Carnivals. Clowns. Methamphetamines. Adepts. Guns. Avatars. Knives. Videotapes. Terror. Popcorn. — All’s faire in love and war.

Take your players through some Hell, and reward them with: more Hell. Because you’re that kind of person.

Concept: players are tested: morally, intellectually, and emotionally, to check their suitability for membership intoMak Attax. Should they deal with the local menace(s) in a timely, efficient, and non-repugnant fashion, their expertise would go on, to further the goals of Mak Attax. Should they fail, prove incompetent, or be/act utterly deranged, it’s a sizable chance that Alex Abel will find a use for them. He’s always looking for dupes and pawns, unless circumstances dictate otherwise. The general elements of the game involve:
Narcotics trafficking
Illegal actions – burglary, auto theft, breaking & entering, among further, violent crimes
Wholesale abuse of the masses for personal gain – beyond normal opportunism
Morality plays …. You’ll see where we mean, folks.

::::SPLASH TEXT::::
Group of PCs are involved in the low-level world of the occult underground, which at times, means criminal activities, ranging from burglary and fraud, to kidnapping, and murder, with arson, strong-arming, and dope-slinging thrown in for good measure. The ‘boss’ of the local Underworld is a medium-level heavy known as ‘D-Rail’, and shows an expressed talent in metallurgy and mysticism. His troops all carry silver and gold bullets in their Mini-Uzis, and a gold filigreed letter-opener-looking knife. Some wear jewelry with the icon of D-Rail, a stylized ‘D’ with a train and a ring of fire, usually opals or red quartz, on silver. His skill with metals stems from his unique school, known as Ferromancy, allowing him extremely tight control over the qualities of metal. As such, he is also forced to operate under the effect of a severe ‘curse’, as it were, and can not be heard, seen, or physically contacted while in daylight, and is living underground, in several respects. More or less in darkness at all times, he runs his ‘kingdom’ from his palace, known in the Underworld as the House of Steel and Iron. It is widely feared.

His people are highly-disciplined, having been shown what a steel foundry can do when it’s turned into a fortress, complete with a melting pot called ‘the stewpot’. Unrepentant and untrustworthy individuals are fed into it, one piece at a time, by D-Rail himself. The process formerly took about twenty to thirty seconds; at it’s current incarnation, it takes about five hours, and involves a saline drip and an intravenous painkiller in a mixed IV.

As such, his rule is absolute over the region, with few incursions from Adepts and Avatars taken without a fight. First-time offenders are shown a tapeof the feeding of a homeless person to a pack of wild dogs.and men with heated branding irons. It’s gross.

The fun begins with the appearance of a few new faces, described below, and the arrival of the carnival. And who doesn’t love a day at the carnival, right? Except for this one.

A Day at the Fair: the city is abuzz with the arrival of Captain Spaulding’s Travelling Show of Wonders, Magic, and Fun. To the Adept, it reads: “RUN AWAY, CHILD”. To the Avatar, it reads: “GOD IS NOT HERE”. If you don’t take the hint, keep reading. The paints and inks involved are definitively supernatural, and no checks are required; those come soon, and in long waves.
The layout, as viewed from the front gates: a sea of SUVs, pickup trucks, minivans, campers and family sedan sprinkled throughout the parking lot, dotted with roaming families winding back to their vehicles, invariably with a child clutching a balloon, and crying loudly. The gates themselves are a pair of cargo containers, with a welded pair of iron gates, topped with festive-looking sharp-looking spikes, curved slightly inwards. OK. Not so ‘slightly curved inwards’. ‘Heavily’ would be a more appropriate choice of words. The clear plastic protecting the ticket sellers is chipped, dented, and has seen better days, but is covered in festive and happy stickers. Behind the glass sits the first of many happy faces to greet the PCs. Invariably, the two gates are closed, with only one opening occaisonally, and even then, begrudgingly. The occupant of the now-functioning booth is namtagged ‘Rudy’, and is a statuesque redhead, with beady eyes, a narrowed chin, and a sly smirk.

Tickets are a quarter each, and it takes two to get in, and only one for each ride, with the prices going to two each after six o’clock, and five for the rides and attractions named below. Food may be used, at the usual exhorbitant rates – two bucks for a cup of orange soda with a leaky lid or bottom, three for a greasy gas-inducing hot dog of dubious heritage, and a buck for a swirl of cotton candy destined to induce a sugar headache. That aside, the rides are on one end of the three rows of shops, stalls, and attractions, with the farthest one from the gates being the Big Top of Horror, and on the other side, towards the parking lot area, but nowhere near the gates, is the Big Top of Delights. You can imagine the rest; long lines at the chemical toilets, the dubious personnel gathering tickets, all reeking of speed, gin, and where in life you wind up if you drop out of middle school and join the circus. In short, put ‘em behind glass, and call it a study in anthropology or in a rubber room, and dub it ‘therapy’. Either way, life’s full of ‘em, and at least they aren’t going to stick around for too long, endangering the children and livestock with equal abandon. The Petting Zoo seems almost inappropriate. A pig is attempting to mate with a goat, who seems content to eat a dropped cellphone, which has since started dialing and answering, doubtlessly leading to a unique conversation on both ends of the ordeal. Three sheep sit stunned under the ministrations of the local youth gangs, who are doubtlessly planning their sacrifice to the mighty Firecracker Gods. The chicks in their egg display are surrounded by a quacking ocean of mutated geese and ducks, brought about by the previous town’s children shaking their own eggs. Prenatal plastic surgery, if you will. Away from the animal pens is the Freak Tent, where a variety of ‘God’s Mistakes, Cursed, and Damned’ sit in oversized plastic containers, lit from above with what appear to be electric candles, and count among their members The Rubber Child Without a Head, The Rubber Child With Two Heads (found that other kid’s head, I think), The Rubber Skeleton of a Yeti, a dead Rubber Mermaid, and the perennial Abortions Who Look All Fucked Up in Formaldehyde, the pickled punks.
Gosh, the carnies must have been inbreeding again; there are almost fifty of them in jars.
The fun is just getting started – the locals who’ve taken up occupation with the carnival are dotted here and there, all working booths, being cheered up by the cheap speed and homemade gin-and-Snapple mixers arriving every other hour to each booth. The rides are tended to by the carnies themselves; they look pretty fucked up, on general principles.

The rides, as it were:
Tilt-A-Puke – a rotating platform for inducing mass vomiting.
Spins-A-Fuckload – an upwards-facing variant of the Tilt-A-Puke.
Zipper-of-Dubious-Safety – this like a normal Zipper, just wildly unsafer.
House of Warped Mirrors – proof positive something can make a carnie uglier. Sort of.
Shrieking-Child-Magnet – this ride serves to keep children highly unstable and terrified.
Haunted House Painted by the Mentally Ill Children of Carnies – title says it all, don’t it?
You get the idea.

And now, time for the shakedown. Of course, any PC who doesn’t show up armed to the carnival is misunderstanding why they are there; to get a piece of the action, or to threaten the joint with a severe case of Shit Catching Fire-itis, or the rare-but-often-terminal Folks Getting The Shit Kicked Out Of Them-itis.

:::The Shakedown:::
It proceeds with the invitation of the PCs and their NPC handler, to the main trailer, at the request of the main barker, known as Screaming Mad George, with a proud smile, English accent, and striped clothes which would offend a colorblind pimp who golfs.
“You say you are here for your share of the proceeds from the Happy Pill concessions, then?” — He needs no prompting. He knows the score, and at some point, folks were due to show up for the hustle. The number of glasses filled with gin-and-Snapple attest to his preparations, as does the lead jackman outside, in a chaise lounge, armed with a Glock 19 and a claw hammer. No weapons frisk occurs; such a thing would be rude, and he does make mention of it. No fear, just preparation. With a big dopey grin, he instead offers to simply leave town, for the sum total of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, in small bills. Or, the locals will suddenly come down with My-Ears-Are-Missing-itis, They-Have-Stolen-My-Legs-itis, and the perennial favorite, I’m-Fucking-Blind-itis. He then claims that one case per day, for each member of the approaching characters’ families, until they are paid off, in full, in cash. Needless to say, this ends the meeting on a low point, to say the least. Upon returning, D-Rail simply shrugs, and says, “… then we pay *them* a visit, and if they touch one of our’s, we give ‘em a little dip in the smelter.”
Let the retribution begin.

:: Send in the Clowns :: a PC catches a single male entering the dwelling of whomever he/she is watching over, with the appropriate fight ensuing. Apply medium stats, but arm the chump with a pair of gardening shears and a kitchen knife (unpowered; requires an outlet to work), who will, if captured, spill the beans – they are a local paid off with a five-hundred dollar pile of crack rocks and a videotaped copy of him fucking a corpse. Claims no memory of the event, and that’s it’s not him. He has the tape on him. All trace results point the VCR seen in the trailer of SMG. Each PC will get a chance to spot their chosen attacker once, upon entering the dwelling of choice, and once, upon exitting. They are using stolen minivans and pickup trucks, and all are moving in pairs. The one in the vehicle is a carnie, and is armed with a twelve-gauge single-barrel, wearing a Second Chance vest (stops up to 2x Body damage from bullets, requires a minor charge to work once, per user, for one hour). The vests are reusable, if they are found in groups of five or more, and are cycled frequently. Hope you’ve got the juice to spare.
::The Worm Turns:: at this point, the nearest phone to the re-collected PCs nets this phone conversation, doubtlessly taped very little time ago. You’d hope so.
>>>CLICK<<< Handler Bob: No. Don’t make me. *PLEEEEEEEEEEEEASE*. (shriek of pain) Creepy Voiced Girl: Do. It. (does something hideous) HB: (long protracted shriek) CVG: Do. It. (does it again) HB: STAY AWAY FROM THE FUCKING CARNIVAL! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! CVG: Say. It. Right. (does it again) HB: (shriek) YOU’RE WARNED. (aside -- ) (Shriek)
CVG: Excellent, Bob.