to outbid your cousin.”
>”Gladly Representative Mann. I was actually thinking of taking a certain item of interest from MannCo, would you be interested in buying it?” Without telling him about Russel Mann, offer to sell the briefcase again to Russel Mann.
>”I’m certainly willing to discuss it, but I’m in no rush to get home. Would you like to talk inside about this deal?” Bring him inside, and have The Boss help you whack him.
>”You have my best wishes Representative, but as a firm supporter of the Second Ammendment, I’m not interested in donating to your campaign.” Close the door, and call a taxi to pick you up and bring you home.
>”Why don’t you stay here for a moment Representative, I’d like to call my business associates about this.” Call Senator Mann before making any dealings with his cousin.
>Write in.

>>4925907
>”Sure, I’ll disclose what I know, then I assume you’re gonna want to hire me to take the briefcase and sell it to you. You’re gonna have to outbid your cousin.”

>>4926380
>”Sure, I’ll disclose what I know, then I assume you’re gonna want to hire me to take the briefcase and sell it to you. You’re gonna have to outbid your cousin.”

https://youtu.be/hfmxO-HQ5rU

You stare at Brandon Man for a second, smiling and nodding as he says the exact same words his cousin said, matching almost perfectly in both tone and inflection. You smile and tell him, “Sure. As I said I’ve worked with many members of Congress before. I think I can help you with any of your problems. I’ll disclose what I’ve learned and-” as you say this, you sit down in the comfortable leather seats of the limousine, “then, correct me if I’m wrong, you want me to acquire the briefcase and sell it to you right?”

“You’re correct.” The representative responds, seeming rather impressed. “Have experience in heists Mr. Bout?”

“I have experience with Mann family Representative.” You reply as The Chauffeur starts to move from the parking lot. Despite the overly long vehicle, the high price driver smoothly navigates the cramped parking lot, up until he pulls up to the road, waiting for an opening in the traffic. As they should, most of the traffic passes quickly by, up until one self-righteous camper van, likely driven by a man who sees himself as the king of road courtesy, stops in place, holding up ten people’s worth of traffic to make the one person’s job slightly easier. In the center mirror you see The Chauffeur roll his eyes at the camper van, whom cars are honking at as he waits for the limo to pull out.

As the irritating realities of downtown driving chip away at The Chauffeurs sanity, you continue, “Your cousin, Senator Mann, already approached me hoping to acquire the briefcase. It takes a lot to get me to betray a client Representative. You’re gonna have to outbid Senator Mann. He’s already offered me a private island, and a pardon in the event he becomes president, as well as an advanced payment in the form of the best men the federal government can offer. Think you can outbid that?”
(cont.)

>>4927027
(cont.)
“That PIG!” The Representative shouts, which isn’t a particularly effective insult given that he seems to be the same exact weight. His composure is gone faster than a suburban driver after someone had the gall to drive within the same zip code as them. He heaves out every breath as he almost frantically continues. “I’ll give you weapons! Dangerous weapons! Illegal weapons! And… and… you won’t need a private island if you get me that briefcase, you’ll be able to buy one for yourself. I will give you first pick distributing weapons to NATO allied countries. You will be a kingpin in every conflict!”

Considering both private islands and international dibs would make you wealthy beyond any worries, you ask, “Tell me about this advance payment. How illegal are these weapons.”

“Not even militaries will field this stuff. You let me make some calls and I’ll have small arms that violate all sorts of conventions delivered to your house.”

In the front seat, The Chauffeur is gripping his steering wheel, and glaring into the rear view mirror angrily. It’s not hard to see why, considering that Mr. Courtesy Camper Van is both courteous enough to hold up traffic but stupid enough to tailgate you, even as you approach an entrance to the highway that will take the limo to your home.

>”Oh come on Representative, a gun dealer who only sells to NATO isn’t much. You’re gonna have to offer a little more to overtake your cousin.” (Feel free to write in something you’d like, including advance forms of payment. Write in a sales pitch for your thievery services for better results.)
>”You know what Representative Mann, I never could get behind your Cousin’s immigration policy, II think we have a deal so long as you can get me those weapons.”
>”You know what? It’s just not good business to betray
>Tell the Chauffeur you want him to take the scenic route, stay downtown as long as he can.
>Tip the Chauffeur a little with the money you made from poker, and whisper to him to speed up the limousine.
>Write in.

>>4927029
>”You know what Representative Mann, I never could get behind your Cousin’s immigration policy, II think we have a deal so long as you can get me those weapons.”
>"By the way, I'm pretty sure that camper is tailing us for unsavory reasons. We should lose it, or make sure it has an 'accident' before the driver gets any bright ideas."

>>4927029
I'm retarded. That third prompt was actually supposed to say more, but somehow it got cut off. Since I don't want anyone to feel railroaded, here was what the full third prompt was supposed to say.
>”You know what? It’s just not good business to betray customers, I don't think we have a deal. If it's not too much trouble drop me off at home.

>>4927304
>”You know what Representative Mann, I never could get behind your Cousin’s immigration policy, II think we have a deal so long as you can get me those weapons.”
>"By the way, I'm pretty sure that camper is tailing us for unsavory reasons. We should lose it, or make sure it has an 'accident' before the driver gets any bright ideas."

“You know Representative, I never could get behind your Cousin’s immigration policy.” You explain as you turn your head around, peering over the back seat. “South America’s too good of a customer, and if the cartels can’t smuggle product over the border then they can’t buy from me, can they?” As you say this, a chilling little thought pops up into the back of your mind. They didn’t buy from you, they bought from MannCo, you were just the face of the sale. Sure that means it’s hard to pin you down for any crimes, juries love a good sob story about coercion and entrapment, but your clients… your clients were not honorable men, they don’t ascribe to the virtues of loyalty, meaning it’s very possible that now that you don’t have a nice reliable logo attached to you, you don’t have any of your old customers. “Anyway, I think we have a deal, so long as you can get me those weapons.”

You quickly shake on the deal, but as the Representative is about to say something, you instead tell him, “By the way, we’ve got a tail.” You peer over the seat, looking out the back as Representative Mann asks what you mean. “Pretty sure that camper van is riding our ass for unsavory reasons. We should lose it, or…” you nod over to the Chauffeur, “Make sure he has an ‘accident’ before the driver gets any bright ideas. You got any problem with breaking a few traffic laws up there driver?”

The driver loosens his grip on the steering wheel. “Mr. Representative? What’s going on.”

“Mr. Bout?” The Representative asks. “Are you confident these men are here to harm us?”

“MannCo doesn’t the call the cops, it’s bad business in their line of work.” You explain. “They like to deal with their problems in house. That’s what this guy is, I’m sure of it.”

“Right.” He responds. “I’m not about to let this get in the papers. Johnson, don’t go on the highway just yet. At the light, pull into the left lane, then gun it into a right turn. Don’t hesitate unless you’re absolutely sure you’ll get sideswiped.”


The Chauffer stumbles over his words for a moment. “Sir, I- I don’t mean to be dismissive but are you sure Mr. Bout is telling you the truth here, he- he did just admit to... “


“Goddamnit Johnson who the hell are you voting for?” Representative Mann nearly shouts. “You want that pig to win presidency? To have nuclear codes? MY nuclear codes! Then you get on that highway, but if you love everyone in this country as much as I do then you WILL cut across the right lane!”
(cont.)

>>4928529
(cont.)
“Yes sir.” Johnson replies, flicking his turn signal left, only then to slam on the gas, the engine letting out a sound no respectable limousine driver should ever produce while the cars in the right lane all slam on the brakes, honking and giving the middle finger. Then when the drivers of those cars quickly speed ahead to make for lost time, it almost seems like there’s no possible way for the camper to maintain his tail, not without plowing through multiple vehicles.

Which is why it’s such a goddamn shame MannCo has no respect for human lives. Instead of doing what any sane tail would do, the camper guns it and pulls a hard right, smashing his heavy vehicle into a poor sedan’s engine, scraping metal and paint as he speeds past, leaving a good chunk of his vehicle behind while dragging the sedan with him. You’re only real reprieve from the insanity is the fact that both the camper and the sedan seem to have been originally built sometime in the sixties, and maintained poorly. You don’t think you could handle seeing another sports car being ripped from god’s green earth by MannCo, but that’s beyond the point.

With all subtelty gone now, the camper van speeds after you. “Keep your head down!” You shout to Rep. Mann as The Chauffeur lets out a terrified yelp, keeping the gas pedal so close to the floor that a poor old lady has to be yanked off the crosswalk to safety by some good samaritan. Reaching into your jacket, you grab your pistol, yearning for a time machine to take you to the future where you have ammo for your M32. You chamber a round while peering over the back seat, seeing the beaten and broken camper van swaying left and right as its buckled front tire yanks on its axis. It’s a struggle to look inside the camper van’s windshield as it shakes around just from driving, alongside the jerk of every turn The Chauffeur struggles to execute in the long, heavy limousine. When you do manage to get a look at the driver of the camper van, you’re still not convinced you managed to get a good look. In the place of a human face, you see sheet metal with rivets and perfectly round eyes, wearing a slouch hat. You want to grab a better look, but when you see a glint you know all too well at the top of the van, you immediately duck down, right before a bullet tears through the back windshield, scattering shards of glass through the interior, and cuts through the passenger seat.

The Chauffeur nearly jumps out of the car, but instead shouts “I- I’m calling the police!” while reaching for a car phone built into the center console, but as he picks up the plastic brick his boss shouts his name.

“Johnson!” He shouts. “Do not call the police! Mr. Bout is a criminal, Mr. Bout what do you suggest?”
(cont.)

>>4928533
(cont.)
>Open the Limo’s sun roof, and tell the Chauffeur to stop, while you stick your hands high up in the air in surrender. Prepare to talk your way out of this.
>”Johnson keep it steady!” They say .45 kills the soul, but robots don’t have souls, so hopefully it can kill other things. Try and shoot out the driver. (Will require a 3d6 roll.)
>”No, do call the police! I am not a criminal, I am a businessman, and I will reason with the law when this is all over.” Have him pull over somewhere, and prepare to hold out while the police come.
>”Johnson, tuck and roll. I’m driving, you don’t have the balls for this.” Kick The Chuaffeur out and drive yourself.
>Call in another favor from Valentini, get some of his boys to come and help you out here, run the bots off the road.
>Write in any clever ideas.

>>4928535
>”Johnson keep it steady!” They say .45 kills the soul, but robots don’t have souls, so hopefully it can kill other things. Try and shoot out the driver. (Will require a 3d6 roll.)
Think fast, chucklenuts!

>>4928535
>>”Johnson keep it steady!” They say .45 kills the soul, but robots don’t have souls, so hopefully it can kill other things. Try and shoot out the driver. (Will require a 3d6 roll.)
boom headshot

File: amreicandream.jpg (30 KB, 474x711)

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>>4928968
>>4929157
>”Johnson keep it steady!” They say .45 kills the soul, but robots don’t have souls, so hopefully it can kill other things. Try and shoot out the driver. (Will require a 3d6 roll.)

“Johnson, keep it steady!” You shout, quickly checking your magazine. You got seven shots, that’s seven attempts at embedding some chinese built central processing unit into the dirty back seat of the camper van while Johnson’s steering wheel shakes along with his nerves and the mechanical driver struggles to keep the van straight despite what must be inhuman reactions and precision.

You poke your head back over the back seat, once again hit in the eye by a scope glint coming off the roof. It’s not worth trying to hit the sharpshooter dangling onto the Van’s roof, so instead you start taking aim with the pistol, only for you another shot to silently whizzing past your head and thump into the car’s radio, the initial BANG is suppressed, and the supersonic CRACK is nowhere to be heard. The gun is so silent you don’t even flinch as your head is nearly taken clean off, only realizing how close you really were to death a few seconds later, which was after you shouted, “Mann! Draw his fire,” braced your aim against the back seat, and fired one, two, three, four shots from your pistol at the greasetrap of a driver. While the third and fourth shot is inaudible due to the ringing in ears, you notice that the first two have distinctly different reports, and wonder what the hell you last loaded the magazine with.

Four players roll a 1d6. The top three rolls will be taken and added into a 3d6. Bonus points will be given out for anyone who can write in a sales pitch or advertisement for any sort of strange or wacky bullet that would aid in this situation. The more creative and charismatic, the better the bonus. If the total adds up to 15, the roll is a success.

Rolled 2 (1d6)

>>4929487

>>4929487
And here comes the pitch.

Are you a discerning assassin looking for a signature to sign off all your kills with? Do you find yourself hating other people with a passion that Satan himself would find 'too far'? Do you have no respect for the sanctity of life?
If you said yes to any of these questions, then I have just the thing for you. The great and powerful Merasmus is now selling, at a discount, his special Haunted Hellfire Rounds*! Each round contains one of the souls of the damned, and carries with it their promises of eternal torment. Even if it doesn't kill your target, they'll sure wish that it did!

*We are not responsible for any harm or damages caused by possessions, necromantic incursions, extradimensional portals, or divine judgement that may occur from the usage of our product. Please use the product responsibly and at your own discretion.

File: MEDIC!.jpg (221 KB, 1441x1500)

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Since rolling is taking quite a while, anyone interested is free to roll twice. Of course, more bullet pitches are welcome, but it is optional.
>>4929581
Eternal torment you say? Divine judgement! Well you've never been one to hold a grudge but damn does that sound a lot like stopping power. Sold. +4 to the roll.

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>4929487

Rolled 2 (1d6)

>>4930101

Rolled 2 (1d6)

>>4929487

Had a few more pitch ideas while in bed.
>We at Gray Gravel Co understand that competition breeds innovation. Your lifelong enemy just purchased a bulk shipment of 1,000 of our incredibly deadly robots, and when they come crashing through the walls of your house, your only means of defense is the tiny, utterly insignificant .45 you keep under your pillow to sleep comfortably at night. Well, fear no longer - we’re now offering the perfect solution to you, the ‘competition’ to our robots. The Competitive Botkiller Round. Each of these bullets is made of peizoelectric polymers designed to safely cause the bot hit by it to simply shut down harmlessly, no longer a threat to you or your family. You can keep using your grandfather’s ineffective pistol, knowing that all the armor plating won’t protect our bulk order bots from your smart purchases. We did fix that issue with them spinning around wildly and exploding when hit, right?

>YOU THERE! YES, YOU, SLEEPING ON THE COUCH WITH THE TV ON! IT MAY BE 2 AM, BUT THAT SHOULDN’T STOP YOU FROM FINALLY TURNING YOUR LIFE AROUND! YOUR BORING LIFE? GET RID OF IT! YOUR BORING NEIGHBORS? GET RID OF THEM! YOUR BORING DOG? GET RID OF IT! AND HERE’S HOW YOU’RE GONNA DO IT…SAXTON HALE’S PRIVATE SUPPLY OF SPECIALTY AMMUNITION! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT MOST OF THEM ARE MADE OF, BUT OVER HALF OF THEM MAKE A DAMN FINE EXPLOSION! I ONCE SHOT A DEEP SEA GIANT SQUID WITH ONE, AND THE RESULTING MESS HAS MADE ME SWEAR OFF SEAFOOD FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! MY DOCTORS SAY THAT MY HEARING WILL NEVER RECOVER AFTER FIRING JUST ONE OF THESE BAD BOYS! I SAY THAT YOU HAVEN’T LIVED UNTIL YOU’VE FIRED ONE FOR YOURSELF!

Apologies guys, but I won't be able to put out the next update today. I was hoping to have the last one up yesterday but it didn't work out, and my schedule was too busy today. Next update will probably be on a new thread though.
>>4930488
I'll throw a +5 in for the two of those, mostly for the robot one. Having a company sell both a product and the weapon designed to kill it is very fitting for TF2.

Since this is the end of the thread, I'd love to hear what you guys think of the quest so far, especially with the whole, "write in things to do better on roles," but also anything you have to say, such as the pacing, portrayal of the mercs, etc.

>>4931354
I love the mechanic of writing in pitches, it's been hilarious to think about what would be made in the TF2 world.
Especially with how ridiculous it already is in canon.

>>4932919
New thread is up amigos.
>>4931407
I'm glad you enjoy it! I was a little worried about how much i should give out the bonuses. While I really do appreciate you giving your all and putting in multiple pitches, I'm toying with the idea of capping the bonuses to 1 bonus per person, cause Ideally I'd like to encourage as many people to throw in ideas as possible, because frankly its fun to see multiple peoples ideas, like in that first roll. Lemme know how you guys feel about that.

Another thing I probably should have asked about was if anybody had any criticisms or complaints about the story so far, especially the "Team fortress fast forwarded to the '90s" setting. I kinda dropped a lot of it on the fly for the sake of pacing, so don't be afraid to ask me to slow down and explain things more if anyone feels lost.