Barbelith Underground > Creation > Mafia2: The Game Thread

Your nasally challenged honour, I would be most humbly grateful if you could see it in your capacious heart to furnish your dwindling subjects with as many details of the vote as possible as soon as the pollings closes. If this hell is to continue, we shall need to avail ourselves of, study hard and generally drive everyone nuts with lunatic theories based on these records.

The votes are in.

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These are not necessarily in the order of voting:

ProfessOrr Yaffle - Whisky
Whisky - Orr
Qalyn - Whisky
iszabelle - Orr
bengali in platforms - Orr
lolita nation - Orr
Maominstoat - Whisky

Thus do we proceed to the sepulchral mass of the Hanging Tree, now rank with crows in the dim of twilight.

And thus is Orr, fortified with a final slug of a rye-slurry cocktail, led to a low-hanging branch and hung. The process is quick and relatively painless, although many in the crowd murmur about a peculiar look the condemned man directed towards Whisky Priestess, a near-smile playing across his agonized lips. She demurely refuses to meet his gaze, fixing her eyes instead on the rotund figure of Mayor Obed McGrant as he leads the assembled villagers to And/Orr's Slurry Saloon.

"Drinks are on me, villagers," he cries, "but only after we get to the bottom of this!"

The Granton Volunteer Fire Department produce axes and crowbars, and the bar is leveled.

"A ha!" says one tippler. "There's a dead rat in a brandy flask! Filthy! Filthy!"

"Oh, shut up," says another. "That's a pear. It's supposed to be there."

Behind the bar, bottles of slurry, some dating back to the Napoleonic Wars. In the cellar, more slurry. And in the ProfessOrr's private chambers...

...more slurry. A pile of rags. A souvenir statuette of a monkey, made from painted coconut shells. A single, used prophylactic. A bowl of wax fruit. An Edison phonograph, cylinder still spinning ("Bob Kahalai's Wahina Sweethearts do The Oahu Wahoo," one villager reads aloud). And a ukelele.

The Mayor clears his throat.

"This man was a slob and a drunkard, yes. And his bizarre obsession with Hawaiian culture is self-evident. But no Grantonian who dared teach himself the hula could be involved with organized crime.

"No, this was an innocent man. Whatever shall we do??"

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Mafia, Doctor, PM me your selections.

At this point, the best the village can hope for is a stalemate, barring some unanticipated lynch vote hijinks on the part of rogue Mafia members. If we play this out, the truth should be evident in two Days' time at most.

Good luck.