Background
Summary of the game (in plain English): The object is to be the last player left in the game with life tokens, while all the other players have lost theirs.
It is the start of another grey week in the metropolis and it's all just been getting you down … until, that is, a satisfying thud by the front door heralds the arrival of a large brown envelope. Unbeknownst to you, your life is about to change.
You curse the postman, as the remains of the shattered letterbox (splinters
and all) litter the hall carpet, and a chill Monday-morning breeze whistles
through your dressing gown and up the ample trouser of your well-worn
pyjamas. But this concerns you not, for ripping open the letter reveals
a simple house brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it, and a small
yellow sticky note attached to the red clay top. The sticky label reads:
"THROW ME THROUGH YOUR FRONT WINDOW"
Stepping out into the blank A.M. you tut loudly at the myriad gnomes in
next door's garden before launching the plain building component, with
fullest force, through the ornate Georgian bay window of yon abode's frontage.
Screaming blue murder and with foulest language, you first run into your
house and then emerge again a second later bellowing: "what b*****d did
that?" You look to your left and, thence, to your right in the vain hope
of catching sight of the vandalistic culprit. Cursing under your breath,
you return again to your home and gently close the door.
The house brick silently mocks you, your moral outrage and your 'Mr Bunny'
slippers, lying as it does on one of its long sides - the attached paper
is crumpled, but intact. Sweaty-palmed, you pull the note away from its
stony guardian and flatten the creased message before reading:
"My dear nephew, Please forgive my indirectness
(and the fact that you may not actually be my nephew) but I have been
told (by the giant clams that live on my face) that I have so many relatives
that it is nigh on impossible to remember all of your names; so I shall
(instead) resort to the simple nomenclature 'nephew'. My mind is not what
it used to be - indeed, it used to be a liver - that being said, I address
you as one of the potential beneficiaries of my capacious legacy! "Your
capacious legacy" I hear you cry - Yes! You will, with a bit of luck,
by this time next week, be quite incredibly and most certainly indecently
wealthy. "How?" I hear you retort. The answer is very simple - you will
attend my funeral this coming Friday and, once the merriment and festivity
has subsided, you will kill everyone else in the house. That's all - nothing
complicated. The last person alive in the building when Monday (and my
tall solicitor) comes will inherit my vast fortune, my enormous financial
holdings, and my capacious legacy! Best Wishes Great Uncle Sir Hesketh
Goodbody Three-Choirs Overcoat (Deceased) PS. Bring a bottle. PPS. No
blue jeans."
You stand amazed - Fate has saved you the last slice of gateau and stands
poised to either offer it lovingly for consumption, or ram it in your
face until you weep like a pansied fop.
