Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 13:47:47 GMT -5
((Now! The freakin' rules and the rules of freakin':
Did someone link you to this post? Did they tell you to go find something? Here it is. *Smacks you upside the head* Now start at the top and actually read it.
-Leon. Oldest standing member of The Elbow Room.))
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Modified without permission from the original post.
"The Elbow Room" a sign above the battered door reads in calligraphic arcing text as you arrive. Made from poured concrete and over a foot thick, you imagine this can't be the original door. It isn't, but human and zombie violence have destroyed the old steel door, which proved too easily destroyed by idiots with high explosives, though it withstood many zombie assaults. It takes a mammoth effort to move, and you can't budge it. Soon enough, though, a heavy-set man slides it aside with ease and, looking you over with a surly glare, waves you inside. A smiley face name tag on his apron identifies him as Val Kilmer. He'll fill your orders, but don't ask for small talk, you couldn't afford it. You hear a soft click behind you and turn to see the door already closed. While the heavy-set cook does look strong in his own right, it's now clear that some mechanism is responsible. Inside the bar now, you survey it. Wrought iron gates are pulled back against the walls of a short hallway; a last ditch defense against the shambling horde of undead that used to occasionally break down the old steel door, but it was replaced after being blown off it's hinges too many times.
Posters, ripped and torn and pasted over, cover the walls of the pub. The lighting is sparse, most of it focused behind the bar, where a struggling generator wheezes and emits the occasional belch of smoke. You see Val there now, sipping a white cafe mug of coffee and looking over the tavern with a scowl. The mirror that once hung behind the bar is long gone, though shards remain in the upper corners. Bottles are displayed on the shelves, protected by a steel grille from randomly thrown objects. To the right of the bar the room stretches in an L shape, making space for a pool table and darts. The main tables are badly in need of repair, with tilting tops and gouges, burns and bullet holes. To either side of the entrance are the restrooms, doors decorated with rude, anatomically exaggerated representations of which sex they are intended for. The left of the bar is taken up with a proto-sixties go-go cage, now standing empty except for a metal collar and a sign on the closed door; "FORMER RESIDENCE OF LEON SILVERBLOOD FROM JUNE '07 TO APRIL '09. RESERVED FOR TOVARISCH KRUSCHEV".
Since it's inception a little over two years ago, The Elbow Room has seen numerous break-ins and pitched battles, some zombie, some human. A handful of undead crocodiles and alligators wander the cellar, thanks to DJ Spinbad. Bulletholes small and large practically perforate every wall, the floors, the ceiling, thanks to don Vito and other humans getting too drunk with too many overpowered toys. The place halfway looks like an observatory, sunlight seeping in and human odors out, often drawing zeds who have learned to follow the scent of the living. A patchwork of planks and boards sprawls across the roof and floor, each a commemoration (some signed) of a particularly idiotic use of explosives indoors. The Elbow Room never was much to look at, but now not only is it downright ugly, it has personality.
Because of the sort of carnage that some of the less sane survivors have wrought upon the place, and because that damage is usually done by weapons, tools, and technology that have no right to exist in this little piece of armageddon, a "reality switch" has been installed behind the bar. Unseen, this little red button is able to completely nullify, erase, and in all other ways obliterate such weapons, tools, and technology and all of their effects. As time goes on, it's used less and less, but it stays there, ready to be depressed by Val, the ever vigilant enforcer of The Dipsh*t Rule.
Behind the bar, hung just a bit askew- is a large portrait
and a banner.
"Melody Arachne, founder of The Elbow Room. Missing since Dec. 16, 2008, presumed alive and well somewhere else."
A glass case on a shelf below these displays a pack of Marlboros, a fully loaded Colt .45 (M1911A1),a pair of shopping bags, and a santa hat. The manifesto inside the box also lists "one first aid kit, one syringe," but these are missing. You'll never read it (Val would break your fingers first, if Leon didn't), but there's a small note inside as well. Folded up with care into a neat little square, it has Leon's trademark chickenscratch on it, a frighteningly childlike bit of print: "Melody".
When asked, Val points to another sign hung prominently behind the bar. It reads,
"NO CREDIT FOR RANGERS!!"
- The Dipsh*t rule:
Don't be a dipshit. You can't have sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads. No sharks, no lasers. Cuba won't ship here. Refer to the game and Max Brooks for what flies and what doesn't. This brings us to - The Reality Switch:
Pull any crazy s**t, like an atom bomb, claim to blow the bar up, interfere in anything and if anyone cares, the players are perfectly within their rights to absolutely ignore your post in part or in full. We don't even have to refer to the switch to activate it, but we might just for the record. You may or may not be warned that you're actin' the fool. - Co-existence
This is a fun place for anyone who wants it to be. The advanced roleplayers, the noobs, the boobs, the ub[er]s can all max and relax here as long as one doesn't pain another in the ass. So for those of you who can't be expected to follow any rules whatsoever, don't. Except this one: Don't be a menace. We'll throw you out. Permanently.
Did someone link you to this post? Did they tell you to go find something? Here it is. *Smacks you upside the head* Now start at the top and actually read it.
-Leon. Oldest standing member of The Elbow Room.))
--------------------------------------------------
Modified without permission from the original post.
"The Elbow Room" a sign above the battered door reads in calligraphic arcing text as you arrive. Made from poured concrete and over a foot thick, you imagine this can't be the original door. It isn't, but human and zombie violence have destroyed the old steel door, which proved too easily destroyed by idiots with high explosives, though it withstood many zombie assaults. It takes a mammoth effort to move, and you can't budge it. Soon enough, though, a heavy-set man slides it aside with ease and, looking you over with a surly glare, waves you inside. A smiley face name tag on his apron identifies him as Val Kilmer. He'll fill your orders, but don't ask for small talk, you couldn't afford it. You hear a soft click behind you and turn to see the door already closed. While the heavy-set cook does look strong in his own right, it's now clear that some mechanism is responsible. Inside the bar now, you survey it. Wrought iron gates are pulled back against the walls of a short hallway; a last ditch defense against the shambling horde of undead that used to occasionally break down the old steel door, but it was replaced after being blown off it's hinges too many times.
Posters, ripped and torn and pasted over, cover the walls of the pub. The lighting is sparse, most of it focused behind the bar, where a struggling generator wheezes and emits the occasional belch of smoke. You see Val there now, sipping a white cafe mug of coffee and looking over the tavern with a scowl. The mirror that once hung behind the bar is long gone, though shards remain in the upper corners. Bottles are displayed on the shelves, protected by a steel grille from randomly thrown objects. To the right of the bar the room stretches in an L shape, making space for a pool table and darts. The main tables are badly in need of repair, with tilting tops and gouges, burns and bullet holes. To either side of the entrance are the restrooms, doors decorated with rude, anatomically exaggerated representations of which sex they are intended for. The left of the bar is taken up with a proto-sixties go-go cage, now standing empty except for a metal collar and a sign on the closed door; "FORMER RESIDENCE OF LEON SILVERBLOOD FROM JUNE '07 TO APRIL '09. RESERVED FOR TOVARISCH KRUSCHEV".
Since it's inception a little over two years ago, The Elbow Room has seen numerous break-ins and pitched battles, some zombie, some human. A handful of undead crocodiles and alligators wander the cellar, thanks to DJ Spinbad. Bulletholes small and large practically perforate every wall, the floors, the ceiling, thanks to don Vito and other humans getting too drunk with too many overpowered toys. The place halfway looks like an observatory, sunlight seeping in and human odors out, often drawing zeds who have learned to follow the scent of the living. A patchwork of planks and boards sprawls across the roof and floor, each a commemoration (some signed) of a particularly idiotic use of explosives indoors. The Elbow Room never was much to look at, but now not only is it downright ugly, it has personality.
Because of the sort of carnage that some of the less sane survivors have wrought upon the place, and because that damage is usually done by weapons, tools, and technology that have no right to exist in this little piece of armageddon, a "reality switch" has been installed behind the bar. Unseen, this little red button is able to completely nullify, erase, and in all other ways obliterate such weapons, tools, and technology and all of their effects. As time goes on, it's used less and less, but it stays there, ready to be depressed by Val, the ever vigilant enforcer of The Dipsh*t Rule.
Behind the bar, hung just a bit askew- is a large portrait
and a banner.
"Melody Arachne, founder of The Elbow Room. Missing since Dec. 16, 2008, presumed alive and well somewhere else."
A glass case on a shelf below these displays a pack of Marlboros, a fully loaded Colt .45 (M1911A1),a pair of shopping bags, and a santa hat. The manifesto inside the box also lists "one first aid kit, one syringe," but these are missing. You'll never read it (Val would break your fingers first, if Leon didn't), but there's a small note inside as well. Folded up with care into a neat little square, it has Leon's trademark chickenscratch on it, a frighteningly childlike bit of print: "Melody".
When asked, Val points to another sign hung prominently behind the bar. It reads,
"NO CREDIT FOR RANGERS!!"
