Excerpt from an RPG

[wotwotleigh.livejournal.com]

shiplizard's post just before this one got me thinking about this little oddity that I wrote earlier this year. In fact, doing this was part of what revived my latent obsession with Jeeves and Wooster these past few months. This is an excerpt from a game of Werewolf that I played with friends over on Very Serious, the Hyperbole and a Half forum, where I go by Egyptomaniacal. I played as Jeeves and Bertie, and Jeeves was just too damned smart for his own good -- my "team" took out several werecreatures before they finally tagged us for death. I was given the honor of writing my own death scene.

(I was also asked to write the death scene for another character who had become inactive -- that's what the peculiar little coda is about.) If you're interested in slogging through the whole game, the original thread is here. 

WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH AHOY!

I had gone to bed not too long after Jeeves and I arrived at the homestead, and had fallen into the deep and dreamless the moment the bean touched the pillow. The events of the day had taken their toll on the system, not to mention the fact that I had a
whole gallon of the best stuff the Tot had to offer sloshing about in my innards.

It seemed as if I had only been asleep for about five minutes when I was startled awake by a sudden shifting of weight
somewhere on the southern end of the mattress, as if a sturdily-built personage had just been deposited there. With an energetic yelp, I lunged for the lamp and switched it on. Jeeves was sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Hoy!” I cried. “Jeeves, what the devil are you doing?”

I have had unexpected figures appear on or about my bed before – Gussie Fink-Nottle, Pauline Stoker, various cats – but never Jeeves. Naturally, I was taken aback. I was even more astonished to see that he was clutching a blunt instrument – specifically, my walking stick with the silver handle. He was putting in a good bit of the strong and silent business at the moment, so I repeated my query.

“What is this about, Jeeves?”

He rose and held out the stick to me, and drew a little silver knife from somewhere in the recesses of his costume. “It is coming for us, sir,” he said.

Chilling realization dawned. I gaped. “The last werewhatsit?” I said. Or at least, I tried to say. It may have come out as more of a whiffling sound, like a kettle that hasn’t quite got around to boiling. Jeeves seemed to get the gist, at any rate.

“Yes, sir.”

Numbly, I reached out and took the stick. “Prognosis, Jeeves?”

“Not good, sir.”

I chewed on this for a bit. “Will it hurt much, do you think?”

“I imagine so, sir.”

I passed a hand over the b. “And you knew all this was coming, did you? No chance you could have shoved us both in the two-seater and headed for the hills at earliest convenience?”

“No, sir. Our fate was already ordained.”

“I didn’t think you went in for all that Calvinist stuff, Jeeves.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Greek tragedy, sir.”

The limbs quivered, but I stood firm. We Woosters may present a somewhat tender exterior, but we have spines of chilled steel, when the need arises. A lesser man may have blenched, but, as I have had occasion to say before, Bertram Wooster is not a lesser man.

“Well, I suppose there’s not much for it, then, Jeeves. We must go down fighting.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Is there time for a half-bot of something first?”

“I have already secured the ardent spirits, sir.” He indicated two generous glasses of whisky, sans soda, on the bedside table. With a silent nod to one another, we each took hold of one, and gave them a quick clink.

“Bottoms up, Jeeves.”

“Your very good health, sir.”

We tossed our drinks down the respective hatches, took up our weapons, and waited. We didn’t have to wait long. I had just lit a bracing cigarette and placed it between my lips when the action commenced. With an awful row of splintering wood and tinkling glass, the monster bunged itself unceremoniously into the room through the window and began legging its way over to us at a good clip, all slavering jaws and bristling talons. I was reminded strangely of my Aunt Agatha on that occasion when someone
had pinched her prized pearl necklace. Brandishing my weapon, I glanced for a moment at Jeeves.

“Well, toodle-pip, Jeeves. It’s been fun.”

“Until we meet again, sir.”

---

Happy Sam was floating past the Wooster cottage in his little rift when he heard the sounds of a struggle inside. He leaped out of the rift with cans of gasoline in hand. He mentally scanned the Maggly Land fire code –which he had lovingly memorized years ago – for anything that could help him in this situation. It finally came to him.

In the event of a domestic disturbance, create a perimeter of gasoline and wait for further assistance to arrive.

Glowering with determination, Sam began running around the perimeter of the cottage, splashing gasoline as he went. He decided to add in some plastic explosives for good measure. That never hurt.

He was just finishing up when the werebearshark came barreling out through the bedroom window and nearly bowled Sam over. He stood there for a moment in shock, and then made his way to the window and climbed in.

The scene was gruesome, but not as bad as Sam had expected. The men must have put up a fight, because the creature hadn’t bothered to stick around and dismember them. Jeeves was slumped against the far wall. Wooster was sprawled on the bed, looking almost as if he had just flopped down for a quick nap, a lit cigarette still dangling from his limp fingers.

Sam started. A lit cigarette! That was a fire hazard, if he had ever seen one. Gingerly, he tiptoed up to the recumbent gentleman and took the cigarette from his hand. He deftly flicked it out the open window.

On Mt. Olympus, the gods felt the rumble of the distant explosion, and exchanged knowing glances.