Welcome to the Apocalypse

[JellyPooga]

((bugger, I was hoping those extra rolls would come through on the edit...no matter, here's the rolls for the next round of combat))

Punk: Barfly - (1d6)[2]

Pool Cue: Barfly - (3d6)[11]

[MrEdwardNigma]

Somewhere in the back of Manuel's mind a voice was screaming, but the rest of him seemed to have decided not to fight back. He took the snuffbox and stared at it, unsure what to do with it. Finally Manuel put it down on the table and downed his tequila instead.
"You say we have met before, señor?"

[JellyPooga]

The man in maroon puts the snuff box away, pushing the bottle of tequila closer to Manuel instead.

"Indeed we have, but I very much doubt you'd remember it, so don't fret yourself. In fact, the subject of our last meeting is rather why I really need to talk to you. You see, tonight, at oooh...around midnight; don't you just love cliche'd stuff like that? I know I do...positively thrive on it!"

You double take as you swear his eyes glowed red when he says 'thrive', but you dismiss it as he continues to speak.

"By-the-by. At the stroke of midnight, I shall be ending your world and I want you and your friends here"

He gestures to all the other people in the bar

"to partake in a little game of mine."

He sits back, nonchalant as if he was just talking about the football or the weather and takes a sip of his cocktail.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel shook his head. The fellow must have drugged his drink. He thought he saw his eyes flicker there, and he didn't seem to be able to get up and leave, which is what he would have done in any other situation.
"Ending the world?"
Manuel laughed loudly.
"You must be drunk, señor. You drunk too much, eh, and now you're talking bull****. Sound like a madman, hombre. And I don't know you. I think I would remember, eh?"

[Levyathyn]

The jukebox stops and starts playing some Johnny Cash. The Jackal doesn't seem to be enjoying this anymore.

Lead Guitarist (pumped) - (5d6)[24]

Spoiler

Show

Pumping an Inappropriate Cliche; Allowed, right?

[Levyathyn]

The Jackal easily dodges the kick. He leaps backwards and grabs his Stratocaster in a swift movement. He lunges at the man with a feral roar and brings the guitar to bear violently, swinging it with all his might. The heavy guitar connects with the punk's face and sends him hurtling into the pool table head first. He falls to the ground, limp, as The Jackal stands smiling over him.

Spoiler

Show

So I'm at Lead Guitarist (1), and the punk's at Barfly (0), if I did it right.

[Uncle_Putte]

Disappointed at the lack of attention, Ronnie takes a look at the bartender. It strikes him as a little odd that the man seems completely oblivious to the propability of property damage to his establishment, but concludes it to be none of his concern. What does concern him is, though, that he's missing out on the party, and since the authority in the house isn't reacting, he takes it as a signal for a nice late-night free-for-all. He drops out of his chair limberly, grins like a loon and quips; "Go time, nancy!"

He hustles the few feet apart to the cue kid, and makes an attempt to give his ninja antics a hurtful interruption. Left foot, left hand lead. Right heel pivots out, pelvis following the motion, then the rest of the body. Right hand begins extending, chin tucks in the nook of the shoulder, fist rotates mildly inwards, hopefully for a satisfying impact in the facial area.

((Scrappy Drunk (4) on Pool Cue for right cross - (4d6)[13]))

((Edit: It appears that for some god-forlorn reason I entirely missed page 2 before posting. Not knowing the proper order of progression of the whole thing, I'll leave resolving the outcome of the actions to the DM.))

[Vespe Ratavo]

Dr. Detective grins. Time to finish this. He dodges, turns behind the raging punk, and tries to connect one solid punch to the back of the head.

Spoiler

Show

Detective - (4d6)[20]

[Vespe Ratavo]

The punch connects. The punk collapses. The Detective laughs. The Doctor sighs. I suppose I better patch you up. He mumbles something about the Hippocratic Oath, reaches into his medical bag, pulls out some medical...stuff, and starts trying to fix up the punk. His player isn't very good at that, so he'll let the professional handle the details.

Spoiler

Show

Punk drops to 0 Barfly, and gets knocked out.

[JellyPooga]

((@Levyathyn: I think you rolled too many dice for the Pumped Cliché, but that's ok, 'cos beating someone round the head with a guitar is just too damn cool! Oh and pumping an inappropriate cliché is fine.

I think we'll have a little time-warp to account for Uncle Putte))

As Jackal leaps back for his make-shift weapon, Ronnie makes his move, launching his attack just as Jackal swings his guitar. Ronnie connects, spinning Pool Cue on a heel in time for Jackals' guitar to crash into the back of his head, sending him sprawling into the pool table head first. The Denim Knight bounces off the corner of the table and crashes to the ground, definitely out for the count.

The remaining Punk is made to look a fool as Dr. Detective neatly sidesteps, causing Punk to overreach by a mile. It takes the barest of taps on the back of his noggin to bring him to his knees where he makes an executive decision to stay. A couple of seconds of swaying later his eyes roll back and he crashes out, scattering a couple of chairs as he goes down, a small puddle of blood spreading from his smashed nose as the Doc hunkers down and begins tending his wounds.

As the second figure crashes to the ground, an eerie hush descends, the bass vocals of Cash the only sound for a second. The man in maroon, having paused for the twin crash of barflies hitting the deck, grins at the sound and breaks the 'silence'.

"I am most definitely not drunk Manuel, I'm just not made that way."

He seems amused by the notion.

"And if we have not met, how is it that I know your name? Let me ask you a question; are you a religious man at all? Do you believe in ghosts or ghouls, devils and such? Answer me true."

At his question, his face turns serious for the first time since he started talking, the smile suddenly gone from his face. For some reason, the expression now on his face evokes a memory of something half forgotten, but you cannot place what of. It's as if you were drunk at the time or you were looking through thick fog...you suspect the former more likely.

[Levyathyn]

Spoiler

Show

No problem. =) I guess I pumped it up too much, but overkill is better than just enough kill, in my opinion.

The Jackal smiles and nods at the dishevelled stranger before him. He says his first words of the evening as he playfully twirls his guitar around in large, calloused hands. "Thanks. Folks call me The Jackal. I guess you can call me Connor." He says, shrugging it off. The night's entertainment took the edge off. Up close, some of the tattoos on his arm are a little more clear. His sleeveless Kill 'Em All shirt slightly torn from the fight.

[Vespe Ratavo]

Right. Take it easy for a while. Dr. Detective stands up, and walks over to the Jackal, holding out his hand. Excellent show, sir. My name is Dr. Detective, pleasure to meet you.

[MrEdwardNigma]

"You could have got my name from the bartender, señor"

...
Manuel considered the man's question.
"Yes. Yes, I am a religious man. I went to church every day back where I came from. This tiny little pueblo, see, and everyone went to la iglesia, but we really believed, señor. Pious people. Good people"
Manuel wiped away a tear.
"Churches here, they are just not the same, señor. People don't really believe in the virgin Mary. Not real belief, you know what I mean?"

[Uncle_Putte]

Ronnie rubs his fist for a moment, then nods at the two 'gents' present. He seems to take a bit of a mental double-take on Dr. Detective's introduction, but decides it must be some sort of an obscure surname from some distant parts of the world, since the person bearing it didn't seem an ill-minded sociopath. "Ronnie.", he speaks out, in a voice that brings to mind Joe Cocker after a bottle of brandy. He glances at the downed stooges, tosses a 20 pence on the floor, and mumbles a recommendation for them to get a haircut. "Nothing more sad than dancing with a charva on a friday night", he adds in to no-one in particular, while making his way back to where he left his beer. There's little to hint an actual invitation, but the gesture does seem a little as if he wouldn't mind company either.

[JellyPooga]

((ah crap, sorry guys but my recent loss of job has taken up more time than I first thought it would, which hasn't left an awful lot of time for this game. I'm going to have to put this game on hiatus for a while whilst I sort out my life and such. When I've got more time to myself, I'll let you know and maybe we can continue if you're still interested...with any luck I'll be all sorted by either this weekend or the weekend after, but I can't promise anything...dammit, just as I was getting to the plot ...))

[JellyPooga]

"Yes. Yes I believe I do."

The man in maroon pauses, as if for thought, before continuing.

"Everything you have been told by your religion is true. A bit. Sort of. The same could be said for every other religion, folk tale and myth in the cosmos, though, so don't be getting your hopes up!"

He grins, clearly enjoying being ambiguous.

"With your particular beliefs though, you might call me...The Devil! Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!"

As the slightly maniacal laughter dies off, the bar is plunged into silence as the jukebox changes track. The man in maroon simply sits back in his chair and waits, smirking, for Manuels' response.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The bartender, who calmly stood and polished pint glasses for the duration of the fight, has poured Ronnie another beer by the time he gets back to his stool and is in the process of mixing a martini. As he places the glass on the bar near Dr.Detective, he reaches for the cooler cabinet with his left hand and cracks the top off of an icy cold bottle of beer, sliding it down the bar towards Connor.

"These ones're on the house gents"

His voice is flat and cold, not at all like you'd expect from someone offering free booze.

[Uncle_Putte]

There's no looking into the gift-horse's mouth, as the phrase goes, and even less passing on gift-stout. But there's still something very unusual to the fact that the barman seems to be commending the three for just flooring two paying customers on his shift.

"Y'know, been a bit of an odd night if you ask me...", he ponders aloud to all and no-one in particular "... and I'm not meaning the odd people alone."

He gives a moment to ponder the mariarchi, then glances at Dr.Detective by the corner of his eye, and decides to drop the subject.

"Suppose it's just me being a wee bit drunk. Or not drunk enough."

[Levyathyn]

Jackal leans his slightly worn guitar to it's previous, restful place and shrugs. He lifts the cold beer and takes a draught, enjoying the rare good flavor of a free round. He gives the bartender an odd consideration, but passes the remark off as apathy for ausing a scene in his bar.

The jukebox changes tracks, oddly, almost immediately after the brawl. Jackal just shrugs and watches the man dressed as if he stepped out of a 70's disco exploitation film. His use of an odd nickname for himself is something that Jackal's familiar with, so he pays it no heed.

[MrEdwardNigma]

"Loco!" Manuel proclaimed. In sudden anger Manuel jumped up and toppled the table they were sitting at. He grabbed the girl by the hand, and though his hand shot out to her quite fast, he held it gently.
"I don't know what's going on, senor, but I will not have my beliefs mocked. Me and her, we're leaving. If the world's gonna end tonight, I want to be enjoying myself when it does, no playing some silly game"

[JellyPooga]

The man in maroons smirk dies suddenly and his expression becomes very grave indeed.

"Very well, Manuel. I had hoped it would not be like this, but you leave me no choice."

His voice rises to address the other occupants of the bar.

"I'm decidedly sorry to have to involve the rest of you sooner than I had intended, too"

Still sitting, he takes his snuff box from his pocket and empties a small heap of the brown powder into the palm of his hand. Throwing it into the air he blows softly into the suspension as it starts to drift towards the floor. The particles drift on the air currents and everything seems to slow down. The music playing in the background sounds like it's being played too slow, deep and elongated and movement becomes difficult, as if you're trying to move through thick treacle. The man in maroon stands and gestures toward the front door, which slowly opens of its own accord.

Everyone in the bar, with the exception of the barkeep and the man in maroon (and the two comatose punks), feels compelled to turn and look out through the open door to the street outside. A feeling of dread fills you inexplicably and all of a sudden time returns to normal. A cold wind blows in through the open door, slamming it to, as the sound of a clock on the wall striking midnight penetrates the now silent bar. Perplexed, you look around the room sure that it should not yet be midnight and are astonished to note that both the barkeep and the man in maroon are gone. The two punks still lie unconscious on the floor and Laura still stands with one hand held by Manuel.

Three intricately folded pieces of paper sit on the bar in a pattern vaguely reminescent of the shingle that hangs above the door outside.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel attempts to leave the bar with Laura, possibly grabbing another bottle of tequila on the way out. He's had quite enough of this.

[JellyPooga]

Bottle in one hand, girl in the other, with his guitar slung across his back, Manuel strides out through the door. The night is clear and cool and the moon shines brightly. A breeze makes the leaves on the trees whisper in the midnight silence, picks up a discarded newspaper and flies it down the street. Something doesn't feel quite right...

[MrEdwardNigma]

Manuel returns to his apartment, which is very near the bar. He chose the bar as a place to hang out because it happened to be so close to his lodgings. Manuel stayed in a rather small, but clean room. The rest of the building was sort of dusty and badly maintained, but Manuel kept his place tidy, as he often had guests. This didn't mean he didn't have stuff lying around on the floor and couch and such, it just meant there wasn't any dust or stains or used articles of clothing about.

Manuel unlocked the door and showed the girl in. It was a three-room apartment, with a small kitchen that gave out onto the fire-escape, a bathroom and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. Manuel's bed was placed quite central in the room and looked cosy, as well as the big leather couch he'd bought at a yard sale. A friend who'd lived with Manuel for a short while (until he was kicked out because Manuel couldn't take any girls home anymore) had done a mural on one of his walls, with darkish red swirls running across the otherwise warmish yellow wall. The swirls sort of seemed to form a sun, disappearing behind the horizon, while emanating it's last hot rays on the plains.

Noticably, Manuel didn't have a television set. It was expensive, and he just knew he wouldn't use it anyways. He did have a recordplayer though, another purchase from a yard sale. The thing made a soft zoom as Manuel put a record on it and it started playing. A low, smoky voice started crooning some Spanish song accompanied by a single guitar and a violin. Manuel put down the bottle of tequila on the coffee table, which featured a colourful mosaic. He shut the door.
"You like this music, muchacha?"

[Uncle_Putte]

"The... just... huh?", Ronnie sputters meekly, slowly shifting his attention from the doorway to look around the bar. The barkeep and the man in maroon disappearing, while disturbing in itself, doesn't come as much of a surprise when adjusted to the escalating scale of weirdness the night has held. To Ronnie's addled sensibilities, the whole situation is starting to feel like something vaguely familiar, a book or play read long ago and forgotten for all but the slightest of impressions. Then the connection hits him, in all it's disgusting implications. That it's not one work of writing that the feeling refers to, but nearly all - that there's something what he'd considered fictious all his life going on. Whether it is his mind, or his surroundings, something in what he's considered natural all his life is starting to decay.

A bitter, mean grin creeps up the sides of his lips, and he chuckles a little to himself. "Knew it... knew this 'd happen one day. Drink enough and one day you can't tell between sober and drunk. Hell, if this is my farewell to sanity, I might just as bloody well enjoy it."

He takes a hearty swig out of his stout, and ambles with pint in hand over to the papers on the bar to drunkenly squint at them.

[JellyPooga]

The intricate origami falls into a heap at Ronnies fumbling; each piece of paper forming a carefully folded circle. The pattern appears simple but even as he holds it, the one Ronnie has in his hand begins unfolding of its own accord. Written on the inside is a script running around the circumference in verse. Squinting until the blur focuses, Ronnie reads:

Hm...I thought it'd be you to pick up this paper,
Ronnie my friend don't use this for taper.
I implore you to listen for Manuel did not,
you're playing a game you big drunken sot!
Your task is survival, not simple, not easy,
I advise you stay clear, not sloshing and queasy!
I've given you clues, by the sign of the rings,
find them and solve them to make out like kings!
If you do not, you'll wish that you had,
for your destiny otherwise is really quite bad.

P.S. help yourself to the bar and I'll see you at the finish line,

Red

P.P.S. don't read the other notes.

P.P.P.S. seriously, don't even think about it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

On the short walk back to his apartment, Manuel barely notices through the booze and the rage that it is unusually quiet and that the usual sounds of the building simply are not there. Laura is clearly a little nervous of the large mexican, but visibly relaxes when he puts the music on.

"Hmm, yes. I've always enjoyed listening to the spanish language"

She says distractedly as she looks around the small room. She once again tightens up and looks a little undecided.

"Umm...I should be going really. I'm glad you got me out of there and all, but I'm kinda tired, you know...it's been a weird night..."

She leaves the sentence hanging in the air, waiting for Manuels response.

[Uncle_Putte]

"Oh, jeeze", mutters Ronnie, and runs a hand across his eyes before having another squint at the paper.

Sign...? Rings? Ugh, I can't decide whether this is more cheesy or creepy. And what's this first post scriptum about the bar? Does this mean I'll get disqualified if I raid the bar? Bah.

He spends a minute or two wondering about the "rings" in question, then goes red with shame when the more-than-obvious connection hits him. He ambles outside to have a look at the bar's shingle, pint still in hand.