The People's Republic of Adanac (A role playing game)

[Fleegle]

"Patriotism! Is that what you call this? I want no part in it." said Rob, angrily. "Burn it yourself!" he said as he tossed the book aside. He got up and started to walk away.

[Schme]

The two men took on looks of horror as Rob tossed aside the book, and stared blankly as he turned around.

Rob felt and hand on his shoulder as the white man tried to whirl him around the other way. “What you a National Unionist, are you man? Well the dream is over, bud. This is the new era. Get used to it, Unionist boy.” He said this very loudly, as though he was hoping others would here him. The latino man stepped up beside the white man, in an aggressive stance, with a look of poison on his face. The brutish Caucasian continued, pushing Rob roughly as he spoke. “Now get the hell of the Hill, before I fuck you up, guy.” And after saying this, he stepped forward to push Rob again, more roughly this time, as though he were trying to knock him down.

[Fleegle]

What the hell, thought Rob. He pulled back and punched the Caucasian man in the face.

[Schme]

The white man swore and staggered backwards, holding his nose, which was now dripping with blood. He swore violently. It may be that he’d not been expecting this, but it seemed more likely that this is what he’d been trying to bring about.

The Latino man made a sort of rasping noise, and then a coughing sort of yell. As he opened his mouth, Rob could see that he had no tongue. Fast as lightning, he produced from his jacket a switchblade, and flicking it open with equal speed, lunged at Rob, swinging the blade high to slash Rob’s face.

The altercation seemed to draw the attention of some of the outer part of the crowd, although this was not a good time to be paying attention to the spectators.

[Fleegle]

Rob recoiled from the knife attack. That's too bloody close he thought. Panting, he took flight into the crowd.

[Schme]

The music had stopped about a minute before, but the guitar player could be heard tuning his instrument, ignoring the goings on. He had not unplugged the amplifier, and so his tinkering resonated loudly, just as his music had.

The tongueless man, who’d thrown his weight into the swing,, was knocked to the ground as Rob ran passed him. The white guy, who’d rallied himself, tried to grab him as he went past, but his hands fell short.

Rob found that it was harder to slip into the crowd then he’d anticipated, in fact, he could not slip in at all, but rather careened into a wall of bodies. The people in the crowd who’d been watching (the number of them growing every second) were not happy about being run into, or about having the spectacle finished. One rough mob member pushed Rob away, telling him not to be such an effeminate coward (to paraphrase.)

“Tried to punch me out, this bitch did!” said the bleeding man. “He’s a fucking anarchist!”

At the mention of the word anarchist, the crowd became frenzied and angry. The air was ripe with curses as the angry mob began their attempt to tear the “anarchist” to shreds. Fortunately for Rob, the curses in the air were mixed with confusion, as seeing as not everyone could see who the anarchist was supposed to be, they opted rather assume that it was the nearest person, and a great brawl broke out.

The two soldiers from the suit wearing person’s bodyguard, who’d been approaching to break up the fight, quickly decided that they were inadequate to deal with this new happening, and it seemed the men in suits thought so too, as they decided that they’d enter the parliament buildings rather than wait outside. They and their bodyguard lieutenants had taken out radios aswell, and it seemed likely that the soldiers, police and insignia wearing, primitively armed paramilitaries that streamed out of the parliament buildings, nearby barracks and surrounding apartments were to engage the crowd and restore order had come at their urging.

By now, the guitarist and sheet metal precisionist had decided that this gig was finished, and were currently carting their instruments and equipment to safety piece by piece.

[Fleegle]

Using the chaos to his advantage, Rob headed to the east of Parliament.

[Schme]

“Would you look at that?” said an old man with a long white beard down at the sidewalk, as he looked at the great commotion up on the Hill.

“Never seen anything like it.” Said an old woman beside him, presumably his wife. “Well, actually, do you remember that time in Australia……..”


A few soldiers rushed past Rob, heading to the buildings to throw themselves into the fray. No one thought to ask him why he was running.

[Fleegle]

Having escaped the mob, Rob lost steam and caught a breather at a park bench.

(I'm assuming there are park benches, but let me know if that's not okay.)

[Schme]

(Still park benches around. I think I know about where it is you mean.)

Three old men and an old women sat near Rob on another bench, conversing while periodically feeding the pigeons with a loaf of bread they’d brought. Near them, a group of little girls were dancing and making music with ankle bells, and it seemed they knew what they were doing, as it was sounding rather well done. It was perhaps because of the direction and help of the two women who seemed to be taking care of them.

The first, was a short, brown haired Slavic women, who wore a old looked long sleeved shirt and faded jeans.

The second was a somewhat taller desi women, with her long black hair tied up in a pony tail. She wore a pair of shorts that went down passed her knees and a white T-Shirt that looked like something a middle class person would give to the Salvation Army.

The oddly clothed pair smiled as they directed the little girls, help them create little rhythms and tunes to go along with their singing.

Apart from this, the park was silent.

(I couldn’t think of anything to say a present, so I described the people at the park. I think of something soon, I suppose. In meantime, do what you like. I’m just not all that awake yet.)

[Fleegle]

Surrounded by the elderly and children, Rob did not feel threatened anymore, and relaxed on the bench. Still he displayed a morose look upon his face, for he had lost all sense of purpose.

[Schme]

Of the four people on the other bench, one seemed to be becoming increasingly angry and annoyed. It seemed that they were talking either about politics or about the price of sand per metric ton, but it was very hard to tell. The annoyed man had crossed his arms and began to sprinkle his arguments with an ever mounting number of curse words. The other three did not seemed to be very disdainful of whatever it was he was saying, and it this only made him angrier.

The two women who’d been taking care of the numerous large group of children help the little girls finish there tune, and then sat down on a bench opposite Rob. The little children pleaded with them to help them do another, but they smilingly declined, saying that they were tired. The little girls were sent off to their own devices, and they broke up to play near the bench and on the path. Some tried began to dance again, making another, much simpler tune, and singing what sounded like some sort of nursery rhyme, and they were not half bad for people of there age. Others broke away to play in smaller groups of two and three. The children occupied, the two women fell into conversation with each other

Two small boys of about seven years of age showed up behind Rob’s bench. One was a bit tall for his age, a small nicely dressed Asiatic child, with his hair cut very short in the manner which Arabs cut the hair of young children. The other was rather short and white, and not nearly as nicely dressed. He had long curly brown hair (which needed to be cut) and was very grimy and dirty. Both seemed to be a bit skinny. They shared between them a small folding knife, with which they amused themselves by cutting up twigs, making cuts in the bench and in trees, and using it to dig up dirt and grass. It looked to be quite a novelty for them.

“Hey guy!” one of the old man shouted from the bench. “What’s wrong with you? You coming down from something, are yah?” after saying this him and his friends laughed and sniggered, as though he’d made some sort of funny joke.

The two women on the bench did not seem to appreciate the old man agitating the forlorn looking stranger, and glanced nervously at Rob, although they continued there conversation.

“Here guy, come feed the pigeons, it cheer you up after the blow wear off!” The old man had a slight, almost indiscernible accent. It could not be said for sure what it was, but it was there.

At the mention of the pigeons, the argumentative old man who’d been getting all riled up from the discussion began to sulk again. “I fuckin’ hate the godamn pigeons….” He mumbled, throwing a handful of torn up bread to the birds before crossing his arms again.

[Fleegle]

"Why is it that everyone thinks I'm high?" Rob replied in a bemused tone. "Can't a guy just be sad anymore?"
Rob grabbed a bit of bread and tossed some to the pigeons.

[Schme]

Was filler. Not interesting.

Schme, 2006

[Nalaris]

And then there was silence...

I'd like to join, but this game looks a little...dead...