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| Carrying Moonbeams Home In A Jar; (To be better off than you are!) | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Aug 24 2009, 08:29 AM (184 Views) | |
| Radiation King | Aug 24 2009, 08:29 AM Post #1 |
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"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"
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((Occurs just after "A Caravan Arrives")) "Ni-ckel in his pocket, time on both his ha-ands," Darrel sang to himself as he walked out of the doors of Bucket Town, "Little Eddie Hawkins, lost in Candy Land..." He checked out the carbine he had obtained from the caravan. From his untrained eye, it looked to be in working order, so he loaded a few of his .32 rounds into the magazine that was attached to the gun before slinging it back over his shoulder. "Ten years in the slammer, Eddie done his time... On the street, ain't it sweet, to pull the perfect cri-ime?" The thief didn't know where he had picked up the little tune, but he liked it. It resembled the young Cohen quite a lot, except for the bit about spending a decade rotting in a high-security jail cell. He always got away. Soon he came to what he was looking for: a cracked, burnt section of roadway with a derelict car sitting on the curb, front bumper wrapped around a telephone pole. Continuing on past the car, Darrel spotted his target: a small walled compound, really a one-story ranch-style home with some sandbag walls around it. Cursory scans had revealed no-one home, but that was always questionable. Oh well, what the hell. Darrel was going to rob the place blind, no matter what happened. "Everyone knows when the cold wind blows, it's the Hudson Hawk again," Darrel sang as he crouched against the low wall, looking for a weak point, a crack, anything really he could use to scale the wall. "Let it rain, let it snow, let the cold wind blow, it's the Hudson Hawk my friends... Ah, there it is." Darrel smiled as he continued on to the second verse, slipping his hands and feet into a crack on the wall, quickly free-climbing up to the top and perching there for a second, looking the interior over. Deserted; just as he had suspected. Nothing but skeletons, gore crows and burnt-out fire pits. The crows had likely picked the corpses clean of any foodstuffs they may have been carrying at the time (including human flesh, not that Darrel was a cannibal), but they may have valuables scattered around the compound. Hopping down over the wall, Darrel landed on the balls of his feet and forward-rolled away from the wall, crouching in the shadow of the afternoon sun, hiding against the wall. "Oo-oo-oh, little Eddie, better watch out, what'cha do," Darrel sang as he made his way to the front door of the house. Checking the doorknob, which (as he suspected) was locked, the thief whipped out his lockpicking kit (consisting of bobby pins and screwdrivers, some cherry bombs, a tin of blackpowder extracted from excess bullets and one of those old hand-cranked drills), Darrel set about busting through the lock. First try revealed that someone else had broken the lock attempting to pick it, and the tumblers wouldn't turn in place. That was a bad sign, but it wasn't going to stop Darrel. Taking a tiny red pen light with "Marlboro" stencilled on the side, the thief shined it through the tiny crack in the door. It was a simple deadbolt lock, heavily corroded and probably going to give way with a good solid kick. Darrel could supply the kick. "Listen up, all you sinners," Darrel sang some more, planting his foot on the door and pushing down hard. The door swung wide open, and crashed against the wall behind the door. "This ain't no time to hesitate, when bad news gets around, someone's goin' down, and don't you show no restraint!" Darrel began singing the chorus again, somewhat loudly, as he made his way into the foyer of the house, barely missing a tripwire as he went. "Huh, somebody's hiding something in here worth killing over." The thief mused, leaving the tripwire alone and brushing past the three grenade boquets it was connected to. Yes, this was going to be a good heist. Shame nobody was home to watch him pull it off. |
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Darrel Cohen, the smooth-talking "Gentleman Thief" (Level 3) Evan Laramie, the down-home gunslinger (Level 1)
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| Radiation King | Aug 24 2009, 12:58 PM Post #2 |
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"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"
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"Huh. Maybe this is what they were guarding..." Darrel said nonchalantly. He was looking at a large steel door, around which were several corpses; recently killed. Within the week by the state of decomposition (or lack thereof) he found on the corpses. All of them had bruise marks around their necks, fine red lines with large purple blobs surrounding them at irregular angles. A garrotte, if Darrel's previous experience with the crude strangulation device was anything to go by. Footsteps. Darrel heard them in the foyer of the house, right inside the door he had just kicked down, and mere feet away from him. By the sounds of it, at least four guys. Lightly armored, but better than him. Probably leather armor, maybe reinforced cloth. He couldn't tell without establishing visual contact, but visual contact was dangerous, and usually ended in Darrel having to replace his hat. Which was always a pain in the ass; there was a surprisingly small supply of intact thrift shops in the southern wastelands, even fewer had the style of hat he preferred, a good sturdy black felt trilby with a hat band for storing- "Hey, I just heard somethin'," a voice from the foyer said. It was raspy, low, harsh in tone. Much older than Darrel, but too young to be elderly. Mid-to-late forties, probably, slightly muffled. The guy was probably wearing a bandana over his mouth or something. Scoundrels; marauders, pillagers (Darrel refused to use the phrase "thieves", because "thieves" belied some sense of honor, of which these men had none and Darrel had in spades). "You think someone broke in?" Came a higher pitched voice. Then came the muffled thump of someone either face-palming or slapping the voice's owner in the head. "No shit," the raspy one said. "The door's been busted right off its hinges." The voice was closer now, right near where Darrel crouched. The catburglar grimaced; if he was caught now he would have to risk a fight, which he didn't want. He wasn't a fighter, he couldn't fool himself into thinking that; at least in close quarters he wasn't. The darkness would help, but he was outnumbered three to one and an old switchblade could only do so much. The carbine would come in handy; it had more punch than his pistol and was still short enough to be maneuvered in the room. Raspy came around the corner just as Darrel found his hiding place, an old closet, the doors having long been blown off their hinges. Raspy drew into view not too long after; Darrel was glad he had hidden fast enough. The guy had to be almost seven feet tall and couldn't have weighed any less than two hundred pounds, dressed in leather armor and wearing a bandanna, welding goggles and a wide-brimmed hat, like a cowboys. He was carrying what appeared to be a double-barreled shotgun and not one, not two, but three hunting knives; two on his hip and one in a holster across his chest. 'Why would he need three knives?' Darrel thought silently to himself, breathing out softly as Raspy walked away from the door, mumbling something along the lines of "least he didn't find the loot". 'So the loot is down there,' Darrel thought to himself as he slid out of the closet and over to the steel door again. The lock was tougher on this than the outside door would have been, but it wasn't broken and therefore Darrel could easily get through it within seconds. He threw open the door, dissappeared down the stairs and shut the door behind him. |
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Darrel Cohen, the smooth-talking "Gentleman Thief" (Level 3) Evan Laramie, the down-home gunslinger (Level 1)
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| Radiation King | Aug 24 2009, 04:26 PM Post #3 |
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"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"
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"Well don't that beat all," Darrel mouthed to himself as he looked about the room. Haphazardly stacked in various areas were all kinds of supplies for the average wastelander. Food, ammunition, weapons, stacked on tables stretching from one end of the room to the other. It was all there for the taking, and Darrel aimed to please. Grabbing a burlap sack from a corner of the room and doing a cursory scan of the items around the room, the burglar set about swiping up all of their posessions- or at least, whatever he deigned valuable enough to be swiped. He worked his way around the room, snatching as many things in his fists as he could and tossing them into the bag, when he heard a voice at the top of the stairs. "Alright, alright, if you'll just shut the fuck up I'll head down and check the stash," the voice said. Darrel scowled as he watched the bottom of the stairs. The room was lit by a single, precariously perched oil lamp, and a single well-placed shot could light the room on fire and plunge Darrel into his element; darkness. But the marauder was close, and the thief didn't want to risk killing the marauder and alerting the others to his presence. Best to hide for now. The thief selected a wardrobe as his hiding place, worming his way in amongst the clothing hanging in there- and taking a few outstanding objects and shoving them into the bag as well- before shutting the door behind him and jamming his eye up to a peephole. The marauder was right in front of the wardrobe, close enough for Darrel to see the gun he was holding; an old dirty hunting rifle. After about five tense minutes, the marauder started heading past the wardrobe where Darrel was hiding, towards the back side of the room. Darrel moved fast, heading for the far side of the room as the marauder went the opposite direction. Darrel hit the lamp on the way over, extinguishing the wick and knocking the frame to the floor, very nearly starting a fire. Abandoning caution as he rounded the corner, Darrel made for the door just as Raspy caught on to the thief's presence. "Shit, he's gettin' away with our loot! Jax, take him down!" Raspy shouted. Another man- presumably Jax- raised a carbine and opened fire on the thief just as he exited through the door. 'Come on, keep running, running, running...' Darrel thought to himself as he reached the wall with bullets pinging around him and Raspy yelling threats involving a knife and some very sensitive parts of Darrel's anatomy, advancing quickly. Darrel tossed the sack over the wall behind him and then quickly scrabbled up the wall himself, using a much cruder set of handholds than before. On the other side, he noted that a lot of the loot had spilled all over the sun-bleached street, but there was no time for him to grab too much. Gathering as much stuff as he could stuff back into the bag, Darrel picked the sack up and ran for it, just barely escaping over a nearby dune as the angry marauders got through the front door. "Yes, indeed, the Master Catburglar has struck again!" Darrel shouted as he headed for Bucket Town again. ((I'm done.)) |
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Darrel Cohen, the smooth-talking "Gentleman Thief" (Level 3) Evan Laramie, the down-home gunslinger (Level 1)
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| Zilabus | Aug 24 2009, 05:52 PM Post #4 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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You got some pretty good loot out of this one, and quite a bit of it too. Along with another random piece of radio equipment, and some negative Karma. |
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7 Level: 5 Bucket town reputation: -175 Equipment Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes. Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket Inventory Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka 4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars Appearance Caucasian Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit. Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi | |
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