Elected Command: Cake.http://www.votemayor.com/?p=173
Sammy is seated on his favorite bar stool, in his favorite bar, located in his favorite town.
Puffing on his next to last cigarette, he ruffles his prematurely grayed head of hair. He can’t help but grin.
The bar, under new management, now goes by the name of Bar Nun, in reference to the new owner, a former nun.
The home town, under the same management as always, is known as Jerkswads, a sprawl of brick stacked buildings, filled with blinding chimney smoke, and the only home Sammy has ever known.
Most importantly, the bar stool is located at just such an angle that the occupant may carefully observe the entire establishment with ease. Situated in such a way, the observer may peer into the swinging doors of the ratty back kitchen, view the entrance with aide of the bar’s liquor-lined mirror, or examine their fellow patrons along the alcohol soaked counter.
Observing is Sammy’s specialty, and for this proven talent, today he has been accepted into the Communist Mafia. Today, he has a friend in the family. All of them.
In celebration, he has decided to seat himself on his favorite bar stool, in his favorite bar, located in his favorite town. He can’t help but grin.
A grin which quickly disappears. As if coordinated, mafia soldiers brandishing their trademarked metal bats flood into Bar Nun. Sammy’s entire vantage point, from the entrance, to the counter, to even the ratty back kitchen, is swarmed by his new family members. They don’t appear to be the least bit interested in celebrating with him, scowls etched over the faces of each.
The bar goes dankly silent, except for a pair of heavy footsteps approaching Sammy from behind. Peering from the corner of his baggy eyelids, Sammy recognizes the owner of those footsteps. Boss Craven.
“Your name’s Sammy, isn’t it? Hey Sammy, got a question for ya.” says Craven. “Cake, or death?”
Sammy has heard tales of Craven asking this question before. The answers were sometimes messy.
“C-cake is swell, boss.” Sammy nervously replies.
“We’d love to celebrate your new membership with cake, Sammy. We really would. But when it came to Uncle Gonzo, you didn’t choose cake. Ya chose death, Sammy. Ya chose death. You’ve taken our dear uncle away from us. From our family. From your family.” lectures Craven.
“Awwwwwwwwww, crap.” Sammy whispers, eying his new mafia bat, propped against his favorite bar stool.
Commands: 1. Plead guilty to the murder.
2. Plead not guilty to the murder.
3. Bonk Craven with the metal bat, attempt escape.