hygraed wrote:If you'll check the times of my posts in the other game, you'll find that I was habitually choosing Vitriola before I found out she was a woman. Thus, your "hygraed hates women" tack is invalid.
Fine, fine, buddy, whatever, you still voting for her? Come on people, this rope ain't gonna keep forever.
Fuck it, I'm bored and bloodthirsty. So I'm going to say that either CO is voting for Vitriola or ICJ couldn't be persuaded to change his vote to hygraed from the frankly pointless Pinback even if CO voted for hygraed too.
Suddenly, Worm draws his pistol, spins, and shoots....
Vitriola's favorite police dog and constant companion Viktor right between the eyes. Vitriola begins to scream obscenities at Worm, but suddenly shorn of her fanged protector, she doesn't seem so scary.
The men of the village drag her to her house. They strap her to the bed. By common consensus, Worm gets to go first.
"YEAH," he screams, "and in Brindelstedt, what did you keep doing? Bitching that I DIDN'T HAVE FUR AND A TAIL, THAT'S WHAT!" He pauses to rape her. It doesn't take long. After that he punches her in the face. "AND YOU MADE US WATCH 'ILSA, SHE-WOLF OF THE SS' LIKE FORTY TIMES." Punch. She says nothing, just glares up at him. "YOU TRAIN POLICE DOGS. YOU FUCK CANINES. YOU ARE A BITCH."
Well, none of the other men in the village had even gotten that far with her. Vitriola had always been the unapproachable Ice Queen protected by her police dogs.
A good old-fashioned gangrape ensues. Through all of it Vitriola maintains a stubborn silence, punctuated only by spitting increasingly-bloody sputum through increasingly-bruised-and-cut lips and increasingly-broken teeth into the face of whichever man happens to be on top of her at the time.
When they're all done, Pinback cuts a long shallow gash across her belly. Ice Cream Jonsey pulls a rasher of bacon out of his clown pants and begins methodically laying a trail of bacon to the kennels, in which are four ravenous and vicious police-dogs-in-training. hygraed considers a minute, picks up the nearest bacon strip, and crams it into Vitriola's cunt.
Vitriola moistens her bruised lips with the blood running from her broken gums, and speaks:
"Ever since I suckled at the teat of a wolf when I was a babe, I have had the gift of Dreams. I know not who our enemies are, but I know some of our friends. I used to be one of them, but no longer.
"You're on your own."
The villagers stare coldly at her and walk outside.
Standing well back, Casual Observer lifts the latches of the kennels with a long pole.
The dogs break free and follow the trail of bacon inside.
Then, and only then, does Vitriola begin to scream.
After a while, the noises die down. The villagers all draw their firearms and stand in the doorway, shooting at the dogs until they all lie still and bloody on the floor of Vitriola's house.
Then they proceed to the thoroughly raped-by-dogs-and-people-and-mostly-eaten-by-dogs corpse.
Her third eye, in the center of her forehead, is open, glaring sightlessly at the ceiling. "Fuck," says gsdgsd, who didn't think this was such a good idea anyway.
Worm's face lights up. "You know, I think I can," he agrees. He gouges out the third eye with his thumb, and then proceeds to fuck the bloody socket. No one stops him. After he's done, he asks the assembled onlookers, "What the hell are you looking at? What? WHAT?"
Vitriola was the seer. Just one who, you know, liked to fuck dogs.
It's a leaden, gray, rainy morning in Zahnburg, cold rain pissing down out of a heavy gray sky, a raw wind chilling the inhabitants to their bones.
The villagers assemble on the green. Five.
Casual Observer, the local priest and Republican Member of Congress, is missing.
With fear in three of their hearts, and silent glee in two of their hearts, they open the door of his house.
His Pimp Hat is neatly hung on its peg. His Pimp Suit, sharply creased, hangs in the closet next to his leopard fur coat, his clerical vestments, and his power suit. His skull-headed diamond-encrusted cane rests in a corner. On the nightstand is a giant bottle of lube, a crucifix, a well-thumbed copy of William Bennet's Book of Virtues, and an assortment of lollipops.
But Casual Observer?
"Holy shit," gulps one of the villagers. Holy shit indeed.
Casual Observer squats naked in the corner. His head has been torn off, and the sharp reek of dog shit fills the air. It appears that someone has literally ripped off his head and shit down his neck.
But that's not all. His severed head has been placed below his anus, so the shit can drip out and into his own mouth.
Next to the body, written in blood and feces, is, in big clumsy paw-writing, "1MORE".
After a hasty and awkward--with no one around who knows the service, really--burial, the villagers look uneasily around. The wolf is right. If they pick wrong, then it's two werewolves and two villagers, and after the lynching it will be a short and bloody evening. If they pick right, two of them might survive.
