Russian Roulette


Certified Subdomain
Original poster
Posting Speed
  1. Speed of Light
Writing Levels
  1. Douche
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
First person rolls a D6, second person rolls a D5, third person rolls a D4, and so on.

If you get a 1, you blow your brains out. o__o

Nathan sat at the table, looking forlornly at the other players. His eyes were bloodshot, his face overgrown with stubble and his breath awash with alcohol. He was trembling, but everything else was numb.

He needed this money... it was his only way out. The debt-collectors were breathing down his neck, his wife and kids had left, he had lost his job and his home. A million dollars... or death... he had to take the chance.

There was nothing left to live for.

Downing his drink in one swift movement, Nathan reached out and took the gun from the middle of the table. There was a tense silence from the audience, a motely crew of criminals and gangsters who were supplying the prize money. He spun the chamber and put the gun to his head.

(Dammit! >_< )

His brain hit the wall behind him, a splatter of gore that made the other players jolt. His body slammed forward onto the table, leaking blood for a moment, before two of the gangsters dragged him away to the back room.

The game's organiser chuckled and reloaded the revolver, placing it back on the table for the other players.

Shocked by the bad luck of the player before him, but not shocked enough to consider backing out now, Jonathan picked up the revolver next. He wasn't there for the money, he was there purely for kicks. The money came in helpful though, especially when pursuing his other hobbies.

"Heh, I guess it's true. People do make their own luck."

The thrillseeker closed his eyes, almost literally feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins as he took a deep breath. Either the gun would click, or the gun would go boom and Jonathan would die. One out of twelve couldn't be THAT bad.

The dry click resounded through the room, and Jonathan sighed. His heart was beating in his throat. Damn did he get excited when his life was in danger...
the midget laughed heartily as nathan's brains splattered against the wall.
the diminutive Dane snatched the revolver from jonathan and rammed it into the roof of his mouth.

the dry click of the hammer coming down on an empty chamber brought a giggle from the tiny man, who passed the gun on to the next poor sap.
The woman’s hand wasn’t shaking from fear as she took the gun, no it was shaking from need. This little game was going to get Jessica her next fix.

"He he he!" She sounded like a drunk shrew.

HE had promised. Yes…he had. If she would fill in as a player at the table, she’d get her fix! The bitch of a woman had already given her own kid, why not wager her life?

Her head tilted to the side with the touch of the cold metal to her temple before she decided seconds later to place the gun in-between her lips. Her sunken eyes closed and with what little sanity she had left, she prayed to a forgotten God.

Get mami the good stuff.....Jessica shakily squeezed her trigger finger in.

The gun was almost thrown at the next person as Jessica laughed.
When Piper took her seat, she'd tried not to make eye contact with any of the spectators. If she won the money, she didn't want to have any of these people-shaped wall-stains haunting her dreams. When the nightmare ends, it ends. No going back. No revisits. No traumatizing flashbacks, save for maybe this one. She'd have a new life. A new name. Maybe after building that mansion, there'd be enough change to afford a real personality or more solid motivations.

She was getting lost in her own dreams, silly things that they were, she told herself. But her amusement at realizing she'd daydreamed through a suicide only a few steps away from her almost made it bearable. This was so not her element. The therapist, during her last visit, had told her to try a break from routine--"Live a little."

Sure thing, doc. But only a little. How little? She'd find out in a minute. She giggled. It was wrong, she knew. This was serious, she knew. But how could she be serious? The situation was so absurd, right?

The gun landed in front of her. People flinched. She cowered.

Moment of truth.

A moment later she was grinning hysterically, and she didn't know why--scratch that. It was force of habit. After all, if she lived through it all, she'd have no reason to abandon etiquette.Though if she failed...

What a dive to die in! She hoped they wouldn't do anything too bad to her body afterward. She changed her mind about removing her cardigan. This place was full of low-lives and pervs.

Suddenly she stood up, waving the gun as though it were a cordless phone. "What happens if I get the bullet... But I miss?"

She didn't get a serious answer. Fine. She decided she'd put it to her mouth. If she was going to die in this hole, she wasn't going to make checking against her dental records easy though her inner germaphobe protested. She didn't know where the gun had been, and the place was definitely full of pervs and low-lives.

"Live a little!" her former therapist shouted in her mind.

And with that, Piper placed her lips around the barrel. Braced the handle against the tabletop. Closed her eyes... And, awkwardly, holding the gun with both hands...pulled... the... trigger.


Piper let out a muffled shriek and gagged as the crowd expressed their disappointment and relief(but mostly disappointment). She practically spat out the gun, wiping the nozzle ineffectively against the tabletop. Then, under the table so as to be less unsightly about it.

She passed it along carefully, forcing a weakly apologetic smile at the next person.

Her enthusiasm was real, but she still felt a little ill. How much was nerves and how much was the gun's germs?

"Live a little!" shouted her therapist.

She decided to try not to worry about it.

OOC: I return to self-typecasting as the neurotic fish-out-of-water.
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Danish midget took the revolver and pressed it to the roof of his mouth, barely supressing a bout of giggling.

CLICK! the dane sighed as if downcast and put the revolver back down on the table
The gangster running the game cursed in Russian and grabbed the pistol off the table. Glaring at the delinquents around him, he loaded another bullet into the chamber and spun it. Then he slammed it back down on the table and shouted for the game to continue.

Start again from D6, but now 1 AND 2 counts as death.

Smiling confidently, Abrahm Donahue picked up the gun and ran his eyes along the barrel. Twirling the gun around his index finger like some showdown cowboy from a spaghetti western, he pointed the gun at each member at the table mouthing the words "Bang, bang, bang."

With no job and no money, Abrahm had run out of options a day ago in the muddy alley outside the bar. Winters were cold...too cold to live another day in the squalor of a pitiful life such as his. Thirty grand...he had thirty grand when he stepped into this shit hole of a town and three cardsharks later he was eating half a pizza crust from a garbage can outside Luigi's on the corner.

"Bet it all and you'll never lose,"
His brother had told him, pulling down his shades far enough to wink at him from behind his tower of chips. "Best bets are when you put it all on the table...we Donahues got the best luck when it comes down to All in or All out."

All in or all out...what better game then Russian Roulette?

The blood and gore of the first guy lay askew in his seat and with a hitch to his stomach, a gag in his throat, he wiped the blood from the chair with a dirty bar-rag and took the seat, shrugging to the table occupants.

"Let's get this party started then..." he muttered.


The sound was a twig snapping or maybe a gear breaking in some massive reverberated through his being like a chime.

All in or All out...Donahues come out on top all the time.

Maybe there was something to what his brother said...either way he was safe another round and spun the gun on the table like a top, chuckling.

"Olly Olly Oxenfree ya'll...time to see who gets 'tagged' eh?"
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The others seemed, for whatever reason, to hesitate. Shouldn't another bullet meant twice the excitement?

Piper pushed back from the table, half standing to reach across the table for the revolver, asking permission with her eyes.

None protested, and as her hand touched the handle, she realized what they knew: If it wasn't her turn, she'd pay with her life.

Wait, or would that mean it was her turn? The idea of applying initiative to a game of Russian Roulette sort of screwed with the usual semantics you used when talking in cliches about fate.

Don't think about that now. Just find out. Two bullets. More danger. Live a little.

Live a little more. A little more, just a little more can lead to lots. Just live for now. Just live.

She sat back down, holding the gun as before with both hands, fractionally more confident by appearances as she placed the gun in her mouth.

Say, hadn't the dwarf guy--

She felt her fingers slip, and in the moment of realization, her stomach churned full of the panicked curses she'd never get to shout at her own stupid corpse.


Living. Living a little more. Two more coulda-been-deaths. By now she was feeling a sort of elated calm. Queasily serene, and feeling just a bit invincible. She felt like doing something stupid. But what could she do to top what had just happened? She tossed the gun clumsily from one hand to the next a couple of times, winking at Abraham and finally spin-pushing it across the table like a toy top toward the next player.

Ha! Piper could be flashy too.
Nothing mattered anymore. Job lost, wife lost, children lost, house lost. Even he was lost in this world, this bitter and cut throat world where if you stopped paying attention for a single second, you realize you've been left behind with no way to catch back up. Only one thing was ever true: Life and Death. Joseph clung to this basest truth like a life raft, the only thing making sense. He hoped for death, but was always granted life. He didn't understand why his life persisted in torturing him, but he had made a game out of it. He would try every chance way to die, and if he survived them all, then he would give life a second chance, even when he knew it wasn't worth it.

Grabbing the gun, the odds only slightly in his favor now, he felt time slow to a crawl, every event happening like an explosion, only to be outdone and forgotten by the next. The barrel spinning, locking into place, the pistol assuming the killing position, trigger being pressed by his flexing finger, like the guillotine coming down....


The room filled with a loud explosion, followed by deafening silence. The man no one knew nor cared to know was dead before them, his head plastered behind him, just another mess to be cleaned up. But Joseph had gotten his final wish, a way out of the system. And if you looked close enough, you would swear you could see a smile...
The gangsters and lowlifes cheered, those who had bet on Joseph flinging down their money and storming out. The dropped loot was gathered by the other heavies, who kept a close watch on the tables as the excitement continued.

Four chambers left, and only one bullet in them...

Who would be the next to bow out?

(Next roll is D4 and a 1 is a kill)
Snagging the gun from the poor sod who'd offed himself, Abraham flicked an uninviting chunk the barrel, pausing to wipe off the gun on Johnathan's shirt...not like the poor fucker was using it anymore. A glance across the table showed him that he'd 'jumped the gun' on the order...a pun that brought a bray of laughter from his lips, sudden as it was barking. That girl across the table...the one who'd spun the gun with the nervous twitch-smile of a rabbit caught in headlights...she was a cute one.

Hell, if he had more then two pennies to rub together he might have asked her if she wouldn't accompany him to the bar for a round or two...grab a drink while the bullet lullaby lulled their opponents to an eternal rest.

Eh...but who would want a washed up bum like him?

A wink...what did a wink mean?

He returned it with a flourish, tipping the gun into his mouth and feeling the cold press of the barrell on the roof of his mouth...and as far back as he could push it across his upper jaw.

What if someone had the flu...or something worse?

Ironic if passing illnesses like ricochet bullets ended him...long after his opponents had blown themselves bloody.

"One for the money," He muttered, clenching his finger against the trigger. "And two..."


He smiled, pulling out the gun and spinning it around the table. "For the show. Let's see if I can get through the whole saying huh? Night's still young so shoot em up and pass em out, I'm winnin me some cash tonight."
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"Now were talking!"

Jonathan laid his hands on the revolver again. The next shot would either make him richer than most business executives, or more dead than most famous rock-stars. Then again, he didn't care that much. Life was meant to be lived, and how could you feel alive if you weren't under constant threat of dying?

With a broad smile on his face, despite his sweaty palms, Jonathan put the revolver against the side of his head in a dramatic fashion. "Let's see if I can get you guys some BANG for your buck, eh?" he said, before he pulled the trigger.

A dry click sounded and Jonathan's quivering face shone with excitement. He was ALMOST disappointed it had not been his time. Almost, because GOD how great it felt just to be ALIVE!

He put the revolver down on the table and gave it a spin. "Next!" he yelled elatedly, as he knew the others chances had become very slim.
the danish midget grabbed the pistol, drew back the hammer and planted the barell into the roof of his mouth

the revolver fired with a wet, slightly muffed bang, and the audience and all at the table were showered with blood, and those closes to the dane pulled chips of skull from their hair.

as his short, rotund body toppeled from the chair, the dane's eyes seemed to twinkle, stuck in an expression with michevious glee as they glased over.
Three were dead... and four remained.

As fresh bets and raises were made, the gang leader came forward and flung the midget's body from the chair. Teeth grinning around a clamped cigar he took the pistol from the dead Dane's hand and opened the chamber.

His eyes glinted at each of the survivors as he loaded the bullets... one... two.... three...

The crowd roared and drummed the tables, yelling for the game to begin.

Placing the pistol on the table, the leader spun it and withdrew into shadow.

Only one would survive this round... and walk away with the prize...

[Start again from D6. 1,2 or 3 is a kill.]
Before the revolver stopped turning, Jonathan had puts his hands on the gun. Three bullets, three empty chambers. This meant that there was a fifty percent chance of getting a bullet. The chances could get worse after the first shot, or infinitely better.

"well. If there's only going to be one winner tonight, I might as well be the one to blow my brains out first, innit?" He said while smirking. "I've survived two bullets, I think it's about time to say 'ad-you'"

His horrible french and gallows humor not-withstanding, He once again pressed the gun against his temple, he grinned widely, and pulled the trigger.

His hand was unsteady, and the shot merely took out the front of his skull and his right eye. He wasn't dead yet, but it would not be long without medical care. And who WOULD care? As the shock and blood-loss overtook Jonathan's senses, a last thought crossed his mind. "Heh...It was a bad idea...but god I enjoyed it..."
Before the pistol could pass to another, Abe snagged the handle and twirled it up to the side of his head. He could hear the gurgled gasps of the guy on the floor...dying as he choked on his own life and couldn't help but compare him to how things had been before tonight...the frost on his threadbare blanket in the morning, the bent way his body seemed to freeze and how the food he scrounged only brought the cold into his core, like drops of ice on a flickering flame...or choking on blood.

"Three to get ready." He said with a wink. Ready? Ready for what? The money here would go as fast as the last bit...and by this cycle he was held in death's grasp.

Death might as well just deus ex machina this bullet into his head.

Taking a breath, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.


Spinning the gun on his finger again, Abe winked to the girl across the table...flirting with death one might say, since one of them was bound to bite the bullet...literally.

"Hey good lookin," He croaked, sliding the gun toward her, "Take a spin on the adrenaline train...this shit is addicting."