The Story - Toronto

Here is where we will be playing.

The email was a simple, no-nonsense affair.

>> Mr. Crutch, I'd like to hire you for an investigation. I haven't called the police yet, because I'm worried they'll think it's just another suicide, but I know better. There should be a key to the room in your mailbox, apartment 12-A on 200 Elm Place.

-- silentamy

Nathan - A small key rests atop a pile of unread mail. Bills, fan mail, and a Sears catalogue. A bountiful harvest, to be sure.

Nathan - The apartment was silent. A foul smell touches your nostrils, a smell you have described many times, but have never experienced.

The smell of death.

Laying in the middle of the room is the body of a man. He lays spread eagle, face up, eyes open in shock. A spilled bottle of pills, powerful painkillers, rests in his left hand. He is overweight, though not terribly so, with the scruff of a week-grown beard on his face. He is wearing a University of Toronto tracksuit, and you actually recognize him.

His name is - was - Howard Thomas, and he was a professor of Anthropology at the U of T. You remember him from a news article published recently.

Nathan - The article was regarding a book he had published recently. In it he discusses the impact of religious and secular organizations throughout history, and their importance to culture and society. The title of the book is 'Amissus Societatis: Throughout the Ages'.

The uncomfortable sensation of wet feet suddenly strikes you, and you realize that water has begun to seep out from under the door of 12-A.

Nathan - The water is pouring down the leftmost wall, through a crack in the ceiling. You can hear the sound of a shower running. There must be damage to the pipes, and serious damage at that.

The shower stops, and the water slows to a halt. Strangely, a circle around Howard's body remains dry.

Your phone begins to ring.

Nathan - "Mister Crutch, the police are headed to your present location. Someone has noticed your snooping. I'd recommend you evacuate the premises immediately."

The voice was cool, detached, and formal.

Nathan - The book is less large and/or ponderous than one would suspect. This particular copy (the only one available) is severely dog-eared and several pages look as if they have been carefully removed.

A running commentary runs along the margins of the pages, notes, apparent corrections, and comments on the contents. One particular page is covered in red ink.

Nathan - The page seems to be an extended commentary.

no no no thats not how it is look its important that they know this stuff
papers show that this sort of thing repeats and repeats and repeats its an unending cycle
need tell amy that the prof losing his edge fucking asshole
amy should know what to do

The rest is a series of doodles of eyes and waves.

Nathan - The page consists of an explanation of the story of Poseidon.

Nathan - The response is nearly immediate.

>>Howard Thomas was a brilliant man. Whoever told you that is a liar. Have you had a chance to investigate?

A black limousine pulls up beside you. The window rolls down, the interior too dark to make out the features of the person within.

"Mister Crutch, I would appreciate it if you joined me inside. I'd, of course, be more than willing to offer you a ride home."

You recognize the voice as that of the man on the phone.

Nathan - The vehicle is spacious, and takes off into the midday Toronto traffic with nary a hiccup.

The man is dressed in an immaculate gray suit, with black shoes. He stares at you intently from behind round spectacles that seem ever so slightly askew on his face. Behind them rests two black eyes. Not that the iris was black, though it was. Rather, the entire sphere of the eye was pitch black, with not even the slightest reflective bit of light to be seen.

He straightens his glasses.

"Mister Crutch, a pleasure. I am a fan of your work." He smiles at you, and you realize that his mouth is far wider than a mouth has any reason to be, and with far too many teeth. The teeth are ivory white, but the flesh inside is as black as his eyes. "Please, be comfortable, this won't take long."

Nathan - Mister Gray's smile widens, and you find it hard to imagine someone could reasonably smile that wide. He looks as if he is contemplating which part of you would taste best.

"My name is unimportant, but you may call me Mister Gray. I assure you, it will be far easier for you to pronounce," the smile widens again, "but that is irrelevant. I understand that we are pursuing a similar goal, Mister Crutch."