NTWF Mafia II: The Idyllic Village of Wafflenet

[Avery]

SPOILER: Click to show

This thread was initially nine separate RP threads (one per round), since merged. All bold posts are Narrator posts that move the story along and include all executions, mafia murders, etc. These are separate from any non-bold posts made by me (Carrie).

You can tell when the round changed because there will be a header at the start of the bolded post that says "Round: x", "Round Name: x".

Below is an easy list of links to take you from round to round:
1. On a desolate country road...
2. In the alley where the Salesman died...
3. In a muddy pasture...
4. On a flooded, hellish night...
5. After the storm...
6. On a quiet rooftop...
7. As a violent battle blazes...
Epilogue. After the battle...

And below is the town roster, in no particular order; I'll leave out death order/who survives, and roles, so anyone reading this for the first time doesn't have the whole thing spoiler'd in advance. ^^ The character name comes first, followed by the forumer's username in parentheses.
1. Kay O'Hara (Chao)
2. Birch (Gav)
3. Penny Marie Mahb (Alyssa)
4. Blaze Wolfstorm (Terra)
5. Don Dan Maphia (Dan)
6. Ginz I. Mahb Maphia (Ginz)
7. Yoyti
8. Antimony Parsimony Alimony (Fraze)
9. Thundy
10. Julie Merlot (GLQ)
11. Mick Angelo (Tiger)
12. Alex Louis Rockefeller/Rocky Boulder Rockfell (Draco)
13. THE PYTHON... or Melvin Mahb (Jay)
14. Fluffle (Cassie)
15. Diana Pallada (Celestial)
16. Nora Williams (Azzie)
17. Osilon Abacus Crane (Icon)
18. Dove Byrd (Robyn)
19. Tracy Chaetura (Lizica)

The sum total of roles was: 11 innocent townspeople, 4 mafia members, 1 witness, 1 detective, 1 Benedict Arnold, 1 Serial Killer

Round: Zero
Round Name: In a formerly-idyllic country town...

It's not that the people of Wafflenet didn't like Stal the Traveling Salesman.

As a human being, the citizens were sure he was perfectly acceptable; it's just as a traveling salesperson, he was really, really annoying. Thrice a year, like clockwork, he would take the train into Wafflenet with his suitcase full of wares: trench coats, top hats, odd little figurines he called 'Stallary Duff' dolls. Then, he would prowl from door to door, farm to farm, trying desperately to hawk his merchandise. No one ever expressed interest, but that didn't stop Stal! Even as the oh-so-polite citizens attempted to gently tell him to well, leave them the heck alone, Stal would talk their ears off.

"But you need this trench coat!" he'd exclaim. "It would look so dashing on you! And this Stallary Duff doll, why, your child would love it!"

A half-hour sales pitch wasn't unusual. Sometimes he'd stand on a doorstep, babbling excitedly about his wares, for hours, until finally the exasperated citizen lost all patience and slammed the door in his very disappointed face.

That said, the whole town was pretty shocked when Stal the Traveling Salesman turned up dead this morning. And not just dead, but murdered!

It's a horrifying escalation to what started out as minor crimes-- a mugging here, a burgled shop there. And who is to blame for all these infractions? Why, no other than the nefarious mafia, those horrible lawbreaking scallywags! Of course, no one in Wafflenet ever expected their misdeeds to become so brutal and violent. They could live with vandalisms, with numbers games, with bootleg liquor operations. But murder?

No one saw that coming.

There is a witness, you know, who saw Stal's terrible slaying go down. This witness knows the identities of the horrific mafia members, but is too frightened to speak. Can you blame this poor bloke, really?

And the detective. Hah! Wafflenet's official town detective skipped town the moment he heard about Stal's death. Rumor has it there's a new cop around, acting undercover so that the mafia doesn't unearth his or her identity, but really, when have rumors been trustworthy?

There are also rumors of a sympathizer. You heard me right! Wafflenet's very own Benedict Arnold, a cowardly townsfolk who knows who the mafia is-- but loves them so much that he or she says nothing. Even worse are the whisperings about a lone wolf serial killer lurking in the midst, bloodlust perked by the acts of the mafia; nothing has come to fruition from this chatter yet... but really, isn't it just a matter of time?

In any case, people are nervous after Stal's death-- but no one really liked the outsider enough to cry for vengeance. Still, a seed of fear has been planted in their heads. A bubble of rebellion rises within. It will take just one more death to really set things into motion, I think. For the town to demand an eye for an eye.

But surely, little town, it will never come to that.

Right? Right?

[Stal]

Looks like what we have here is a...

(>)>⌐■-■

(⌐■_■)

...Death of a Salesman.

[Avery]

((Eh, I gave it a couple hours, I figure I may as well get the RP rolling. xD))

The woman called Britknee Paris Snoodson was not a native of Wafflenet. In fact, she'd only lived there for about a year, having moved in with her BFF Courtknee from the Big City. The two of them had thought it would be like, super fun! Get some dairy cows, grow some vegetables, socialize with the fun and simple countryfolk. Except Courtknee hadn't lasted six months before ditching Britknee and moving back to the City-- thus saddling Brit with the farm, the cows, and the countryfolk, who were not in fact simple and did not much like her. It confused Brit, their dislike of her. She was so totally nice and cute and awesome! Why did they hate her!? Oh, how she wanted to fit in! Maybe then one of them would buy the farm from her, and thus the super scary dairy cows, which terrified her.

On the morning of Stal's murder, Brit was walking with her mini poodle, Snuggles McSnuggleson, from the farm into town, with a basket-full of strawberries in her arms. Brit was going to try and pass the strawberries off as fresh-grown and gift them to the townsfolk in her latest effort to win them over. In fact, the strawberries had been flash frozen and bought on eBay, but those silly country bumpkins would never know.

She made it halfway to the town square when she noticed a crowd clustered around the alley in between the general store and the town's only diner, which was, creatively, called "Waffles, No Nets". It was sure was weird, the crowd. People in Wafflenet weren't normally the clustering type.

"Excuse me," she said, tapping on the shoulders of a person near the fringe of the crowd. "Could you like, tell me what's going on?"

[Dan]

It was happening again.

His worst nightmare was once more rearing its ugly head. That which had hounded him for years, had sent him fleeing from every town he had ever tried to call his home. He thought he had escaped it once and for all when he had found the woman who was to become his wife, Ginz, and by extension, her hometown of Wafflenet. On its face, the village seemed perfect in its small-town charms. No one would do a double-take when he shook their hands and shared his unfortunate name. People respected boundaries here, his wife told him. Largely left each other to their own devices, though a polite tip of the hat was never out of the question when passing by on the street. So he had settled into his new home with pleasure nearly four months ago. He had found a steady job at a nearby shoe company, assigned to develop new prototypes. It could be a comfortable existence eventually, he reasoned. Things weren't perfect, as no newlywed's life ever is, but he was cautiously optimistic that the hard times were indeed past.

And then that salesman had to go and get himself killed. The worst crime to hit this town in decades, probably. And of course, as was always the case through no fault of his own, all eyes would turn to him. Don Dan Maphia, the man with the most unfortunate name.

Ever since childhood he'd been the butt of jokes, the recipient of mistrustful glares and suspicious glances. But it was through no fault of his own. Nothing he did indicated a life of crime, and yet the judgment still came hard and fast. As soon as he shared his name, people's eyes narrowed. It couldn't be helped. But it wasn't his fault, none of it. It was his parents' faults, with their obliviousness to the insanity of naming their newborn Donald Daniel (Don Dan for short), when their last name already held such connotations. And it was the faults of every stranger he came across, who let prejudice and snap judgments cloud their minds enough to see that Don Dan was one of the most mild-mannered, unassuming people this side of the Mississippi. Nope, the Maphia name said everything it needed to, it seemed.

He had approached the crowd with a frown of anxiety, for mobs of people were distinctly out of the ordinary for this town. And after picking up bits of chatter from those around him, his worry was entirely justified. The salesman just lay there in a heap, his obnoxious little dolls strewn about, and the gossip of the townfolk was that it was perpetrated by the same group who'd started hitting up the local businesses for a protection racket. That bit of news was worrisome enough, but just rumor, and he was able to push it out of his mind as just idle gossip. This, though. This was confirmation.

So it was all going to come crashing down on him once more. This murder was going to be pinned on him, he
just knew it.

He just had to wait for the sky to start falling.

[Celestial]

Diana Pallada had moved here a year ago, seeking a quiet place to study and write about in what was to be her magnum opus, a detailed history of every single tiny event that had happened in a typical town in the middle of nowhere with excellent records of what had happened in its past. Wafflenet had fit the bill perfectly. It was awfully common but to get into the nitty-gritty of what had happened in the past, academics had to come down from their ivory towers sometimes and observe the common people before returning to those same ivory towers to report what they had found.

It had been a fascinating case study, although Diana was not yet quite sure of whether it was exceptional or typical of any town in this area and the working class of this town had very little of the zeal and unity that she had expected from reading their records. Nevertheless, she had found out quite a lot, especially about the peculiar tradition they had of this salesman, who the locals called Stal, coming to visit. She ahd even had the honour of participating in this tradition, of bargaining with the salesman and rejecting his silly little merchandise, all while enquiring about his origins and trying to figure out how he incorporated into the capitalist mechanics of this town. It was also good for her to test out her latest book passages on him. The latest had produced the best look of confusion she had seen yet, therefore she had decided to keep it.

Imagine her shock to find him dead. It was certainly a terrible shame, of course, all loss of human life was. However, she did not honestly believe that it was the worst murder this town had seen as in the beginning of the century, between the dates of the 6th and 23rd of July, there was a worse double-murder that was recorded in the judicial records. Although perhaps that was not the worst murder and this may have defeated it due to its connection with the newly-established Wafflenet mafia. Certainly fascinating and she was sure to write a detailed comparison of the two murders in her monograph.

For now, she supposed it would be interesting to see how the townsfolk dealt with this, see if their methods had changed over the years and try to figure out whether it was broader cultural forces outside Wafflenet or the changes inside Wafflenet itself that had percipitated this reaction, although Diana was sure it was the latter.

She went to stand in the gathering mob around the body of the salesman and adjusted her glasses as she looked down upon him, turning away almost immediately at the sight of blood before her stomach turned, aiming away from the latest batch of records she carried with her. As long as the records were unhurt...

Diana had a chilling realisation. This typical town may not turn out to be so typical. Or perhaps it was. Regardless, even in the face of these murders, she could not stop her research.

[Ginz ❤]

Ginz had gotten up early that day to check on the vegetables she was growing. She had poured one of her homemade concoctions on them last night, and she was excited to see the results. She snuck out of the house as quietly as possible as to not wake her husband, and walked past the empty chicken coop on the way to tend to what little crop still survived in the poor disheveled farm her parents had left her and her two siblings.

She got nearer, anticipation quickly rising, but soon her face fell in disappointment. There was no visible change to her crops. None whatsoever. How was that possible? She had spent the last week perfecting her newest growth potion, and yet it had wielded no results.

One day, she said to herself. One day her science would allow her to grow the biggest vegetables anyone had ever seen. A misunderstood genius, that’s who she was; one little failure was not going to stop her. One day, she would end world hunger. But Ginz was no one if she didn’t have her priorities in order, and right now winning the blue ribbon for biggest zucchini in the upcoming state fair was first on the list, of course.

Gathering all her determination, she headed downtown to collect new ingredients to start over. She walked absent-mindedly, daydreaming of all the prizes she would win when she stumbled into someone. Ginz apologized as she snapped to her senses and realized there was a crowd of people preventing her from reaching the general store.

She was pretty confused at first, but she could tell the atmosphere was really tense. She heard some whispers about a murder, and then she saw him. It was the salesman, lying on the floor, clearly dead. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

Her thoughts raced to her husband. Where was he? Was he okay? Ginz was very much in love with Don Dan, and she couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to him. She searched the crowd looking for familiar faces.

[Lizica]

From inside her shop, Tracy Chaetura scratched her shiny ballcap and gave her wireless radio a frustrated jab.

Anxiously straining to hear over the static, she then glanced around her empty, dusty shop. For the most part, it was a plain country convenience store. But the Shipshape Shop had earned itself a wide variety of unflattering nicknames over the years (Slipshod Shack being the most common), mostly because Tracy had a tendency to stock the convenience store with goods that Tracy found convenient--but no one else. The largest sections of the shop were occupied by all kinds of extravagant lightbulbs, batteries, and above all, rolls and rolls of thick aluminum foil, which was the Shipshape Shop's number one seller--if only because Tracy used most of it herself.

Tracy leaned in close to her wireless and tried adjusting the dials, but no--still static. Although she did catch whispers of panicky voices every so often. What station was that on?

It was a shame no one really believed her about the aliens. No one watched for the signs. And almost no one ever used the Shipshape Shop's Special: "One free tin foil hat with every purchase of $20 or more!" If only the people of Wafflenet knew they had to protect themselves! Instead, those shoplifters last week had chosen to steal energy drinks, plastic cutlery, and disposable cameras. Clearly, they were oblivious, and also they had no taste.

Tracy, spotting motion outside the display windows, suddenly realized the frightened whispers were not in fact coming from the radio: They were coming from outside. Tracy shuffled out from behind the counter, flipped a sign in the shop window ("If not back in an hour, please inform the CIA."), adjusted her aluminum foil ballcap in the sun, and turned the corner to investigate. The sight made her stiffen.

The salesman? Dead? And murdered?! Panic rushed through Tracy's mind. She should have bought a Stallary Duff doll. She should have given him a tin foil hat on the house. How could this have happened? Shakily, she seized the arm of someone nearby--a young woman with a pile of records in her arms.

"If you can't trust your fellow humans--who can you trust?"

[Terra]

Blaze Wolfstorm was just walking up to the diner for her monthly excursion off the farm when she saw the crowd gathering in the alley.

“Oh, no,” she muttered. “Oh, no oh no oh no. Crowds are a baaaaad sign...”

She hadn’t even realized there were so many people in the town. Where did they all come from?

She gulped. Whatever was happening, she’d better find out what was going on. Knowledge is important, after all. She approached the crowd cautiously and hovered on the edges. She couldn’t see much, however, and was contemplating whether she ought to ask someone what was happening, and if so, what she should say--

Suddenly she felt a tap on the shoulder and jumped back with a startled “Aargh!”

"Excuse me. Could you like, tell me what's going on?"

“How the HECK would I know?” she shouted in the teenage girl’s face. “I just GOT HERE!”

Then Blaze froze, wide-eyed, and stepped back a couple of feet.

Gotta work on the yelling, she thought. Not good for stealth.... And the jumping. That’s not good for stealth, either...

She clenched her fists around the straps on her giant backpack, trying to ground herself.

Deep breaths...gotta provide oxygen to your mitochondria now...

She didn’t find herself feeling all that much calmer, but at least she had her head on a bit straighter. Maybe.

She glanced warily at the teenage girl.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

Then she turned back to the crowd. “Though I’d like to know what the HAIRY FLIPPING ARTIFICIAL CORNFLAKES IS GOING ON HERE,” she said not at all anything but serenely and peacefully. “I GOT PLACES TO GO AND THINGS TO BE, AND I WANT TO KNOW IF THERE’S ANYTHING I SHOULD WORRY ABOUT HERE, SO COULD SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME NOW SO I CAN GET OUT OF HERE.”

...Come to think of it (she suddenly thought) that might not have been the best way of attacking the problem.

But. People would pay attention to her at least?

...Also not good for stealth. Really not good for stealth.

[Tiger]

With an out-of-tune whistle of an incomprehensible tune, Mick Angelo swept a pan of scrambled eggs off the stove and flipped them. Half of the eggs flopped out of the pan and landed on the stove with a hiss, one-fourth landed on the waffle on Mick's plate, one-eighth slopped off Mick's wrist and onto the floor, and the remaining fraction of egg ended up exactly where Mick wanted it - on the plate beside the Heffer Waffle. The Heffer Waffle, so called because chunks of flour survived the cooking process in big white splotches.

Mick set the plate aside, dropping a cluster of greens next to it so he could get to seasoning, and turned back to the stove to deal with the spilled eggs. The eggs were gushing a worrying amount of smoke; Mick leaned over the oven, glad he was still a pretty scrawny twenty-something instead of the chubbier cooks who worked the more desirable shifts, and pulled open the window.

He instantly knew something was wrong. Waffles, No Nets was the most popular restaurant in Wafflenet, but it was still too early for the morning crowd to be gathering. Much less in the allyway. They also looked much more grim than anyone expecting a delicious Heffer Waffle would ever look.

"...Huh." Mick glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen, a mess of dishes and half-finished food. No immediate fire hazards...well, except for the handtowel by the open oven door, now swinging in and out of the hot oven thanks to the breeze from outside...Mick grabbed the towl and threw it over his shoulder on his way out.

The first thing he noticed was that a woman the crowd had a basket of strawberries. Also, a poodle. The second thing - or the third, if he counted the poodle as the second - was that someone was lying on the ground. There was a lot of red there, too, but Mich would bet his entire fund of money from cooking at Waffles, No Nets that it wasn't crushed strawberry juice.

A woman in a huge backpack was losing her mind, and Mick decided to stop trying to get a glimpse of what was probably going to be an unpleasant sight anyway. "Woah, calm down, lady - nothing's gonna get done by shouting." He flashed a slightly shaky smile at her. "Looks like that sales guy who's been selling coats and dolls is down there. I'm sure somebody'll tell us what's going on...any minute now..."

[Jayeee]

THE PYTHON was not amused. His month has started abysmally; not only had his car been totalled due to a string of crashes which all amounted from staring at himself for too long in the wing mirror, but shortly after he'd received a letter inviting him to visit his newly-married sister in his home town of Wafflenet. The news couldn't possibly have been worse. He hated his family almost as much as he hated the Suffragettes or seeing a woman outside of the kitchen area. All of those things were unsightly and THE PYTHON didn't want to be a part of any of them.

But he had a reputation to uphold. His held-off-for-as-long-as-possible visits had to happen eventually, for if they didn't, his life as “the backwater model every husband wishes they could be” would be ruined. If he didn't at least look like he cared for his heritage, everything would be destroyed. And on top of that, they knew his real name. If THE PYTHON was revealed to in fact just be Melvin Mahb, he'd never be able to live it down. So eventual returns home had to be arranged. But it wouldn't be so bad, he'd just stay for a quick hello, give some advice to the women of the town who thought that they actually deserved rights in the world, and then he'd be back to his life of glamour.

At least, that's what he'd thought as he'd driven towards Wafflenet in his new car, switching his gaze between the mirror and a magazine sprawled on the passenger seat with his face plastered on it alongside the headline, “Future Wives: Give me a grilled sandwich or get out.”

But just one day later, disaster had struck his life. He'd been happily walking through the town, avoiding his siblings as much as he possibly could, while also taking note of the town's women. THE PYTHON had made it his business to write down the names of every female in Wafflenet – just as he did whenever he visited somewhere – and then proceeded to cross them out as and when he deemed them unsuitable for marriage. It didn't take him long to judge really, if they were carrying shopping bags then that was a big plus, but having a phone? That was an automatic refusal, because THE PYTHON had decided that giving women free reign to call whoever they wanted was far too much responsibility for them to handle. He was sure that was one of the leading reasons for divorce rates rising.

During this walk, THE PYTHON spotted a young lady sitting on a bench eating lunch. With eyebrows raised behind the sunglasses that he always wore, he strutted over, sat on the bench and placed his arm around her shoulder. “Hey, babe. How about we go back to your place and you cook me a three course meal from scratch?” He gave her a dashing smile and ran a hand through his blonde hair – who could possibly resist such a proposal?

The woman frowned. “I'm a single mother,” she said simply.

THE PYTHON was perplexed by this. “Wait, you're a woman. Who's single?” He was horrified.

However, that feeling was soon replaced as he saw a crowd of people gathered together around a nearby alleyway. “Dude, maybe they're throwing rocks at women,” he said excitedly and bounded towards the alley. On the way, he took out his phone and snapped some in-motion shots of himself, because there were never enough pictures of him in the world.

As he reached the group of people, THE PYTHON shouted, “Come on bros, send your women to the back – they gotta know their place,” as he tried to push his way through. “What the hell is happening here, anyway?”

[Avery]

Well, apparently Britknee chose to ask the wrong person what was happening, because instead of a levelheaded reply, she instead got shouted at by one of the silly country bumpkins. A rather shifty looking bumpkin, no less.

“I GOT PLACES TO GO AND THINGS TO BE, AND I WANT TO KNOW IF THERE’S ANYTHING I SHOULD WORRY ABOUT HERE, SO COULD SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME NOW SO I CAN GET OUT OF HERE.”

"I think," Britknee whispered in a dramatic stage whisper, "that guy is like, dead, see?" She pointed at Stal-the-Salesman's body. "It's okay, though," she tried to reassure. "People are like, dead all the time in the City! That's where I am from, you know. The city."

She squinted her eyes to peer closer at Stal and noticed-- wait, was that a bullet wound? Her stomach did a flip-flop and she tried not to look too panicked. Dead was one thing, but murdered was another. Attempting not to alarm the crowd, Britknee shifted the basket of strawberries under one arm and then scooped her fluffy little poodle into her other arm. Had none of these silly country folks noticed the bullet wound in the dead guy's head yet, she wondered? Were they really that simple?

Well, she couldn't just let them stand there gaping for very long!

"Ahem!" she announced. "I like, require your attention! That guy there? He is like, so totally murdered! But don't worry, I'm from the City and things like that happen all the time! I'm sure the murderer is like, totally gone already!"

[Gelquie]

A lanky, dark-haired, grey-eyed, purple-bedecked girl let out a happy sigh as she stepped from her tiny house onto the road, her mandolin in hand and a small fanny pack at her waist. It was an absolutely beautiful day outside, and Julie Merlot didn't want to miss any second of it, even if she has to spend the first half of the day working. It really wasn't such a bad thing, though, not really. Her job as a messenger means that she just gets to spend more time in the sun. And plus, no one told her that she couldn't sing or play her mandolin as she worked. And so far, no one has stopped her, even if she has gotten some odd looks for it. Julie didn't care. It was what she loved. Even if music playing and singing wasn't very payable by itself.

Julie let out a sigh and plucked out a simple tune as she remembered. She didn't have much with her when she first came to this town. She just had the few instruments that she could take with her and not much else beyond that. After staying for a while and seeing what the town was like, she decided to stay and try to make something of herself. It wasn't a grand life, but that wasn't important to her. What was important was that she could keep up her music without stress, without noise, and most importantly, without trouble. Something she couldn't have in the city. After all, in the city... Julie shook her head at the thought.

In any case, she was definitely happy here, lack of money aside. She had her instruments, and with her jobs and talents, she had enough to get by. She even made enough to save up for more instruments, even if it was slow-going. Until then, at least she could still play, and she even had plenty of time to make songs of her own. That was more than enough for her.

Julie walked into town and headed straight towards the center of town, where she could easily get to both the civic center and the post office. With a smile on her face, she started some simple chords and began to sing in a trained mezzo-soprano voice.

"Shin-ing light to all of the town,
giving joy on this love-ly day,"

Julie paused and blinked when she saw a crowd some distance ahead of her. She was always up early due to her early working hours. Barely anyone should be up. Why are people up now? ...No matter. It might be a wonderful opportunity to play some music for them and drum up some customers for her music commissions. She beamed and started her song over while walking closer, singing loudly this time.

"Shin-ing light to all of the town,
giving joy on this love-ly day,
bring-ing us to here all around,
and so that nothiiiiiiiing... goes--"

The music immediately stopped, with Julie accidentally making a cacophonous sound with her mandolin, as she finally saw what was in the center of the crowd. It was a body... A body of that traveling salesperson, Stal. She had never fully gotten along with him, but to see him like this?

Julie looked away in horror.

_{"...Astray..."}

[Alyssa]

Penny Marie Mahb was an odd soul. The youngest of the three Mahb siblings, she lived with her cat Maurice in a small downtown apartment over the combination bookshop-cafe she owned and operated. Maurice was her constant companion and best friend. He was a very odd looking cat, lacking the usual fur and warm-blooded nature that most other felines possessed. Instead, he was a vivid green color and quite enjoyed basking in his heat lamp and eating insects. Penny's family had, for some reason, attempted to persuade her that Maurice was some sort of reptile, but Penny always shook her head indulgently. Maurice was her pet, and deep in her heart she knew he was the best cat in the world.

"Coffbookees" was the name of her shop, and she was very proud of it, having never quite grasped the concepts of spelling and basic grammar.
Penny ran her business according to a rather curious model. Instead of stocking items that her customers would actually like, she sold things according to the weather, the number of mealworms Maurice had eaten last month, and practically anything else she thought of on any given day. For instance, in April she'd taken everything off of the shelves except the second book to EVERY series, and had only sold in her cafe an assortment of misshapen chocolate bars and some neon green orange juice. "The green coloring gives it texture and wards off mosquitoes and most species of rattlesnake!" she'd announced proudly to her customers.



Fast forward to now, where Penny was looking out of her window, trying to figure out why all those people were disturbing that poor salesman.
She had seen him earlier that day, running from something beyond her view, and then noticed him again about an hour before the crowd gathered, just lying there on the ground outside her shop.
Penny puzzled over this, then realized how tired he must have been to have chosen that uncomfortable spot on the road. She decided graciously to leave him be so he could get some rest, no matter how odd his choice of bed.

And now, all of her fellow townspeople were gathered about him, shouting and carrying on in a most barbaric fashion! Penny felt it was her duty to correct her friends, and immediately set out to do so.

"SHSHHHHHH," Penny warned severely as she approached the scene. "This man is trying to sleep and you are all very rude for disturbing him!" She pushed through the crowd, trying to find the weary salesman and apologize to him for the behavior of the unruly citizens around him.
Penny noticed both her brother Melvin and her sister Ginz in the mob as she fought her way to the middle, but was not to be distracted from her task.

Finally, she made it through and started to approach the man lying on the ground, but stopped short as she realized something startling. She had only just noticed how loud the surrounding people were, so that man must be really exhausted to have stayed perfectly still for so long.
Either that, or... could it be?
Her fears were confirmed as she saw the blood on the ground and the worried, frightened looks of those around her.

She'd forgotten to lock the door to her apartment!

Also, the salesman was dead!

[Draco]

He woke up like he did any other day, in his clean silk covered bed. He moved out of it and onto his expensive rug. He looked around his room, the nicely painted room, the folded clothes waiting for him at the end of the bed, breakfast all ready waiting for him on the table, and the red curtains covering the window. He smiled at his room and began to get dressed. He wished he had someone who would dress him, but it is something his servants refused... Useless servants telling him things they won't do.

Soon he was dressed in his clean, ironed, dress clothes. Normally something like this would have been just for special occasions, but his presence was always a special occasion.

He nibbled at the toast and jam left on his dresser. He opened the curtains to view the beautiful view from his window overlooking the garden. He smiled, then frowned. The picture he had attached to his window fell over revealing the true sight, the Rock Farm. His family owned a rock farm, and he lived on it. He grumbled as he watched the servants his family all ready out in the fields, probably working since sunrise. Everyday they had to get up, go out into the fields, then flipped rocks. Every day. Flipping rocks. One after another after another. Peasant work. That wasn't for him at all. So he decided to grace the town with his presence. He opened the door to his royal bedroom and frowns at the shack like surroundings outside it. Walking down the trail to town, he avoided any mud, and ignored his family... They waved of course, especially the one who loved the color pink and had a small obsession with pies... That was a weird one. He wondered if she was an adopted sister...

It didn't take him to long to walk down the streets of town. Nice and clean, well cleaner then the dirt he was previously walking on. He wondered where people were, for he saw none. Not that he cared to much, such peasants would be honored to catch the sight of him and his golden locks of hair, his perfect white teeth, and his white suit with a blue trim, the sparkles that appeared when he was in someone's presence. But he was curious to find people to stare at him... When he turned the corner he saw the crowed. He walks over.

"Out of the way, out of the way. What is so important that I, Alex Louis Rockefeller, am not the center of attention?!"

Very few people knew this (mostly just his family), but Alex Louis Rockefeller was not his real name. That was just the name he made up and preferred to use. His real name was Rocky Boulder Rockfell. He disliked it with a passion.

"Really now! I, Alex Louis Rockerfeller, am here now! Why do I not all ready have a sandwich in my hand?!"

That is when he saw the dead man. He knew this man. He usually slammed the door in his face if he appeared at the door if he answered for a change.

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The birds were on edge.

From his spot on the roof of the Shipshape Shop, Osi's eyes skittered across the scene. Pigeons were still, too motionless, not like their usual habits. There were a few crows up in the air; no sparrows to be seen. Clearly something was up in the town.

Osilon Abacus Crane liked birds. Birds were sensible, straightforward; they had patterns, habits, tendencies which stayed the same. Better than people, at least. People would try to bother you, pester you, ask you all sorts of questions...

Another crow flew up. Osi watched it in the air, joining the others, spotted the pigeons on the rooftop opposite backing off.

Osilon Crane watched the birds. Somebody had to.

He rented out the attic of Tracy Chaetura's old Shipshape Shop, but never really dealt with her other than rent. She was nice, but a bit... weird, Osi had to admit. But space was space, and her rooftop did have a great view of the town's roosting spots.

Osi adjusted his goggles, looked up at the birds. The crows were diving, now. Expansive sweeping flights towards the ground, for some reason or another.

Osilon Abacus Crane didn't often deal in the affairs of people. He kept his eyes to the sky, hands on his goggles, feet on the rooftop. But the birds were nervous now; it might not be long before he had to look down.