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Let's Read Let's build a city fit for all codexers - The Wagie Cage

Joined
Oct 26, 2016
Messages
1,898
I think the formatting is a big problem. The human eye doesn't like to travel large distances back and forth too frequently. I would also align text with portraits, kind of how it's done in role playing video games.
 

0wca

Learned
Joined
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Messages
504
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Not here
If this is Codex town, is there a mandatory F1 themed bar with a mandatory first visit?

Is it across from the Assfinder gay strip club?
 

GrafvonMoltke

Shoutbox Purity League
Shitposter
Joined
Dec 2, 2016
Messages
2,527
Location
Land of the Great Steppe
Pretty good, not a lot happened, but a lot of promising new characters are introduced. Brisker pacing is definitly an improvement.
One thing which I would like to see for easy readings sake is to not repeat avatars when the same person speaks in turn. So:

But I don't read many LPs, so maybe that is just the LP style. Its a bit cumbersome to read when the portrait is repeated four times.

To be honest the original style was supposed to make it look somewhat similar to a shoutbox convo with bigger avatars. Not sure if anyone got that or not. Maybe I can look at making the style a bit more manageable, although I'm not wild on the way you suggested (sorry!).

I disagree

Hello, friend.

maybe if you do that, don't put the narrative text (ie He loses his train of thought) in italics, so that it's easier to see what's dialogue or not.

I liek italics tho. I'll think about it.

I think the formatting is a big problem. The human eye doesn't like to travel large distances back and forth too frequently. I would also align text with portraits, kind of how it's done in role playing video games.

Shut up.

If this is Codex town, is there a mandatory F1 themed bar with a mandatory first visit?

Is it across from the Assfinder gay strip club?

There was a gay club in Beanertown which sadly got flattened along with the rest of the district. There's a ton of troon mods on workshop though so I'm sure the homos will make a reappearance.

I have decided to try releasing each section individually, instead of bundling them together as I did before. Chapters became too long, and then parts were still apparently too long, so now each part goes out one at a time. Bear in mind that this is literally the shortest I can make it without completely changing my style of writing (please God no), so if it's still too long for you then IDK what to tell you.

This does however mean that I will probably release the next part some time this holiday weekend, as it's 95% written at this point. Get yourself ready, buckaroos. It's going to be a wild ride.
 

baud

Arcane
Patron
Joined
Dec 11, 2016
Messages
3,992
Location
Septentrion
RPG Wokedex Strap Yourselves In Steve gets a Kidney but I don't even get a tag. Pathfinder: Wrath I helped put crap in Monomyth
I liek italics tho. I'll think about it.
I'm not saying to stop using italics, just that (without the portraits) it'd be easier to read if there's a distinction in font style between dialogue and narration, so you could keep italics for one or the other.

Personally I didn't get that the style is supposed to be a shootbox callback/reference, but I've barely used it.
 

GrafvonMoltke

Shoutbox Purity League
Shitposter
Joined
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Messages
2,527
Location
Land of the Great Steppe
Chapter Four - Brown Gold

Part Two - Porky's Gambit



In the dream, a wind-up monkey bashes his head with a croquet mallet repeatedly, calling him "Samson" over and over again. No matter how far he reaches out to stop it, he can't get his hand anywhere near the cursed thing. So he lays there and takes the hits, each one further stripping away another layer of sanity like layers on an onion. If he doesn't stop soon, there won't be anything left.

Though this is obviously a dream, the blonde man thinks to himself that perhaps it's closer to the truth than he would usually care to admit.

The dream fades away and the real world returns slowly. Saturday morning, presumably. Daylight stares at him mercilessly from wide, curtainless windows of his office.

20211222223732-1.jpg


Eyes half open, he pushes himself up from the leather couch, taking stock of the mess of an office. On the desk an uncapped bottle of Havana Club watches him judgmentally, the dregs a brain-shattering reminder of his lack of sobriety.

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GrafvonMoltke:
Shut up!


He swipes up his brown leather brogue from the floor and flings it at the emptied bottle, missing completely and landing in a potted plant.

He gets up, aiming his stumbling mass of a body towards the desk and the bottle of water in the drawer. Guzzling the water greedily, he pushes the intercom button weakly and croaks out his secretary's name.

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GrafvonMoltke:
Shirley.

No answer. He tries again.

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GrafvonMoltke:
Shirley? Fed? Anyone?

Of course no-one's there; it's Saturday after all. Other businesses might be slave-drivers forcing their wagies to work on Saturday, but the architect likes to think of himself at least half a decent person.

He opens the top drawer of the desk, searching for some aspirin. Instead he sees that Webley revolver staring back at him. It almost seems to beckon him with its sexy curves.

The buzzing of the intercom leaves this thought in a million pieces on the floor.

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C
onveniently unavatared masculine voice doing an impression of a female secretary:

Why good morning Mr Moltke. If you're feeling up to it there's an oh-so handsome man waiting here for you in reception.

The man on the other end of the intercom couldn't fool absolutely anyone with that voice, but it has a suave charm all of its own.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
Who's that?

The man walks in through the doorway, the remains of the door still sitting on the floor some way away. The figure is difficult to make out at first due to the post-alcoholic haze clouding the architect's mind, but after a few seconds the impossibly white teeth and sharp-yet-casual Brioni blazer make it all too clear who's paying him a visit.

rean.jpg
Rean:
Knock, knock.


He mimes knocking on the door, apparently imagining this gesture to be amusing. He waltzes in, either not noticing or not caring about all the warning signs of alcoholism on display.

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GrafvonMoltke:
How did you get in here?
rean.jpg
Rean:
Your security guard let me in. What's his name, Bill? He's sure been having a rough time recently, he couldn't wait to tell me all about.


It's true, Bill has been having a very rough time recently. Such a sad story.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
What are you doing here, you brown-nosing metrosexual?
rean.jpg
Rean:
Now is that any way to talk to a dear friend such as myself? You know, you'll catch more flies with barbecue sauce than with vinegar, Mr Moltke.


He wags his finger in a childlike way, smiling the whole time.

rean.jpg
Rean:
The truth is that I've been up all night thinking about your problems. I couldn't sleep at all, dear brosky! Not a wink! And I can see you haven't been doing much of that either.


He gestures with a nod at what remains of the evening's festivities. It doesn't take him long to come forward and get to the point, though.

rean.jpg
Rean:
As I see it, you have two clear problems here-


He walks around the side of the desk and parks himself in the architect's uncomfortable wooden chair, not asking or even motioning for permission.

rean.jpg
Rean:
-the first is of course that you don't have anywhere near enough funds to satisfy the mayor's demands to any acceptable level, whether the Treasury provides you with limited funds or not. I mean, that GRAND GRAND GRAND new plaza isn't going to pay for itself, nor will relocating a fairly large secton of Codexia's economy.

20211222223718-1.jpg


He leans back in the chair. The architect prays to all the Gods who will listen for the chair to break at that moment.

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Rean:
The second problem is that the mayor has clearly got it in for you and would like nothing more than to rub you out of the rich tapestry of Codexian public life, as we can see from my aforementioned reasoning.


He sticks his hand out violently, swiping the nearly-empty rum bottle with an expertly executed karate chop. The bottle lands in the bin with a satisfying clink.

rean.jpg
Rean:
This means you need allies, my dear friend, and not just me. As humble and gracious as I am to consider you my traveling companion in this absurd journey in life, I have nowhere near the power or wealth to assist you in this battle.


He raises his eyes up to the architect's and smiles.

rean.jpg
Rean:
But I know a man who does.


He rises from the chair energetically and walks around the desk to where the architect is standing and pushes him gently back towards the desk, motioning for him to sit down.

rean.jpg
Rean:
I've got a surprise for you.

He says gleefully, drawing the curtains. The room fills with darkness. The architect feels disturbed as the various permutations of what could happen next fill his brain. Murder? Torture? Gay torture? A timeshare presentation? He certainly looks the type.

The dapper man pulls a microphone out of God-knows-where and turns in the direction of the door. A spotlight falls on the door as if by magic, conjured by dark forces.

Now the architect comes to think about, his office didn't have curtains before, either. These dark forces sure work in mysterious ways.

rean.jpg
Rean:
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

Seriously? What the hell?

rean.jpg
Rean:
And God said "Let there be Codexia" and there was Codexia. God saw that Codexia was incline, and he separated Codexia from the normies.


A holographic 3D representation of Codexia is projected into the room, in all its glory, although it looks far grander and more magnificent than the city out of the window. This hologram is not codex as it is; it is codex as it could be. The neo-futurist architecture, the autonomous public transportation network, the augmented breasts. A very bright future, if only it can be realised.

Then the words of the man in the suit actually start to register. Is this salesman really making his pitch by ripping off the Book of Genesis? The architect, somewhat perplexed, feels the need to suppress a bemused moan.

rean.jpg
Rean:
And God said "Let there be commerce" and it was so.

New Codexian kredits start to rain down from the ceiling. The architect plucks one from the air and sees, much to his surprise, that they are real. A small smile appears on his face in amusement.

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Rean:
And God said "Let fine cigars flow into the hands of those worthy few" and it was so. And God saw that this also was incline.


A regiment of Codexia's finest strippers march into the cramped office, all brandishing the finest in Caribbean cigars. The nearest one, a blonde named Tiffany, plants one in the architect's mouth as she smiles seductively. A redhead named Candy lights it and sits on the architect's lap, arms tightly gripping his neck. Now, he couldn't help but grin.

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Rean:
And God said "Let the most exquisite whiskies of the world pour endlessly into the glasses of my friends" and it was so. And God saw that it was incline.


Now a small detachment of waiters in waistcoats descends upon this rather ludicrous scene, their arms laden with whisky from all the four corners of the earth. A handsome waiter wearing a smile pours him a Yamazaki 12 year old, which the architect samples with a smile. Whoever this benefactor is, he's certainly a generous guy, the architect thinks to himself. He's even starting to enjoy himself.

rean.jpg
Rean:
And God said...
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
LET THERE BE PORKY!

The fat man jumps in front of the spotlight with what looks like all the energy a fat man can muster. Short of stature and thick of body, the fattened monopoly man waddles into the office sporting his top-hat, monocle and pin-striped trousers. The diamond mounted in his hilt probably cost entire African villages their lives, but so be it.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
PORKY!

Half-roared, half-screeched, his outburst has probably woken up the devil himself down in his fiery caverns. The architect launches to his feet, sending the red-haired stripper flying across the room, the man in the suit only narrowly managing to dodge her.

The blonde man snatches up his notepad to check its contents: FUCK PORKY scrawled on almost every single page. Yup, he certainly still hates Porky.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
How DARE you come here?! After everything you've done! Get out! GET OUT!
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
Now, now, dear friend. I've come here under a white flag of peace! I know we've had our differences in the past-
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
I don't want to hear it! You are not welcome here, and you never will be! NEVER!

The engorged capitalist looks offended at this remark, scorned even, sweat dripping from his skin-stuffed pores. He winces and screws his face up, pulling back a little like a rat-faced retard who's been found stealing pies out of the fridge.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
Now that's just not nice now, is it? Not nice at all! Here I come to bury the hatchet between us; to put aside our differences and let bygones be bygones! I even went through the considerable financial trouble of organizing this great show for you!
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
You shouldn't have bothered! I will never, EVER, forgive you for what you did to me, you fat piece of shit!


His mind wanders back to that dark, dark time, but the memory fades almost as soon as it is recalled. It's hard to remember back to those times in Old Codexia here in this new realm, almost as if some cosmic force...

His head starts to swim, dizziness overtaking him.

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Rean:
Are you ok, Mr Moltke? Maybe you should sit down.


He complies silently. The stripper fails to make a reappearance on his lap.

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PorkyThePaladin:
Ladies and Gentlemen-


He tips his insanely large top hat to the small army of poorly-paid service people now looking on in curiosity, a jungle of human inequity.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
-I'd like to thank you for the wonderful service you provided, but it's time for my old friend and I to have a little chat, so could you please all clear out?

20211222223406-1.jpg


Nobody moves a muscle. The fatman sighs and flicks a gold coin through the doorway. Predictably, the mass of proles fights, kicks and screams at each other to try and get it, exiting with the ferocious greed the monopoly man had hoped they would. He chuckles a greasy laugh, full of digestive gases.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
You too, friend.


He winks at the man in the nice suit, spitting out the word "friend" with some disdain. Clearly, this is a man who has problem keeping friends. The man in the suit, pride slightly wounded, takes his leave with a bow.

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PorkyThePaladin:
Ahhhh, peace at last! Now, towards the matter at hand.


He turns back towards the desk only to find a gun in his face. The architect really wants him gone.

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GrafvonMoltke:
I've already told you enough times, Porky. You aren't welcome here. Leave.


The fatman's sweat breaks into a torrential downpour. What had once been a nice waistcoat now looks more akin to bedsheet from a cheap motel.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
I realize, of course, that you are upset. That's only natural! In truth, I would like to apologize.


He sticks his hand out to touch the architect's shoulder, but instead of being greeted with a kind smile only the click of the hammer awaits him. He turns his hand back quickly, stroking his greasy hair instead.

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PorkyThePaladin:
What I did to you? Unforgivable! What happened between us? Unspeakable! The lost hours of sleep I've had to endure? Uncountable! But I know deep down, there's a man in there who remembers the good days we had together.


The blonde man can't help but be forced back into a memory. Old Codexia, the summer of 2025. The two of them sit on a park bench, the first chills of autumn just starting to bite as a breeze rolls through. The man wasn't fat then and only rich in spirit. I'm going to make it, Graf, he says. Just you wait and see. You and I are going straight to the top, just like we always dreamed.

He can taste the ice cream. Such a sweet, delectable treat, it sits as the final figurative cherry on top of a day which, metaphorically speaking, is the ice cream. Yes, THE ice cream.

But then, just as the strawberry ice-cream starts to fill his mouth, he rips his own memory back into the present before he has to deal with the horrors of what came after.

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GrafvonMoltke:
Why did you have to come here? To retread old memories? It still hurts! It still hurts.

His grip on the gun loosens slightly as emotions start to flood his mind. Alien, feminine emotions. Like sorrow and doubt. And maybe a little pity.

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PorkyThePaladin:
It was a long time ago, friend. You can let go now. Come on now, I won't bite.

He reaches out to him another time and this time connects, touching his shoulder firmly but softly. The architect drops the gun back into the desk draw, a tear escaping along into the drawer with the ancient paperweight.

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PorkyThePaladin:
I will always consider you are dear friend, Graf, and I'm sorry. I heard that you were in trouble, and I've come to help.
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
Help how? The Mayor-
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
Don't worry about the Mayor. Our good friend Mr Rean told me everything I need to know about that unsavory...creature. He wants to send my friend out of business? Fat chance!

He looks down at himself in what might be a split-second glimpse of self-awareness. But it passes, like a mild episode of indigestion.

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PorkyThePaladin:
That's why we are willing to help you, Graf. We will cover all the costs of the makeover of downtown, INCLUDING-


He gets all dramatic, raising his finger up into the sky.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
-the relocation of all of the unsightly blemishes that currently exist wherein! Does that not sound like a good deal to you, my dearest friend?

The architect dries his eyes with a pina-colada soaked rag, stinging his eyes slightly. He recomposes himself.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
And what do you want, Porky? Maybe you forget that I know you, and you're not going to do absolutely anything without there being a sizeable windfall for yourself.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
I never claimed to be a saint, Graf; I am a businessman after all. As I see it, we can both profit out of this. Across the water, there is an ideal parcel of land, sitting absolutely empty. A crime it is to allow this dirty, unsullied earth to continue to exist when it could be turned into something far more productive!

20211222224019-1.jpg


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GrafvonMoltke:
Productive?
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
And profitable! The industry north of here is an inconvenience to you, is it not? It's an inconvenience to myself also, and not just from having to see it from the balcony of my penthouse every day! No, they are an inconvenience to Porky Industrial Holdings Inc., which I am sure you remember well.

He does; he shudders.

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PorkyThePaladin:
Can you imagine that these small-time hawkers of inferior products actually practice PROTECTIONISM to ensure that more successful purveyors of quality products, like myself, can't compete with them? A terrible crime, I'm sure you will agree!
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
I don't.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:
You wound me Graf, but allow me to continue.

He walks off, away from the desk. The floor creaks a little underneath him.

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PorkyThePaladin:
What I propose is a Free Trade Zone, just across the water! The only place in our beloved Codexia where industry can be allowed to flourish! Where all will have an equal chance to compete in the pleasures of the marketplace! And all across the water, where no harm can come to any poor little orphans, having to breathe in those dastardly diesel fumes!
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:
And of course you'll get some kind of favourable treatment from us. Honestly, it sounds more protectionist than what we have now.


He retorts. Where once anger had turned to sadness, sadness has now turned to an overtly sarcastic mood. Still, at least the mood has changed.

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PorkyThePaladin:
You continue to wound me, dear friend, but I will not take it personally. You have earned the right to wound me. The establishment of the zone is enough help that I require; I look forward to a high-paced, competitive market!


His gargantuan smile turns to a more serious one, his gaze drifting away for half a minute.

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PorkyThePaladin:
Besides, we have enough contracts lined up with the Chinese to provide us with all the orders we'll ever need. That is, if we can get the land.


He turns back to the human sultana that calls himself an architect. His eyes seem almost pathetic and longing, like a dog or a hooker.

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PorkyThePaladin:
Friends help each other out, don't they?


They both let that last question rest there for a long time as it fills the air and threatens to poison the atmosphere. Defeated, the architect silently sticks his hand out to shake the fat man's, although the gesture can only be described as unenthusiastic. The capitalist eagerly snaps up the architect's hand, eyes full of glee, a head full of dollar signs. But the architect doesn't let go.

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GrafvonMoltke:
Let me get one thing straight-


He says, gripping his hand tightly. He draws him close, an uncomfortable amount of distance between them. The fat man's smell can only be described as pungent.

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GrafvonMoltke:
-I don't trust you, and I never will. This arrangement we have only exists as long as it is advantageous to me, and beyond that, nada. And one final thing. If you ever, EVER, try to cross me-


He once more reveals the Webley revolver in his hand, stealthily plucked from the draw. He puts the barrel under his own chin, steel on flesh.

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GrafvonMoltke:
-this is how it ends for you.


He yanks the trigger back, the revolver making a hollow click as the hammer hits down on an empty chamber. The message couldn't have been clearer.

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PorkyThePaladin:
My dear friend Graf, I understand your frustration, and I only hope that I can prove my trustworthiness to you in our future dealings. For now, I can be satisfied that we have reached an agreement on this mutually lucrative opportunity.


His words suddenly all stilted and formal, like a letter: this man definitely isn't anyone's friend.

They release their grip over each other, and the tense atmosphere relaxes somewhat. Porky makes an attempt towards the doorway, clearly wanting to leave. Perhaps he does not want to push his luck.

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PorkyThePaladin:
Thank you once again for this, Graf. A lot of good ground has been covered here today. If you could have the basic infrastructure put in place for the Porky Free Trade Zone by the end of next week, that would be fantastic. We'll take care of the rest.


He swipes up a cigar from the floor and a glass of whisky from the table. He winks as he sticks the cigar in his mouth and then motions a quick, silent toast to the architect. He disappears quietly, the absolute antithesis of his earlier entrance.

Not wanting to waste any time, the architect logs into his city management software; the infamous yet curiously enigmatic "CS".

He relaxes a little in his old chair as he sets to work. His earlier hangover has passed somewhat, although his belly growls an impatient rumble. He will get a hearty breakfast from a diner somewhere while he mulls over this new, uneasy alliance.

Porky Industrial Way will provide the main access point to the newly declared Free Trade Zone.

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The cargo terminal will be his final gift to his old friend, and it is his sincerest hope that is his undoing, a shoddy and fairly unimpressive gift.

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And that is all he's getting. Truth be told, it feels good to keep his nemesis across the water, away from where he can get his greasy fingers in all the pies. His pies.

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The garbage trucks start to roll down Poland Avenue, headed in the direction of the new trade zone. The outflux of trucks causes some serious congestion. But why should the architect care right now? There's more pressing business at hand.

The die, once again, is cast, and all this die-casting is making the architect hungry. He gets his coat; all the buffets of Codexia are open for the taking.

And this time, he has his permit.
 

Rean

Head Codexian Weeb
Patron
Joined
Nov 14, 2020
Messages
1,910
Strap Yourselves In
As a true CN character I get to introduce the deep-pocketed arch-villain. Very accurate.
Catgirl fanservice when?
 

GrafvonMoltke

Shoutbox Purity League
Shitposter
Joined
Dec 2, 2016
Messages
2,527
Location
Land of the Great Steppe
As a true CN character I get to introduce the deep-pocketed arch-villain. Very accurate.
Catgirl fanservice when?

You want catgirls? I can give you catgirls. You might be in for a long wait, though.

So, obviously that terrible looking Codex statue will be at the heart of Gregz's GRAND CITY HALL PLAZA, but I decided to fire up the asset editor and see what the statue's stats were like. Wasn't terribly impressed, so I edited it to be far more worthy of Codexia.

20211231121523-1.jpg


Midwits need not apply.
 
Last edited:

GrafvonMoltke

Shoutbox Purity League
Shitposter
Joined
Dec 2, 2016
Messages
2,527
Location
Land of the Great Steppe
Chapter Four - Brown Gold

Part Three - Let The Brown Flow



A wind is blowing.

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A harsh, cruel wind.

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The architect drops the paper, and lets the wind take it far, far away. In all honesty, he wishes he could go with it.

The architect stands on hallowed ground, if one considers the Codex holy. The Grand Plaza, home of City Hall, home of all that is truly, authentically Codexian, is the beige-tinted nucleus of public life in New Codexia. The core of it all; the place of every Codexer's holy pilgrimage.

It's a shame then, that it is clearly unfinished.

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More than unfinished, in fact. Work on the plaza that our intrepid architect has pledged to build for Mayor Gregz has barely even begun, and not for lack of will. Predictably, Codexia's treasurer's willingness to cough up funding for can only be described as, well, unwilling. So far, the only work completed has been the ground work and road construction for the plaza, and the construction of the much needed metro network.

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As a result, MCL's budget has taken a serious a beating.

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All on the back of rapid growth throughout the whole of the downtown area. Globohomo Central, the Prosperium, America Town: all have grown massively in population density as apartment blocks and glitzy shopping malls pop up rapidly like limp dicks on Chinese rhino horn. Even the newest district in the North-West, Lagolian Meadow, which had been nothing but empty land a few weeks ago, is beginning to establish itself as a cool and trendy locale for those of the more bearded variety; an oasis of soy in this jungle of glass and concrete. Naturally, none of this would've been possible without the newly inaugurated mass-transit network transporting Codexians to their various vices.

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We seriously need some money, the architect thinks to himself.

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GrafvonMoltke:

We seriously need some money.
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Fedsmoker:

Codexian First is around the corner.
Knock off a bank? The architect takes off his hard hat for a second, wiping sweat from his forehead. Probably not a great idea, although it seems doubtful that anyone would actually catch them given the rather deplorable state of corrupt law enforcement in the Cage. The hard hat feels cumbersome in his hand; why exactly he's wearing the thing is anyone's guess seeing as how there's no actual construction going on, but nobody seems to have noticed. His assistant, completely hatless, clearly fears no falling pianos. No, no banks will be knocked off. They'll have to find something else.

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fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Boss?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

What?
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Don't you think it's time we paid the fat man a visit?
He punches his clenched fist into his other hand, cupped slightly. Violence must be the order of the day.

The architect considers this carefully. The fat man did promise to take care of this, and so far zip.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Alright, let's go.
They cram into the architect's Camry, his assistant fitting uncomfortably into the front seat after throwing aside some discarded KFC packaging and letters from bailiffs. It would certainly seem that the newly constructed courthouse is busy, even if not in the way that the architect intended.

The engine starts with some reluctance, the rattling of the engine indicating some problem that the blonde man could only guess at. He doesn't know and, quite frankly, doesn't want to know.

20220103215428-1.jpg


The ride down Poland Avenue is quiet and uneventful, being mostly traffic free at this time of afternoon. The Cage really is growing quickly, and a substantial part of it is unrecognisable compared to a few months ago. As he approaches the East Gate, the former boundary of the city centre which time has long but since forgotten, he notices with a certain sense of awe a very distinct shift in style and atmosphere.

20220103215450-1.jpg


Though the palm trees sway back and forth as they do over all of New Codexia, the buildings here display a certain European charm, manifesting the laissez-faire attitudes of its inhabitants. The people here probably drink strong coffee in small cups, as opposed to the more dairy-laden affectations of Codexia's elite.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Is this new?
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

What?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

This area. Is it new?

20220103215514-1.jpg


The buildings of course are all adorned with MCL signage, but the architect can't remember designing or even approving such a vast departure from Codexian architectural standards.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

This? This is Kaufmansky, like the old one. The one from before. You must remember.

The architect remembers. Back in Old Codexia lived the Kaufman family, a clan of influential merchants who certainly were not friendly. They predominantly made their fortune from trading in six and eight sided dice, but there was always talk of them being involved in....other things.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

I remember the Kaufmans very well.
He shudders. His assistant looks at him, his eyes laying bare his lack of comprehension.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

And?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

They were ruined at the end of the Second Shoutbox Civil War. Old man Pyotr Kaufman had thrown all his money behind the Weeberino National Front. He lost hard, and when they came knocking at his family's door he threw himself in the East Canal. They said when they fished him out of there he was so full of estrogen that he had spontaneously transformed into a fish.
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

And now?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

A few of them are still around, so I heard. Didn't think they would have anywhere near the cash to afford this.

Kaufmansky rolls past them at a pleasant pace, the European townhouses soothing his aching brain. Regardless of their pleasing appearance, the architect still could not believe that such a district could just plop up from nowhere without any kind of announcement.
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Do you know who gave the order? Who broke ground?

The assistant shuffles through his pocket-sized notebook grumpily.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Hmmpf. It was-
He continues shuffling.

-Malamert?

He smashes the notebook closed with one hand, scrunching up the paper. Well, that certainly makes sense. Malamert, a Codexian of Weeberino peasant ancestry, was a promising new hire when he started, taking over management of the rather lackluster architectural C team. But that was weeks ago, and sometime after his hiring, the team disappeared into the basement, never to be heard again. In all honesty, the architect had thought that he and his team were dead, presumably crushed by falling stacks of freshly-printed futa hentai.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

It's nice here. Pretty.

The assistant says nothing as Kaufmansky passes by and, eventually, Juden Boulevard transforms into Holocaust Highway.

20220103215525-1.jpg


fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Can you hear that?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Hear what?
Silence outside except for the traffic. A Kalin Fish Company van passes by.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Exactly.

Hardly a grave silence, but the architect stops talking all the same. The rest of the ride is as wordless as a muslim's wedding night.

20220103215608-1.jpg


20220103215651-1.jpg


As Holocaust Highway falls away, a sign welcomes them to the new Free Trade Zone. A sign of danger. A sign of impending doom.

20220112221311-1.jpg


graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Huh.
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Hmmpf.

20220103215738-1.jpg


The Camry slides to a stop, smooth as silk, outside the administrative building of what certainly looks like Porky's shop. The buildings here, a throwback to the power of 19th century industrialism, bask with clear elegance. A stark contrast to the choking atmosphere of dirty air that surrounds them.

20220103215757-1.jpg


They pause outside Porky's office, the blur of receptionists and security guards already forgotten. Hunkering down, the pair of delinquents speak in hushed voices.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Right, what's the play here?
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

I'll pin him against the wall.
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Ye-no. I was thinking something more subtle.
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Like what?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Like we go in there, I ask him for the money, and then if he doesn't pay up, you pin him against the wall.
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

That could work.

They fist bump, and the door opens before them. It is unclear if this was accomplished by the fist bump or was just another Codexian coincidence.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Gentlemen. I've been expecting you.

He bows uncourteously as he swings on the opening door, releasing a gust of toxic gas from his anus more potent than all of the pollution that surrounds them. His grin composed of shark teeth on crack seems well poised to take advantage of this heart-warming, vulnerable moment between two friends.

I said come in; don't stand there!

The two stand there for a few seconds longer, not wanting to oblige the gleeful commands of a man intent on demolishing them like he demolished his sumptuous luncheon. After enough time passes that their dissatisfaction is blantantly obvious, they finally oblige.

Porky's office is comfortable but not lavish, decorated in a style halfway between European neoclassicism and Art Deco, harking back to the period of great industrialists. This captain of industry waddles over to his modest oak desk, takes an envelope out of the drawer and waves it in front of the architect.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

I believe you came for this, as agreed.

He smiles what seems a genuine enough smile, given the nature of the man. The envelope sits there, nestled in his sweaty fingers, beckoning the blonde man with its off-white ruffles and edges. The architect wonders if even Porky is capable of redemption, or if this is some kind of ploy.

Reluctantly, he accepts.
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Kept me waiting.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Well, we are a business after all. If we just handed out cash to any Hooray Henry then we wouldn't be in business much longer. Besides, we knew exactly when you would be coming.
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

How did you-
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Now before you head back to your delightful sandbox of a city, I absolutely must insist that you let me take you on a tour of the Free Trade Zone. You must!

He grabs the architect's arm and links it in his, despite the difference in height. The assistant walks behind them, maintaining some distance. Too straight for this scene.

As they head down the corridor back outside, the short corridor opening into the haze of the Porky Free Trade Zone, a young man of fourteen or fifteen runs up to them, a certain gleeful delight filling his face as he lays eyes on the fat man. Probably the only one to ever feel that way, the architect snorts in his own mind.

NO-DATA-person-png-ba36581d7a9df3e26ee5edecd78ccdc2.png
Conveniently unavatared orphan boy:

Please sir, I have your daily edition of the Khronicles.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Why hello there again, young man! Great to see you again!

He flings a shining gold coin at the paper boy, the boy's toothy grin all the reward a fatman could ever need. The boy catches it skillfully, clearly having a sizable degree of practice catching coins from before, and then fishes out a copy of the KKK which the fatman accepts gracefully. The coin glistens in what sunlight can penetrate the thick smog as the boy holds it up, inspecting it; could it really be true that Porky is so generous with the common folk?

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Remember to invest it wisely, lad! Only commerce and industry can deliver us all to salvation!

They walk on, and the tour proper begins. They head south-east, the highway running parallel to them.

Over here we have the warehouse district.
20220103215808-1.jpg


If the tour finishes on the same note it has started on, then they're surely in for a wild ride. They continue on, the fatman waddling in front of them, the oppressive tropical heat and pollution digging holes in everyone's pores.

And over here we have the beginnings of our Porky-branded Recycling Center! Ever wondered where your used pizza boxes and toilet paper goes? Of course here, to be repackaged into quality toys for the, err, asian market!
20220103215819-1.jpg

He had not wondered this, but he certainly had wondered where all those dump-trucks that fled Poland Avenue went.

Small beginnings, of course, but we're absolutely certain it'll be a great success. Let's move on!

His excitability has a certain amount of infectiousness to it. The architect catches himself smiling, then remembers a stripper's embrace and a smooth whiskey down his gullet. His excitement turns to apprehension.

They circle around the trade zone's out edges, coming north now. The architect notices tram-tracks, but there are no trams around here. He also notices that, in spite of having the weight of at least three extra men, the rather energetic Porky is racing ahead in front of them, putting them somewhat to shame.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Come on boys! Not a moment to waste! Time is money!

The assistant glares angrily, the fire of an Australian bushman burning in his eyes. He is not amused.

20220103215831-1.jpg


The globe gives off serious Randian vibes. Whoever designed it probably should've read Atlas Shrugged a little less. Whoever paid for it probably should've read it more.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Now we come to our pride and joy: Atlas Park! Let's go for a stroll.
20220103215838-1.jpg


The fatman attempts to link arms with the two once more. The architect rustles out of it while his assistant simply plucks his arm off. Taking no offence at being rebuffed, he leads them into the park, where they admire the trampolines and chat with old women.

Mildred, how's your husband? He hasn't been around the plant for the last couple of days, is he ok?

What kind of bizarre form of capitalism is this?

NO-DATA-person-png-ba36581d7a9df3e26ee5edecd78ccdc2.png
Conveniently unavatared old woman who is presumably named Mildred:

Well, he's been under the weather a bit, deary. He is getting on a bit now.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

He'll be retiring soon; that'll be the day!

They natter on for what seems an inordinate amount of time; time that could've been spent designing buildings or plotting the Mayor's downfall. Eventually, Porky takes them for an extravagant luncheon at the bastion of the common folk.

20220103215856-1.jpg


All the time the workers come up to chat with him about pleasant nothings, crowding around him like some kind of white saviour.

The architect is amused, astounded, and, perhaps, a little bit jealous.

On and on the tour goes: the metro station running alongside Codex Eisen Strasse, a distinctly empty spot where a train station has been promised.

20220103215905-1.jpg


The red brick suburban houses, eliciting a distinctly New England industrial vibe. A small clinic lay among them, all funded by Porky Industrial Holdings.

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The High School, built in European gothic style. No basketball for this delinquents; only the finest of tennis courts.

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And of course, the Porky Industrial School, providing company training at an affordable cost. The statue of Athena in the centre welcomes all those on their heroic endeavours.

20220103215955-1.jpg


porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

The campus might be small now, but I can assure you we have big plans ahead. Big plans!
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

No doubt.

The assistant cracks his knuckles and stares down a passing bus, ready to ponce if it presents itself as a threat. The architect just stands there, looking at the fat man. A moment or two more passes in absolute silence.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Well?
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Well what?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

The plant?
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

What plant? We have many plants here in the trade zone! These palm trees are actually coconut trees, don't you know? Very different to the ones you have in the city!

His eyes start running, twitching from side to side in an evasive pattern. Something is not quite right here.
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Listen, you enormous sack of gelatin. It was your decision to take us on this ginormous waste of everyone's time, so show us the plant or I'll bury you right here in your Porky-branded graveyard.

20220103220344-1.jpg


The fat man weighs his options, sighs heavily and then walks westward sheepishly. The two follow him, curiosity not abated, their unrelenting glance never wavering.

20220103220012-1.jpg


Eventually, they find themselves on the west side of the zone. The roar of cargo trucks coming and going assaults their eardrums.

20220103220023-1.jpg


porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Quite unpleasant, isn't it? Why would I want to take you down here, with the noise and the dirt and the smog? Come dear friend, I have more important things to show you.

The fat man tugs at the architect's arm, but he isn't budging one inch. He looks around.

Smoke stacks smoking. High-quality Codexian goods being funneled to and fro. A bus rolls by, delivering valuable workers to their stations.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

What about over there?

He points to another, far more striking looking industrial plant, shining in all its elegance. The architect seems to recall seeing it as they rolled into the zone, being adjacent to the administration block that they first found themselves in. What could he be hiding in there?

20220103220036-1.jpg


All of a sudden, the smell hits them: a strong smell of raw sewage.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

What the fuck is that shit?

Shit being the operative word.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Errr....

The duo walk across the road, the traffic forgotten. The world slips past them as the smell gets stronger: the unmistakable aroma of half-digested corn, caffiene and textured vegetable protein. But something is missing.

Something manifestly potent.

20220103220158-1.jpg


Porky Oil.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

What in the name of...

The factory processes shit with the efficiency of a Brazilian porn director. On and on it goes, a human slurry of brown matter goes in, bound together with all the bile and unrelenting hatred a city of gamers can defecate. The slurry concoction is churned, its numerous elements separated, and then the resulting mess is siphoned out, passed down long metal pipes in two different directions. The one that catches the architect's interest the most has a sign mounted above the double doors next to hole in the wall that the pipes run into. It reads: "filtration".

20220103220140-1.jpg


Porky Oil.

Oh no. Oh God no.

The architect breaks into a run, slamming his entire weight into the set of doors. The doors swing inward violently and the blonde man spills onto the floor of the bottling plant.

Oh God not again.

The bottles stream along conveyor belts, sleek steel machinery squirting its load into each one as they go. An unrelenting stream of sweet, sickly, faecal cooking oil.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

POOOOOORKYYYYYY!
The architect screams, summoning a level of power and energy that threatened to tear his small, rum-doused spirit in half. The staff look up from their stations briefly, then return to their work unperturbed. Behind him, a human cinder-block with a ball of human blubber hanging from his ham-hock fist appears.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Here.
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

What the fuck is the meaning of this? Huh? What the fuck is going on? What is this.....SHIT?!
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

All good questions! I call it Porky-branded multipurpose reprocessed grease!

He jumps down from the assistant's grip, pacing back and forth in an excitable fashion. His voice beams a certain sense of pride.

It's a low-cost cooking oil for Chinese families, lubricant for loving couples, a powerful laxative, AND a top-notch solution to squeaky doors!

He sticks his finger upwards in the air.

And BEST of all, it's made from one hundred percent repurposed sources!

The architect feels sick. His head starts to swim.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Gutter oil? You're making GUTTER OIL?!
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Well you remember the old saying. Gutter oil is central-
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

-to the shoutbox economy.
He recalls the fried chicken he had for lunch.

I'm gonna puke.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Are you ok there, dear friend? You're not looking very well.

He picks up a spoon, found from God knows where, and puts it into a stream of golden, free-flowing oil.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

A spoonful of oil will cure what ails you.

He grins widely as he holds the spoon out, the offer hanging in the air like one of his wet farts. The architect slaps it out of his hand, spewing small globules of vomit out of the hole in his face at the smell, and the sight, and the thought of it.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

You disgusting, lard-laden, greased-up motherfucker!
The fat man recoils, genuinely hurt. He turns away, a certain air of impudence and indignation taking over his speech.

porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

I don't understand. Chinese need to cook chow mein, homosexuals need to get it on, shitters need to shit: I'm supplying it to them all at a tidy profit, and not a single turd was wasted.
He turns on the spot to look at the architect in a motion that shouldn't be possible for such a rotund figure.

And it's all thanks to you. None of this would be possible without you.

A grin breaks on his face, which quickly widens. Someone should rename this city to Wide-Grinville.

The dust settles.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: how could my oldest, dearest friend do something so absolutely reprehensible? Well let me set your mind at ease.

He points to a box of Porky Premium Cooking Oil. The label distinctly identifies it as Export Only. It might not be much of a consolation, but it's something.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Is that supposed to put my mind at ease?
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

I can assure you, my old friend, that I take nothing more serious than the well-being of our people! You've already seen how well I treat my workers here. One day I hope to count all Codexians as my people. Yourself included.

The assistant grunts slightly and the tension eases somewhat.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

So, you're not planning on flooding our city with carcinogenic lubricant?
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Why of course not, old friend! What must you think of me to even ask such a question?!

That grin again. Why are bad things in this place always preceded with a grin?

Think of the profits! Think of the construction! Think of the glory! We will make this city a true utopia! Together!
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

And why should I believe you?

The fat man puts a finger pistol under his chin and pulls the trigger. The architect sighs. Can he really believe the words of such a porker? The answer seems a resounding no, but as long as it's export only...

It sure would bring in a lot of cash.

graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

Fine.
porky-the-monopoly-man.png
PorkyThePaladin:

Your dream city is waiting out there for you, friend. Remember-

The fat man taps the architect's shirt pocket, where the small envelope is safely tucked away.

-carte blanche.

And with that, the fat man waddles away to start another chat with one of his workers. He has no intent to talk to the duo anymore.

fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

You really gonna trust this clown?
graf.png
GrafvonMoltke:

I don't trust him as far as I can-
He looks at the fat man's sizeable body mass.

-throw him. We'll keep a keen eye on what's going on over here. If we have to, we'll have to take him out of the picture.
The assistant just stands there, silent.

It means we'll have to kill him.
fedsmoker.jpg
Fedsmoker:

Hmmpf.
The human concrete wall looks excited at the prospect of ultraviolence, a small wry smile flashing briefly across his face.

More silence. Silence as they ride home.

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It's quite beautiful out here, the architect thinks to himself. Surprised nobody has claimed this land for themselves.

20220103220639-1.jpg


With such beautiful views of the city, it's any wonder.

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I will build my own city here, some day, he thinks to himself.

Back in the office, the architect logs into his system. Carefully unfolding the envelope, he discovers inside a Porky Industrial Group platinum credit card. Inputting the card details into the screen, he is taken to a Porky Holdings Bank security website where he is asked for a username and password. Odd.

He searches the envelope and finds a small piece of paper with the details. Heart full of trepidation, he inputs the name and password.

PORK001
SMASHTHESTEAK​

Seems vaguely familiar, but at the same time probably unimportant.

He then logs into his management software.

20220122193546-1.jpg


Carte blanche.

Grand Plaza trembles at the thought.

This is going to be fun.
 
Joined
Oct 26, 2016
Messages
1,898
Cringe LP is on hiatus until the Loading Screen Mod is fixed. No idea when/if that will be.

Here's what City Hall Grand Plaza looked like before the update fucked everything up.

20220122221527-1.jpg

Looks a bit like Brisbane.
 

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