HPN WW #5: Welcome to Rajada

There are worse ways to spend the time, but not many.

Postby sleigh » Sun Oct 25, 2015 11:26 pm

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Welcome to Rajada.

Present day. A relatively remote little town in the southwestern United States.

To the west: a vast redwood forest so dense as to be cool and shady even at high noon. Federally protected but poorly policed, some people stay in log cabins they've built there.

About a mile to the northeast, a river runs through a deep canyon, also home to many natural caverns. Spend a day exploring and you're sure to run into a mystic bro or two. It's not clear exactly how they make it work, but it sure seems like a few of them live there.

The town area is very hilly, of very varied terrain. Most of the dwellings are adobe huts or tin-roofed shacks. No cell service, windy roads, trickly, nearly dried-up streams that meander about. One leads up to the top of a nearby hill, where the spiritually-inclined (all types — pagans, wiccans, maybe even a Unitarian-Universalist or two, though there's very definitely little interest in organized religion) have set up something of a worship area.

Economically isolated but naturally gorgeous, this town is very slightly famous (or infamous) for its supposed vortexes and strong spiritual energy. It's certainly home to a few phenomena that science can't quite explain (a spot where a broom will balance itself upright, that sort of thing). As such, it attracts artists, craftspeople, artisans, the deeply spiritual, the drug-addled, the confused the shamanistic, etc. It's hard to say whether there's anything to the supposed mysticism. Many of the inhabitants seem to believe it — in one form or another — and those that don't don't seem to mind. Despite their wildly varying takes on life & what this town is exactly, everyone gets along really well.

It's a nice little backcountry artist town; a healthy, supportive community, free from the violent oppression of late Capitalism. Maybe.

(Editor's note 1/19/16: This post accurate as of the final day of play.)

The current score is: 5 to 2

(The Sellout and the Worst Dudes do not count towards Team Evil's win total)

Index & Summary
Night 1The Businessmen kill Feech, a Book Club member.Toggle Spoiler
Day 1The town elects not to lynch.Toggle Spoiler
Night 2Catullus, Best Dude, and Dr. Badvibes, Worst Dude, both die in the course of protectionToggle Spoiler
Day 2The town lynches adamtrask, a Businessman.Toggle Spoiler
Night 3The Businessmen kill Surly, the True Shaman. Aeris Hilton dies in the course of an unsuccessful channel.Toggle Spoiler
Day 3The town lynches CashForGold, Best Dude.Toggle Spoiler
Night 4The Businessmen kill bingo, the True Detective.Toggle Spoiler
Day 4The town lynches The Emperor's Son, a Businessman.Toggle Spoiler
Night 5 — There were no deaths.Toggle Spoiler
Day 5The town lynches Sutro, the Sadboy.Toggle Spoiler
Night 6 — Ongoing // OUT OF DATE It is DAY 9

Index & Summary will be updated at some point today.



Remaining Players
camping
palmer eldritch
cashforgold — DEAD (Best Dude)
stakeout — DEAD (Book Club member)
narc blossom
inspectorhound — DEAD (Radical)
fuckles — DEAD (Villager)
delgriffith — DEAD (False Detective)
The Unblinking eye — DEAD (Villager)
andrei — DEAD (Villager)
Guy Incognito — DEAD (Doctor)
adamtrask — DEAD (Businessman)
lordofdiapers
surly — DEAD (True Shaman)
good pups
bingo — DEAD (True Detective)
ampersand — DEAD (Book Club member)
bluemoon
werd — DEAD (Worst Dude)
JUGLIFE
Catullus - DEAD (Best Dude)
Sutro — DEAD (Sadboy)
Star-lord — DEAD (Framer)
weezy
Aeris Hilton — DEAD (Channeler)
The Emperor's Son — DEAD (Businessman)
Feech La Manna — DEAD (Book Club member)
Mikey — DEAD (Villager)
Capital
iambic — DEAD (False Shaman)
sevenarts
dr. badvibes — DEAD (Worst Dude)
Kid8 — DEAD (Villager)
Alice — DEAD (Blackmailer)
grammatron — DEAD (Businessman)
john plainman — DEAD (Villager)

ROLES REMAINING
1 Attorney of Last Resort
1 Narc

1 Grudgeholder

1 Good Support
4 Villagers
Toggle Spoiler


Reminder:
You may not openly discuss the Book Club, the Channeler, the movement of Amulets, or the late Knicks forward Anthony Mason.

Amulets currently in play:
The Mysterious Amulet — Please, accept the mystery.
BAD GUYS

Businessmen - Maybe they're marketers, maybe they're VC dudes, one's definitely in real estate. Whatever they are, they all share one unifying purpose: to rid this town of all who would oppose their plan to develop the area into a high-end resort.
(In the last games, these were Wolves.)
Will return Villager or Businessman

Worst Dude - This guy's willing to give himself to make sure the businessmen succeed in implementing their vision.... ugh. Who does that?
(An evil bodyguard. Picks at night a person to protect from the Radical and the next day's lynch. If their target is lynched, the Worst Dude is sacrificed in their stead, and the town cannot lynch the following day. Evil win condition but does not count towards their win total, i.e., does not need to be killed for the town to win..)
Will return Doctor, Best, or Worst Dude

The Sellout - Used to be a pretty cool Shaman, until one of his travels brought him to a SoHo House, where a marketer found out about his talent and put him in touch with some people. Together, they networked and networked until he fell in with the development group that wants to take over his town.
(Sorcerer in previous games. Also does not count towards evil win total.)
Will return True/False Detective, True/False Shaman, or Sellout

The Framer/Attorney of Last Resort - Disgraced and disbarred, this pair of black market lawyers now operate as fixers. The Framer has no ethical qualms about breaking into someone's home to make them look suspicious; and The Attorney of Last Resort will do what it takes to make sure his client is seen as a good by a Detective or a Shaman.
(They must submit both their target and what role they'd like the false scan response to indicate.)
Framer: Will return Radical or Framer
Attorney of Last Resort: Will return Channeler or Attorney

The Blackmailer - "Here's how it's gonna happen, Braden. You talk today, I spill to the town that your artisanal hummus is actually Great Value Wal-Mart brand. So: you gonna talk?" Of course not.
(Selects one person each night to mute for the day period.)
Will return Medium or Blackmailer

The Narc - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E071xtW6bUI
(This a spy role who will be read by all seers however they'd like. They are in communication with the Businessmen, but because they are so deep undercover, they can only communicate w/ them twice a cycle. They can also elect not to disguise themselves & to be seen as a Narc, so as to become known to the Sellout)
Will return Book Club Member or Narc, or whatever he so desires.


GOOD GUYS

Good Info

The True Detective - Fired from his big-city investigative journalism job for speaking too much truth to power — and driven into exile by the power he spoke too much truth to — he uses his talents for investigating threats against the town.
(This is formerly the Aura Seer role, but more like Salem's "Investigator" role: he submits a name at night and is returned two role possibilities: one good, one evil).
Will return True/False Detective, True/False Shaman, or Sellout

The False Detective - Fired from his internship at Boston Barstool, this well-intentioned dummy sucks at investigating.
(He submits a name at night and is returned [very probably] incorrect information. Don't worry, it's not up to me, there is a specific mechanic for generating his result. He's under the impression he is True Detective.)
Will return True/False Detective, True/False Shaman, or Sellout

The Shaman - One of the town's many mystics bros, but an actual mystic. This person is so in tune with his chakras or whatever that he has a supernatural ability to perfectly judge moral character. Or maybe he's just a guy who's done a shitload of mushrooms and gets insanely lucky. Who can say!
(This is the Aux Seer from previous games. Submits a role, is told that role's alignment, with one exception. Cannot scan until he or False Shaman is given the ~Pebble of Sight~)
Will return True/False Detective, True/False Shaman, or Sellout

The False Shaman – Just guy who's done a shitload of mushrooms and isn't even very lucky.
(Shaman version of the False Detective; is told he is The Shaman.)
Will return True/False Detective, True/False Shaman, or Sellout

Good Protective

Best Dude - Who is best dude? You should really figure it out, because this selfless bro is willing to do you.... the ultimate solid. :cry:
(This is the Bodyguard from previous games, but more like [well, exactly] Salem's version: they kill the attacker, but martyr themselves in the struggle. Best Dudes submit a name every night, and unlike previous iterations, they may make the same selection consecutive nights.)
Will return Best Dude, Doctor, or Worst Dude

Doctor - God bless doctors. Working odd hours, late into the night, to save our lives in the event that anything should happen to us? Better people than you or I.
(Every night, they *can* submit a name to heal in the event they are attacked. They must choose very carefully, though: an unnecessary heal wears them out for the next day/night cycle, a necessary heal wears them out for 2 days)
Will return Best Dude, Doctor, or Worst Dude

Good Support

The Book Club - You ever go to one of those book discussion groups that turns into such a fucking rager that you wake up the next morning and can't remember who else is in your book club? These guys did.
(These are Masons, with a twist: instead of knowing who their fellow member is, they'll know how to find them. Obviously, Mason rules apply. Remind me to be more specific about what is and isn't kosher in this regard later.)
Will return Book Club Member or Narc

Medium - This spooky dude got into lucid dreaming as a teen and never get out of it, and some time after he moved to this town he found he could commune with the dead.
~ghostlife!~
(Each night, they select a dead person to send a message to [via me] and receive a response from [also via me]. **I'm open to this being a monitored Slack private chat, but I'd much prefer 1 or 2 messages back and forth.)
Will return Medium or Blackmailer

The Channeler - In a deep, deep sleep/Of the innocent/I am born again
(Sort of like a good doppelganger: can at any point [while living!] choose a player whose role to assume in the event of their death. Mason rules apply: circumlocute to your heart's content, but you will be killed for directly discussing the Channeler. If the person they have selected to channel turns out to be non-good, The Channeler will die as well.)
Attorney of Last Resort: Will return Channeler or Attorney

Good Killing

The Radical - "It is precishely by killing that we achieve peash." Enraged by this existential threat to his beloved town, this guy rejects entirely the incrementalist politics of public trial and lynching.
(A vigilante. Can shoot up to three times, but if they kill a good-aligned character, they are the subject of the town's next lynch.)
Will return Radical or Framer

Neutral Guys

The Grudge Holder - I saw The Grudge Holder at South By in '08 and he slayed. One of you didn't, though, and he'll never forget it.
(Between the time of receiving his role PM & the official start of the game, he must select a player that he wishes to see executed by the end of the game to satisfy his win condition. If he is unreachable, I'll make that choice for them, probably just based on whoever I think would be funniest.)
Will return Sadboy or Grudge Holder

The Sadboy – Hailing from a very upscale suburb in, I don't know, Washington, this rich kid decided — as a joke – to leave everything behind and start a new life elsewhere. He even changed his name from Tanner. Eventually he fell so far down the rabbit hole of irony that life came to lack meaning entirely. His is a miserable, joyless existence, through which the only way out is a public lynching.
Will return Sadboy or Grudge Holder
Toggle Spoiler
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Postby sleigh » Sun Oct 25, 2015 11:27 pm



Two teens stood smoking and arguing next to a dusty state highway. A hacking cough punctuated their nearly every other sentence — whether owed the dust kicked up by each passing car, or the early effects of tobacco use on their young lungs, who could say.

"I think you're being a little... you're exaggerating quite a bit, actually."
"I don't know. You can't go too much too fast."
"Rajada is a small town, it's time for it to grow up, get some chain stores, you know —"
"Dude." The skeptical one laughed derisively through his disgusting cough. "Dude, I mean."
"Maybe like, get a Starbucks..."
"I heard they might put one at the spot."
"I know. And I think that's great."
"What, so they can, uh, fuckin uh, put out all the shops, put them out of business? No more Dan's Cafe."
"Dude, no one went to Dan's Cafe."
"Fuckin, I did."

~

Said spot had become a topic of heated discussion in Rajada. One morning, on his daily stroll past a vacant lot, a villager noticed something unusual: a notice of development.

"WOLFCORP is PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE that this site is the FUTURE HOME of a very exciting EATING AND DRINKING EXPERIENCE, sure to delight all consumers in your area."

When reached at the number listed on the sign, a representative for WOLFCORP explained that there must have been some mistake. Next, a drone swooped in, removed the original notice, and hammered in a stake with a new pronouncement.

"WOLFCORP regrets its ERROR. There are currently NO PLANS to develop any HIGH-END LUXURY HOSPITALITY EXPERIENCES in your area. WOLFCORP has the UTMOST RESPECT for the LOCAL ARTISANS that make communities like yours SO GREAT."

~

"I see many new faces today," pronounced the Preacher to his uncharacteristically large flock at the shrine atop Rajada's tallest hill. It was evening, the blood-red sky darkening each minute. "I feel a great spiritual unease among you. What troubles you all so?"

Uncomfortable murmuring.

"Is it not The Sign, which so many of you discussed with me privately?"

Murmurs of assent.

"You are frightened for the future of our community."

Yes.

"Well then. Let us turn to today's scripture."

He produced a book and began to read. His flock followed along on mimeographed sheets.

"'Doc Knew these people,'" he began, his once-gentle voice suddenly forceful. "He'd seen enough of them in the course of business. They went out to collect cash debts, they broke rib cages, they got people fired, they kept an unforgiving eye on anything that might become a threat. If everything in this dream of prerevolution was in fact doomed to end and the faithless money-driven world to reassert its control over all the lives it felt entitled to touch, fondle, and molest, it would be agents like these, dutiful and silent, out doing the shitwork, who'd make it happen.
 'Was it possible, that at every gathering--concert, peace rally, love-in, be-in, and freak-in, here, up north, back east, wherever--those dark crews had been busy all along, reclaiming the music, the resistance to power, the sexual desire from epic to everyday, all they could sweep up, for the ancient forces of greed and fear?''"

Behind the Preacher, the Sun had just finished setting. He continued:

"'Gee,' he said to himself out loud, 'I dunno...”"

HPN WW #5, Night One, begins now. Enjoy.
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Postby camping » Sun Oct 25, 2015 11:36 pm

Hello everyone,

I’d like to take a minute to introduce myself. My name is Locke — Locke Ellis, but please…call me Locke.

I was born and raised in Los Angeles where I learned to play baseball. I won’t bore you with the details… we’ll have plenty of time for that later.

After an 11 year career in the MLB (or was it 10? I never can seem to remember) I decided to head to Wickenburg, Arizona in order to clear my head and make a new life for myself. To make a long story short: Wickenburg fucking sucked, and I moved here to Rajada within 2 years because I was sick and tired of the rich and elite who started plotting to make Wickenburg their little venture capital project. Not my scene at all. I hopped in my car and drove straight here. Sold the car as soon as I got here too. :)

Now, now, I know what you’re thinking — I look like I do drugs. And, to be fair, you’re mostly right. Throughout my MLB career I certainly partook in whatever was around. You know, the normal stuff: coke, weed, booze, a few hits of acid here and there. And I think it made me a better and more down-to-earth person. You know, a person who just *gets it.* I’ve mostly sworn off the harder stuff but I like to dabble here and there when the right opportunity presents itself.

That’s all for now. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other soon enough as I don’t really have a strict schedule these days. My 11 years in the MLB afforded me a comfortable retirement. By no means am I rich, but I no longer “work.” I prefer to relax in the sun and visit with friends. Life is more fun, and more simple, that way.

See you around the way.

Your friend,

Locke
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Postby grammatron » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:02 am

The following message was just posted on topix.com/forum/Rajada

Now this town? This is a town I can really settle into. I've been looking for a place like this for what seems like forever. It seems like every town I pass through these days looks the same. Same shit stores. Same shit restaurants. Same shit people. That last one is a pretty big QUEEN!!!!!!, too. Fuckin' people, man. I'm a fucking nice guy, ok? I make friends easy. I crack jokes. I am a generous and gentle lover. But my fuckin' family has some kind of god damned curse, I swear. People just treat us like shit wherever we go, and I'm fucking sick of it. This isn't just me talking, either. This shit goes back generations. Would you believe that way back up my family tree, I had twin uncles. By all accounts the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet. Well, one of them moves into a new town only to find out they've got a "werewolf" problem going on (not that I believe in such bullshit, of course. But some fucking weird shit was definitely goin' on is all I'm saying.). Well this town fucking murdered my great-great-however-many-fucking-greats uncle. Just slaughtered his ass. So then, his twin, just despondent over the whole thing, he moves into another town down the road, and those fuckers there also claimed to have werewolves, and they fuckin' slumped his ass too! They were high on piss or some shit, I dunno. It was just a shitty thing to do is all.

So listen, not trying to burden you guys with my whole fuckin' family history or anything. Just tryin' to make a point that this kind of shit has been following me and around my whole life. Even longer than that, really. It sucks balls, sincerely.

From what I've seen so far, Rajada fuckin' slays. None of that bullshit in all the other towns I've been through. This place has character. I hope it stays that way. And you guys, you awesome fuckin' people, I just know you're gonna make me feel welcome here.

Also, if anyone knows where I can score some weed, fuckin' shoot me a message in my inbox. Nothin' better than getting supremely baked and enjoying a chill ass evening on my porch, listening to the music floating through the air from the Cactus Flower down the street. I mean, the bar is kind of a shithole, but that's ok. Music is music, especially when it's drifting from a mile away, through the silence of a small town, while I'm high as a god damned kite.

Peace
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Postby The Unblinking Eye » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:06 am

Hello, dudes. My name is Foxwhisper, and I've just moved here to Rajada with my two kids, Moonflower and Daydream, to, like, start a new life away from it all. I think that we can help make Rajada a better place, and like, be a model to the rest of the world, you know. I'll be starting some petitions that you all can, like, sign, and then we can, like, use those to make this place a better place, you know. Far out. Anyway, if you see a woman named Brenda looking for David, Bobby, and Mary, they're not here. Tell her that she should go away.
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Postby good pups » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:14 am

there's a cactus and succulent society meeting tomorrow evening and Bob Ridgers is the speaker. he traveled to Madagascar in 2013.
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Postby grammatron » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:16 am

Bob Fuckin' Ridgers?? Hell yeah, dudes.
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Postby werd » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:16 am

anyone want to drop acid and shoot guns into the canyon with me?
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Postby Alice » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:18 am

Hey everyone! My name is Lily. I’ve lived here since I was born. My parents Iris and Trey moved here way back in the late 70s when they were my age, just when this place was just becoming this cool off-the-grid town. If you see me around town, I'm the nerdy looking girl that's always wearing thick glasses, an orange poncho (which my mom made for me), and my trademark green beanie that covers up my cute pink hair. I made this beanie for myself when I was little and mom first taught me how to knit.

I really do love it here. It will always be my home, but I’ve started to notice a change this past year. I’m totally not diggin’ it either. They started building this cell tower up the mountain, not too far from our cute little bungalow outside of town. Mrs. Sage, one of Mom or Dad’s best lifelong friends, died recently. She had a kid named Trent who moved away back in the 80s and never looked back. I've never met him, but the way Mom and Dad talk about him I think he turned into one of those slick executive types. They said he works for one of those big cellular phone companies now or something. He tore down Mrs. Sage’s beautiful cabin and started building this big glass palace up there.

Ever since that tower has gone up, these other executive types have kind of started showing up in the shoppes on Main Street. It’s really unsettling. I heard from Mom and Dad they’re even wanting to put in a McDonalds next to the Fabric Boutique I work at. So gross. I’ll never eat there.

My favorite thing to do is to make are these super cool quilts, I like to do some of my own seamstress work on the side when I’m not at work. Dad lets me drive his old truck into town to work a few days a week while he works on projects at home. Ms. Magnolia, the lady who owns the boutique I work at, lets me take home batting and cutting table scraps from the boutique all the time. Mom taught me how to sew and use a loom when I was little, and she even got me this really nice sewing machine when I turned 16. She told me she'd been saving up to get it for me for years. I’ve been experimenting with it ever since, and I’ve gotten pretty good too.

A few months ago Mom also got me these really great dyes and fabric paints for me to create my own textile patterns and designs and stuff, so I’ve been messing with those in the back shed. They’re so fun! Dad has to share his shed space with me but he doesn’t mind, he loves me.
:3 Once I make my textile, I cut it all up and use it to make my cool, one-of-a-kind quilts. I’ve only finished a couple so far. They take a long time to make, but I bet you’ve never seen anything like ‘em before! My quilts'll keep you warm af during these cold desert nights. There’s nothing better than wrapping yourself in one of my quilts and sleeping out in the wilderness underneath the stars. It’s so silent, so still, so peaceful when you’re wrapped up in one. Camping out is totally my other favorite thing to do when I’m not at work or working on my art.

I live in a little studio cabin my parents and I built for me when I turned 18, just a few dozen paces from their cabin. That was like almost two or three years ago and I’m super stoked on it! Daddy built it almost all of it with his own two hands, he really is the best. He has worked as a local carpenter for decades now, usually bartering his skill for food and other wares from the other folks in town. And mom has been building up a nest egg from her palm readings and handmade ponchos so we could have a bit of money to fall back on if we ever have an emergency.

I wish I could help them more with stuff. Right now Ms. Magnolia lets me use a small corner and shelf in the boutique to display my stuff. I’ve already sold three so far. Crazy right?

I never want to leave Rajada. I love it here. Plus I just love my parents and would do anything for them.
Last edited by Alice on Mon Oct 26, 2015 10:21 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Postby bingo » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:19 am

is grammatron dead yet
yeaaaaaaaaaaaa american nostalgia love it suburban living civilized families this could be my life
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Postby bingo » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:29 am

wait i thought i was dunston
yeaaaaaaaaaaaa american nostalgia love it suburban living civilized families this could be my life
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Postby bingo » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:29 am

im dunstone i suppose
yeaaaaaaaaaaaa american nostalgia love it suburban living civilized families this could be my life
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Postby good pups » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:29 am

grammatron wrote:Bob Fuckin' Ridgers?? Hell yeah, dudes.


just to be clear, this is not the same Bob Ridgers who lived in the region for many years and was a member of the golf club before he moved to be closer to his grown children. this Bob Ridgers is a friend of Norma's whom she met at the national cactus and succulent society gathering, so thank you to Norma.

before Bob speaks there will be a brief meeting (snacks and coffee provided and feel free to bring your own treats) as well as a cactus exchange. in the meeting we will discuss the upcoming holiday party and who is making what dishes, the elections for the coming year and you will get a chance to nominate your own candidate, and also the status of some of the indigenous cacti in the area and whether they are in danger if there happens to be development in the region. these cacti are spiritually important to the native american peoples who have called this region home for many centuries, and they also have stunning blooms in late autumn.
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Postby surly » Mon Oct 26, 2015 12:50 am

Ian the Spiv rolls out of bed in his apartment and music studio and immediately realizes something is amiss.

Fucking capitalists have invaded our dispossessed youth colony.

Sure enough, Spiv looks out his window and sees the signs declaring the arrival -- or nonarrival -- of WOLFCORP, and he remembers his time in D.C., decrying chain stores, condos and development special use permit applications.

It wasn't supposed to happen here. This was where I was to retire, where my message for devitalization and liberation theology would never be needed. No rest for the sassy, I suppose.

He quickly goes to his make-shift closet and dons his coolest fucking suit and skinny tie.

We have need of my gospel yeh-yeh sound this day.
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Postby sevenarts » Mon Oct 26, 2015 1:13 am

Bob the Painter loves to paint, but more than that he loves to show others how to paint. For many years now, he's lived happily in this hotbed of artists and would-be artists, passing on his little lessons with an addled smile from behind his dense beard. On this fine night, he ambles towards town to give one of those lessons, leaving behind his rustic little shack by the side of a tiny tributary. As he gets closer to town, the river widens. He thinks, as he often does, Oh, that would make a nice place to fish. I like fishing, but I'm not a very good fisherman. I always throw the fish back into the water, just put a band-aid on his mouth, tap 'im on the patootie and let him on his way. And maybe some day, if I'm lucky, I'll get to catch him again.

He strolls calmly, absentmindedly alongside the river, following its path towards the town. His mind is almost vacant, a real clean slate, his thoughts as crystal clear as that sparkling, unpolluted water. His thoughts bubble up slowly, much slower than the pace of the current in the river itself, but still he finds himself identifying with the river. He thinks, Water's like me. It's laaazy... Boy, it always looks for the easiest way to do things.

Laziness and serenity is a way of life for Bob, as it is for so many residents of this community. He loves the unspoiled wilderness, so peaceful, so fun to paint. He spends his time in his cabin, dabbing at landscape pictures, or dabbing away, similarly, in the homes of other aspiring artists as he passes on his folksy wisdom. It is an unhurried existence, and he hopes it stays that way, free of any interference from commerce's rush, free of the businessman's greed, the narc's buzzkill, or the worst dude's putrid habits. Yep, Bob sure hopes none of those folks show up here anytime soon.
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Postby inspectorhound » Mon Oct 26, 2015 1:28 am

I've heard the new development might include a PoFolks Restaurant. If this is the case, I might not be altogether opposed.

If it's Perkins or some shit, though, count me out. I can do better with just my campfire and this burlap sack full of barley.
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Postby palmer eldritch » Mon Oct 26, 2015 1:52 am

In a remote and dusty stretch of Rajada (but isn't it all dusty?). There sat the Lone Twin bar. How it can manage to be remote in a town full of nothing, well I'm not sure, but that's the way it is. Coming upon it you'd think the rust-tinged corrugated metal shack was a place you'd park your truck, or maybe get murdered in a movie (murder, that's not really something that happens around here), instead of being what it is, a bar that wouldn't fit a crowd of eight so comfortably.

In the bar, as usual, on a Sunday evening, drunk, sweating. There sat Jimmy Zhivago, some people call him Vanner though the story on that name is one of those stories that goes on a long time and doesn't pay off and you wished you had never asked (yeah it did and also did not have to do with driving a van in high school). He was muttering to no one in particular, you might call it a hobby, but you probably wouldn't.

This town has it all, you've got the drifter skids and the rock wonderers and the skin mystics and normal-asses. I can dig the people around here, yeah I drive and drive and I make sure when I stop driving it's always here. Whenever I'm in the city and I'm talking to someone, they're talking but I don't know what they're saying, THEY don't know what they're saying, they're repeating, that's all they do. Regurgitation is all they've got for words and it makes me sick. They think there's a set of incorruptible FACTS in this world and you can find them in a book or on the internet and you can't make an argument against the FACTS, the FACTS, the VERIFIABLE, the REPRODUCIBLE. EXPERTS.

He spit the last word out with a notable slurred and drunken contempt that was quite a feat considering everything he said was with slurred and drunken contempt. Vanner did odd jobs and deliveries and some trucking now and again, and when he wasn't on the road he was in Rajada, and when he was in Rajada you were more likely than not going to find him at the Lone Twin.

I talked to this guy once, out west of here in Crystal Canyon, he had a friend who was an archaeologist or part of an outfit at least, out of the state college there. Well he was on this old Clovis site, diggin' up shit, that's what they do, found some plates and some stone tools, that's what they find. But then he was diggin' in another part of the site and he found this piece of metal, somehow it came out of the earth smooth, shining like it was new, flawless. He picked it up with his bare hand and he got this ringing in his ears, and a taste in his mouth like tobacco pipe ashes and sour cherries. It left this burn on his flesh, like a jellyfish sting. They bagged it up and took it back to the university. Disappeared the next day. People don't like to talk about it. Experts...

The Bartender poured Vanner some more cheap rye whiskey, on the bottle it says in block red font, Tastemaker. You could tell he just got back from a job and had some money in his pocket when he was going for the rye. Fifty cents more a glass than the cheaper straight stock whiskey, it makes a difference when you're working with the volumes that Mr. Zhivago is working with. At this point, he's working with, too much.

Right well, you know around here. The water that flows out of the caverns and into the river is pure, it's charged, it flows right out of the Earth's core, there's basalt in it that's got a negative magnetism to it, you go for a swim in those waters and it will cure gonorrhea... that's what they say. The last part at least, that's the story. I believe it, I've never had a chance to try it out.

Vanner trailed off, squinted as his thoughts either drifted off or ground to a halt and left his body in a suspended animation. The Bartender interjects, tries to bring Jimmy Zhivago back to where he was sitting, at a bar, in Rajada. "So what do you mean, you never had a chance to try it out?" Vanner's face reanimated some, but with an expression like he was offered a snack off a plate of spoiled food and was doing his best to politely decline.

Eh. You know I never think back on the past. There's this old story, oh, like a fable or something from ancient Greece, I heard it once, about a man who reflected on himself and that was it for him. Maybe you heard it too.
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Postby lordofdiapers » Mon Oct 26, 2015 2:03 am

Bobby-Bill Brixton (or BB for short) sits at his merch table/performance space by the town well with his banjo in hand.


I just want to dedicate this next one to all the REAL PEOPLE in Rajada who think CAPITALISM IS BULLSHIT and that these WOLF CORP BASTARDS can GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN WOOOOOOO

BB begins to the play this banjo and sing a song to the tune of "Don't Speak" by No Doubt

Wolf Corp
We know that you are butt-holes
So please stop explaining
You guys are fucking jerks

Wolf Corp
You're seriously giant butt-holes
So please stop explaining
You guys are fucking jerks


BB takes a bow and then points aggressively towards his open guitar case
Last edited by lordofdiapers on Mon Oct 26, 2015 2:09 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby can't » Mon Oct 26, 2015 2:03 am

My name Is Marc Blosem and I am a ranch hand and Watsu practitioner here in town.

I was a nurse at a behavioral health clinic over in Catalina once upon a time until Fucking Taros took over. Paziak and those bastards made everyone’s life a living hell. Corporate cleaned house of course. Brought in an entirely new, more streamlined and dare I say, less qualified administrative staff. Started remodeling us and rebranding us. Then came the drug tests. It was just too much. I said fuck this, Took some time off.

My friends Doug and Bob invited me to come live on their historic dude ranch and help out about 6 months ago. So I said yea man get me the fuck out of here.

Its chill here. I do Watsu in the pool. We have Cholla, Ocotillo, Santa Rita Prickly Pear and compass barrels which I love..Giant agaves too. Plenty of wildlife around. It’s great. I have been trying to get it together and grow some stuff but you know how it is. Maybe towards the tail end of winter.

Anyway I gotta say I love living by my own rules out here and I feel real lucky to be “off-grid” so to speak. If I had my way I’d even cancel the satellite internet service and just disappear forever. Especially now that these corporate shitheads have taken an interest in spoiling my idyllic funky little retreat. Maybe I’ll move to Bisbee until they ruin there also.

Anyways, nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll see you around. I’m gonna try to start going to the farmer’s market and cactus club stuff more often.
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Postby lordofdiapers » Mon Oct 26, 2015 2:04 am

(lol sorry sleigh I tried doing the song lyrics without italics and it doesnt work)
Stuntman wrote:Does anyone remember Late Night Cheeseburger? That was my jam. Tasted like BO.
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Postby can't » Mon Oct 26, 2015 2:20 am

I'm also a BB groupy. I love you BB
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Postby Star-Lord » Mon Oct 26, 2015 3:25 am

It was a dark and shitty night...
The dust came in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Rajada that our scene lies), rattling the shacktops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the hobo stoves that struggled against the darkness.
A screaming wail from the dark above grew louder as a ball of light pierced the Rajada sky.


Image

Star-Lord wrote:Image
I bring greetings
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Postby kid8 » Mon Oct 26, 2015 4:45 am

your game ass play? no on'es playing.
I like watching you live.
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Postby kid8 » Mon Oct 26, 2015 4:45 am

get funny right now.
I like watching you live.
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Postby iambic » Mon Oct 26, 2015 7:02 am

plump, stately Huck Mulligan comes up from the futon, red-faced, nostrils flaring, jolted awake by the gnarliest kind of bad dream. it's already pared back to bits and pieces of horror: white teeth, cable ties, the whirr of a drill. frantic, he does a quick check of limbs and that big red face, pawing at his new beard, the hanging flab. it's okay. he's okay.

hops to his feet, does Huck, bundling his nightgown around him, tucking in his folds. it's pre-dawn in the cabin and all his shit is, hmm, ghostly and weird. he shuffles between the cardboard boxes from the move, still unpacked. he can't even make out the clues he'd scrawled on them in the gloom, but mostly they're books. or the same book: his last, failed novel, spared from pulping. he's been written out of the romance market; it's all BDSM and the whiff of male violence now, and Huck can't keep up with that angle. it is not at all chill, to him.

Huck (not his real name, just the one that graces the spine of all his shitty books) goes to the cabin's big window, the one that looks away from the road, into the scrub and redwoods. he's got all the accoutrements for a joint on the sill, so he gets working on that. the nightgown gives up and falls away from Huck's big body. he can feel the air on his junk, the papers in his hand. this isn't so bad, he tells himself. Rajada is an okay bolthole. no cell service, so he doesn't have to know his agent isn't calling. no dickweed neighbors narcing him out to the homeowners association.

just a typewriter and the woods, which, haha, smell like air freshener. a new genre. a new start.

as he sticks the rolling paper with his tongue, Huck Mulligan looks up and nearly drops the thing on account of there's a fucking human stationed out there in his yard--his forest, whatever. the man is all sleek lines of a suit, sleek haircut, too, and Huck is having bad dream flashes again, such that he feels maximally uneasy. the dude in the woods goes down on his haunches and lets out an insane howl, which is unexpected and terrifying on top of everything. next thing, the guy bounds away into the woods.

once his spine unfreezes, Huck becomes dimly conscious of his aerated, very exposed dick.


not cool, he says.
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Postby Guy Incognito » Mon Oct 26, 2015 7:49 am

Dusty "Dark Star" Mackerel wore a stained tie-dye shirt that read "Make Hummus Not War" but no pants. The shirt was the last reminder of why he landed in Rajada 43 years ago. A run of southern Grateful Dead shows in '72, a wrong turn in Albuquerque, a desperate attempt to scrounge up gas money selling poorly printed t-shirts and a hundred disappointed people looking for artisanal hummus which frankly did not exist.. Four decades later and Dusty still lived in room 421 of the Route 66 Motor Inn. Route 66 never even came close to Rajada.

Dusty never wore pants on his mesa-top morning centering sessions. This habit had made him some enemies in town and no friends, but he never was one to make much of small-fry social distinctions. He knew the town, the mesa, the hotel, himself all belong to the same earth-family, the same spiritlove that bound them together. In other towns in his other life, this sunny, mystical disposition made him as many enemies as his semi-nude sunrise moo gong do made him in Rajada. Here though, people smiled when he flashed the two finger salute and whispered "Surrender to the flow, spirit brother" on his way to Dan's Cafe for his morning hickory coffee and root marm bran cakes. 43 years in Rajada - Dusty felt he could stand a few decades more. Besides, he thought with a wry smile hidden beneath his tangle of gray beard, he had skills the town really would rather not do without.




If it's plumbing, then plumb with love.
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Postby delgriffith » Mon Oct 26, 2015 9:12 am

"Hello, my name is Frank. I will be your guide today on our walk together."

The words reverberated around Frank Sharp's head as he lay on the hood of his dune buggy, all cottonmouth and with a migraine coming up on him harder than anything the fast-rising sun could throw his way. He went to look at his watch, but found only his bare wrist. Beside him on the hood of what presented as a dune buggy, but was in all likelihood little more than a souped-up golf cart, lay a celestial map he'd torn out of a library book somewhere back in Raton, and a set of binoculars with the cap still on.

He must have fallen asleep out here before the meteor shower, or else his memory was going too and that was sadder than he dared contemplate out here on the hood of a dune buggy. It was another slap in the face from an indifferent cosmos, and he didn't want to have to face telling Carolyn down at the general store, the one who had told him about the meteor shower, that he'd slept and missed the whole thing. Frank wondered if he should have invited her out here, but as the map swam into focus of his waking eyes, he saw the hole he'd burned right through it, and the sad stub of the roach he'd lit up last night in the center of the hole, and he knew then that he'd never bring a woman out here - not as long as he was still Frank, anyway.

Maybe that's why it felt like those musty words was taunting him, from back out in Georgia, down miles of road that he'd never loop back on. He'd come out West with hopes of guiding a generation of sunbaked dreamers, wide-eyed and free, down walks that would make the ones he'd done in Georgia seem parochial: up the dusty mesas, through shaded canyons, beneath a hundred, thousand arches. To stand in the shadow of those towering spires, in whose faces you could chronicle the history of this great land far back to when above were only those very same constellations of stars he'd burned right through - vast swathes of Kayenta, Wingate, Moenkopi, it all welled up within him on the long drive out West.

But Georgia had his number, and the West was full of men with quick step and swift tongue, men who vibrated at a different frequency and hummed with life and dangerous energy. They scrambled those walls he'd simply gawp at, and in the dim light of the bars he found himself frequenting more these days than he'd have liked, Frank would count how many men's fingernails seemed permanently infused with the red earth of the world he'd come out here to love. Frank saw himself as a storyteller, a guide, a companion. In Georgia, he would stop at every slight bend in the path to point it out. No bench went unmentioned. These men, with gleaming calves and wild hair slick with sweat, they just blazed a trail and said "Follow." No stopping, the only way was forwards. They wouldn't even point out benches.

Those same rugged hands, Frank noticed, slipped so comfortably into the hands of the suits who had found Rajada in such great numbers of late: sturdy handshakes at the backs of bars with smiles and backslaps. "What's good for you, is good for Rajada. What's good for Rajada, is good for us." He scowled and ate his peanuts. Let them cut their deals, he thought. The earth will be here long after they're gone.

So now he lay on the edge of a caldera, covering his face with his floral bucket hat - the last remaining trace of his life in Georgia - as the sun began to beat more insistently against the dark hood of the buggy. He thought he could smell burning. He wasn't even sure if he cared. On a Monday morning, a few miles outside of Rajada proper, Frank L. Sharp had come to be reborn.
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Postby weezy » Mon Oct 26, 2015 9:18 am

in an unassuming wooden structure on the edge of burr ridge river, erected in the 70s, painted green in the 80s, and left without much upkeep since, we find WILL WEEZY, proprietor of EASY WEEZY'S KAYAK AND CANOE RENTAL. weezy, mid 50s, overweight but not obese, is positively slurping some sort of substance through a yellow straw out of a white styrofoam cup, intently studying a newspaper. weezy's wearing a faded t-shirt that says LONE TWIN BAR. over his head, two canoe paddles are mounted on the wall in an X, like swords on a coat of arms, beneath them a small plaque that reads PEDDLIN' WHAT YER PADDLIN' SINCE 1976

weezy is agitated. since 2002, he had been forming a plan to open a new smoothie business in rajada. he hadn't told anyone about the plans in great detail, but he'd been looking forward to the new endeavor, and had even come up with a clever slogan one night not too long ago at the lone twin: 'where there's a will there's a whey.' he loved that. presently, inside the canoe shop, weezy encounters the end of his smoothie, squints an eye down the straw, and reaches over to start a blender. returning his focus to the newspaper, he sees an article, WOLFCORP DENIES RAJADA DEVELOPMENT PLANS, and his face contorts. there's no one in the canoe shop, but if they were, and they could discern it over the blender's racket, they might hear weezy muttering something about new faces and new trouble. 'lord knows if any town's got the energy for a fight, it's rajada…'
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Postby bluemoon » Mon Oct 26, 2015 9:31 am

Moon Beam was born in late May of 1990--a true 90s kid hailing from the sleepy town of Rajada. Things were different then, and if you could hear her talk, you'd know she preferred it that way. She spent hours hunched over a bar stool at her favorite local diner, sipping a Coke (did she pour a little something extra in?) and complaining about the changes in town.

"Fuckin malls," she often muttered, to no one in particular. "But whatever, man."

Her days mostly comprised of expertly rolling loosies and sighing in a desultory fashion. But lately, there was a new gleam in her eye. Was this burnout finally getting her act together?

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Postby adamtrask » Mon Oct 26, 2015 10:09 am

Grumpy, surly, a lone wolf -- all of the things that Adam Trask wants to be, but cannot. An author-- a bad one-- Trask moved from the big city of Des Moines, IA to the quiet of Rajada in search of the silence, lonely lifestyle that he pretends he wants. There is, however, a problem. Trask is not a loner. He's a social butterfly, and while Rajada may be low in population, it is high in social activities, and Trask find himself spending his days chatting away with the fellow artisans in town. The one thing he does not do is write. Internally, he grows more despondent by the day, but of course, he cannot show it to his fellow Rajadans.

To counteract the effects of his extreme sociability, Adam has joined a local protest group against WOLFCORP, who may or may not be planning to build a luxury resort in Rajada, ruining the wonderful homespun ambiance of the town. If he's being honest with himself, Trask doesn't really care about WOLFWORP or the resort or anything, really, but this protest group seems like a great place to do some research for his next book. He's willing to use this opportunity and his extreme affability to network with some of the village-folk and maybe even do some deep interviews. Now if he could only find a representative of WOLFCORP to interview, as well...
Stuntman wrote:The party's over and we're just the people who are too drunk to drive home and everyone is fighting over who gets to sleep on the couch.
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