From: [g--eg--o] at [pacific.mps.ohio-state.edu] (Greg Mohler)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.misc
Subject: [HUMOUR] The Ideal CoC Investigation
Date: 7 Aug 1997 15:14:59 -0400
This popped into my head out of the blue. Its roughly based on an
actual CoC session I played in. I don't know if the scenario was
store-bought or made up by the GM. The CoC "kill'em all and let
Cthulhu sort'em out" paradigm is an easy target, but what the hell.
The Perfect CoC Investigation (from the character's POV):
Micheal Ellis has survived enough investigations to figure out just
how this survival thing works. His "official" profession long
forgotten, he is now a full-fledged professional CoC Investigator!
Recently, he and his mythos-scarred compatriots have learned of
mysterious goings-on in Saint Thomas, Louisiana. Ellis has decided
to participate in the investigation by staying in his hotel room in
Boston. He communicates with the other investigators by phone.
Ellis begins his chilling narrative:
Sept 9, 1933: Things go splendidly! I curled up in front of the
fireplace, hot tea near one hand, the Boston Globe in the other.
The slippers Mum sent fit perfectly. Oh, yes, finally heard from
fellow investigators today. They're camped out in some run-down
hotel in that God-awful bayou, and have proceeded to question the
locals. I told them to watch out for ancient books of evil, images
of the local mailman in medievel tapestries, all the normal rot.
Sept 11, 1933: I take in a pleasant auto-tour of the coastline.
Sept 12, 1933: I had the most distressing call from my compatriots
today, transcribed as follows:
Some fellow whose voice I can't place: "We're getting torn
up by these werewolf creatures! They hide out in the tunnels in the
levee during the day, but all hell breaks loose at midnight!"
Me: "Why the deuce are you out there at midnight? Remember!
'Investigation in the morning is safe and boring, investigation at
night is monster's delight!'"
Him: "Well, uh, I dunno, nighttime just seemed like the
best time for us to sneak around. You know, breaking and entering
for clues."
I rolled my eyes. And they wonder why one of them dies every time
they step out of their hotel rooms!
Him again: "We did find a bunch of rocks laid out in a V.
Oh, yeah, and one of us died there. Werewolves, again. These
things... they're loathsome! Sanity-blasting! They're about 7 feet
tall..."
Me: "NEVER describe the monsters to me! And if you find
tomes of mind-blasting knowledge, keep them to yourself! Don't
read any passages to me!"
Him: "Hey, what are *you* doing? You seem to know everything.
Come down and help us out!"
Me: "Bloody Hell! That's right I know everything! Why do you
think I'm up here? Look, you do your part, I'll do mine, er, Jim."
Him: "I'm Randolph. Jim died six investigators ago"
Me: "Okay, Randolph. I'm mobilizing into action as we speak."
Hanging up the phone, I proceeded to finish the Globe, and then
headed out to the Miscellaneous Goods store. At the store, I ran
into the elderly proprietor, Mrs. MacCurdie. A friendly woman, I've
bought many a supply of investigative goods from her over the years.
Mrs. MacCurdie: "whatcha lookin' for today, sweetie?"
Me: "Oh, hello, Mrs. MacCurdie. I'm in the mind for, oh, a
jar of marmalade and a loaf of that delightful bread I smell baking as
we speak! Oh, and a new kettle. Hmmm, ah, yes, and 500 .32-caliber
bullets, um, 2 100-bullet drums for a Thompson gun, and as many
sticks of dynamite as you have on premises."
Her: "Ah, doin' a bit of investigative work, eh?"
Me: "Er, no, well, yes, but just not me personally."
Her: "What's threaten' the world this time? Somethin'
squamous, I bet!"
Me: "Oh, more likely than not. I suspect Hast- um, that
blobby fellow whose name begins with an H. Ah, yes, thank you, 20
sticks should do it."
Sept 14, 1933: I receive a curious phone call.
Randolph: "we found this... hole in the wall in the basement
of the town hall. You look through it, and you can see planets out
in space. The professor says that from the star positions, Aldeberan
must be on the other side of the wall. Then something started
slithering through it! We all shut our eyes and tried to get of the
room. Wembley started waving this strange knife he found, and it
started to slither back to its own side of the hole. Then the, uh,
lumberjack, Logan, said 'to hell with it! I'm looking!' Then he went
stark raving insane. We had to shoot him."
Bleedin' lumberjacks! They're all the same!
Sept 15, 1933: another phone call from my compatriots! Am I
a bloody nursemaid?
Some fellow whose voice I can't place: "Have ya sent the
supplies, limey? We're getting slaughtered down here!"
Me: "I resent that tone, fellow investigator! The supplies
are on their way. I marked the boxes "Fragile! Infectious Pus
Samples! Do Not Open!", so they should get to you without any undue
impedance."
Him: "Good. We're just running around down here. No one's
gotta clue on what to do."
Me: "Bloody hell! Haven't you found the spellbook, or the
artifact, or the witchdoctor, or whatever to close that bloody
dimensional rift to, er, Mr. H?"
Him: "Well, we had the spooky knife with runes all over it,
but Wembley threw it into the rift. We think its orbiting Aldeberan
now."
Bloody dilettantes!
Him again: "We've got a spellbook, too, but the guy whose
reading all the spellbooks refuses to cast the gate-closing spell.
Says he doesn't wanna go insane."
Me: "Look. In the course of my many investigations, I
happened to obtain a Mi-Go brainbox. So tell him he can cast the
bloody gate-closing spell his way, or *my* way. You can pull him
around on a bleeding wagon! Er, sorry. Look, um, Randolph, you've
got to be tough!"
Him: "That's, er, Bill. Randy died two investigators ago.
That's another thing. We're getting short on investigators here!
We've gone through the entire Wembley family tree, and now we're
resorting to recruiting from the villagers. If you think sharing a
hotel room with a half-dozen tribal fishermen is a picnic, think
again!"
Me: "Urrgh. Yes, I see your point. I shall take care of it!"
September 16, 1933: I place an ad in the Boston Globe's classifieds.
September 17, 1933: Most distressing news! The Globe's positioning
of my classified ad could not have been worse!
.......
| |
|--------------------------------------------|
| Brave investigators needed for ill-fated |
| Starkweather-Moore expedition. Will pay |
| food, housing, travel expenses, sanitarium |
| bills. The chance to die in a very exotic |
| locale. Call 666-1707 and ask for Prof. |
| Gipple. Not an EOE. |
|--------------------------------------------|
| Foolhardy gents (and ladies!) with a touch |
| of curiosity about the unseen world wanted |
| for Louisiana Bayou investigation. Rapid |
| advancement to leadership pos. quite poss. |
| Interested parties please contact Micheal |
| Ellis at 242-4242. Ammo supplied. |
|--------------------------------------------|
| Wanted: Immediate Placement! People with |
| security experience needed for the next |
| voyage of the U.S.S. Enterprise as it sails|
| for uncharted islands in the Pacific. Will|
| supply red shirt. Contact J.T. Kirk at ...|
| .... |
Bloody hell! And a free shirt! How can I compete with that?
September 20, 1933: At last, my fellow investigators have figured
out the enigma of the stone blocks, and all that cultist rot. Quite
frankly, it all sounds the same after awhile. The resolution is at
hand, as I learned from my last phone call:
Bill: "yeah, we've just about wrapped everything up here.
We've got the rift closed, and we're planning on attacking the
cultists before they try to sacrifice us."
Me: "Well, you should be familiar with how it works. If it
gets too hot, start throwing dynamite as if it were going out of style."
Bill: "There's not too many of us left, though. The
Anthropology professor and the journalist are both gibbering loons.
Its just me and the boxer who can still add one and one and not
get Cthulhu."
Me: "I'm sure you'll be able to take care of it. Good luck!"
My job done, I settle down in my easy chair. Tomorrow's Globe should
have all the details, if this goes anything at all like a typical
investigation.
September 21, 1933: ah, the Globe!
"Saint Thomas, Lousiana- an explosion of tremendous proportions
rocked the little town of Saint Thomas last night as a fireball engulfed
the town hall. Several members of a local religious cult, including the
leader, are believed to be dead, as are an anthropology professor from
Boston University and a journalist for the Chicago Tribune. Eyewitness
accounts place the professor, Dr. Chester Meaney, and the journalist,
Emma Splister, running into the town hall with lit dynamite strapped to
their bodies, and foam running from their mouths. Investigations
continue..."
Another threat to humanity checked! I strangely feel more sane than
when I started this investigation. To the victor goes the spoils!
--
Greg Mohler ~~~ [g--eg--o] at [pacific.mps.ohio-state.edu]
Mechwarrior RPG (focusing on people, not robots) ideas 'n' stuff at:
http://www.physics.ohio-state.edu/~greggo
"It's, uh, November 6, 1945..." - Beck, "11.6.45"