Characters R Us
23-08-2007, 20:40
There are certain places across the globe where money rules all, and those that provide it have grown tired of more mundane forms of entertainment, and are forced, at least in their eyes, to provide their own.
With money comes power, and with power, compliance. In a small, broken-down town in the southern United States, these faceless, wealthy individuals have purchased many of the vital services that such a settlement depends on, such as the police, water, fire, and even the local government. Such help has not gone without a price, however. In exchange for such benefactorship, the town's dockside warehouses, indeed the entire district, has been declared off limits to only authorized personnel, which at this point includes only private security personnel hired to keep the arena clear of innocents.
The residents of the town frequently hear gunfire during the day, and at some times of the night. They try to shrug it off as nothing major, but the docks have been alive with such noises in the past few weeks.
It would seem that these nameless benefactors have a taste for blood, a love of conflict on a smaller scale, and enjoy nothing more than watching someone die. Massive cash prizes are handed out montly for survivors of the deadly tournaments waged for four straight weeks. The little town, let's just call it 'Despair'. That's not the actual name, but rather what the inhabitants feel, has seen a massive increase in revanue, most noteably in the sectors of food services and hotels. A steady stream of mercenaries, bounty hunters, hired guns, terrorists, ex-convicts, ex-cops, drifters, assassins, hitmen, and all manner of violent scum has begun to filter into Despair, drawn to the immense allure of stacks of cold, hard currency.
Indeed, anyone can, and often do, enter these contests of skill, guts, and violence. In fact, there's a tournament about to begin dockside...
The upper levels of the warehouses had been converted to louges, the floors replaced with thick slabs of bulletproof glass, and stocked with furniture from the finest manufacturers. A full bar was placed in each area, and then filled with nearly every form of expensive booze anyone could want, and then wired with plasma-screen televisions with real-time feeds from discreet cameras placed around the arena below to cover every inch so spectators wouldn't miss a thing. The owner, the man who had contributed the most vast sums of money, would have had it no other way. Dressed in a fine black suit, accented nicely with a matching shirt and a crimson necktie. His expensive shoes clicked across the bulletproof glass, then the noise turned to a dull thump as the reached the old wooden planks that formed the walkway into the lavish lounge area to address the gathered masses below...
"Ladies, and gentlemen... Welcome to my arena! The rules are simple: You'll be divided up into teams, of a sort. Only one team will be permitted into the arena at a time, and you'll be given one minute to position yourselves accordingly. After the buzzer sounds, the fun beings, and the doors don't open again until there's only one person standing. And don't worry, your remains will be shipped first-class back to whichever next of kin you've already listed for us. If you haven't done so, please return to the front reception desk and list one for us. We only use full-metal jacket ammunition here, so no hollow-points or other specialty ammo. If you require more, we have a large stockpile in all the major calibers. There are, however, no restrictions on weaponry, provided there are no explosives of any sort used in my arena. If you do smuggle some in, however, you'll be disposed of in short order by my personal security staff..."
There were a few looks between the gathered participants. There were no other armed personnel besides them, which meant the shot could come from anywhere and there would be no way to cheat the rules in this particular contest...
"But don't let that discourage you. You're free to kill each other in any way you choose. You'll be paid an additional fee for each of your fellows you slaughter, and feel free to quit at any time, between matches of course. We can't hold you here. At the end of the day, you'd be advised to stay in the provided quarters in the local hotels and clean your weapons. Any trouble you cause outside of this arena is on your head. The local police have been well-supplied by myself and my friends who gather here. That means their firepower most likely exceeds your own, and if not, my personal forces are avaliable. In short, I can not promise your safety outside of this small area, and certainly not in the arena. I would urge you to retire to your provided hotel rooms and rest. Tomorrow begins this month's tournament..."
The owner paused for a moment, angling his head. It was difficult to see his face, hidden as it was in the shadows. The exquisite leather gloves on his hands concealed any hint skin tone might have given. All that could be learned was that he was extremely wealthy, and enjoyed watching people kill each other for entertainment...
With money comes power, and with power, compliance. In a small, broken-down town in the southern United States, these faceless, wealthy individuals have purchased many of the vital services that such a settlement depends on, such as the police, water, fire, and even the local government. Such help has not gone without a price, however. In exchange for such benefactorship, the town's dockside warehouses, indeed the entire district, has been declared off limits to only authorized personnel, which at this point includes only private security personnel hired to keep the arena clear of innocents.
The residents of the town frequently hear gunfire during the day, and at some times of the night. They try to shrug it off as nothing major, but the docks have been alive with such noises in the past few weeks.
It would seem that these nameless benefactors have a taste for blood, a love of conflict on a smaller scale, and enjoy nothing more than watching someone die. Massive cash prizes are handed out montly for survivors of the deadly tournaments waged for four straight weeks. The little town, let's just call it 'Despair'. That's not the actual name, but rather what the inhabitants feel, has seen a massive increase in revanue, most noteably in the sectors of food services and hotels. A steady stream of mercenaries, bounty hunters, hired guns, terrorists, ex-convicts, ex-cops, drifters, assassins, hitmen, and all manner of violent scum has begun to filter into Despair, drawn to the immense allure of stacks of cold, hard currency.
Indeed, anyone can, and often do, enter these contests of skill, guts, and violence. In fact, there's a tournament about to begin dockside...
The upper levels of the warehouses had been converted to louges, the floors replaced with thick slabs of bulletproof glass, and stocked with furniture from the finest manufacturers. A full bar was placed in each area, and then filled with nearly every form of expensive booze anyone could want, and then wired with plasma-screen televisions with real-time feeds from discreet cameras placed around the arena below to cover every inch so spectators wouldn't miss a thing. The owner, the man who had contributed the most vast sums of money, would have had it no other way. Dressed in a fine black suit, accented nicely with a matching shirt and a crimson necktie. His expensive shoes clicked across the bulletproof glass, then the noise turned to a dull thump as the reached the old wooden planks that formed the walkway into the lavish lounge area to address the gathered masses below...
"Ladies, and gentlemen... Welcome to my arena! The rules are simple: You'll be divided up into teams, of a sort. Only one team will be permitted into the arena at a time, and you'll be given one minute to position yourselves accordingly. After the buzzer sounds, the fun beings, and the doors don't open again until there's only one person standing. And don't worry, your remains will be shipped first-class back to whichever next of kin you've already listed for us. If you haven't done so, please return to the front reception desk and list one for us. We only use full-metal jacket ammunition here, so no hollow-points or other specialty ammo. If you require more, we have a large stockpile in all the major calibers. There are, however, no restrictions on weaponry, provided there are no explosives of any sort used in my arena. If you do smuggle some in, however, you'll be disposed of in short order by my personal security staff..."
There were a few looks between the gathered participants. There were no other armed personnel besides them, which meant the shot could come from anywhere and there would be no way to cheat the rules in this particular contest...
"But don't let that discourage you. You're free to kill each other in any way you choose. You'll be paid an additional fee for each of your fellows you slaughter, and feel free to quit at any time, between matches of course. We can't hold you here. At the end of the day, you'd be advised to stay in the provided quarters in the local hotels and clean your weapons. Any trouble you cause outside of this arena is on your head. The local police have been well-supplied by myself and my friends who gather here. That means their firepower most likely exceeds your own, and if not, my personal forces are avaliable. In short, I can not promise your safety outside of this small area, and certainly not in the arena. I would urge you to retire to your provided hotel rooms and rest. Tomorrow begins this month's tournament..."
The owner paused for a moment, angling his head. It was difficult to see his face, hidden as it was in the shadows. The exquisite leather gloves on his hands concealed any hint skin tone might have given. All that could be learned was that he was extremely wealthy, and enjoyed watching people kill each other for entertainment...