Endemic times. Swimming in money, the Count withered richly away. Following a staunch diagnosis, he was wearily skimming a small book as a rejuvenating spasm tore him back to life.

"Hush!" he shouted to himself. He knew that he would vote fantastically.

With dessert gone, it was time for him to draw a card for the tantalizing finale.

The Count possessed three groups of captives. First, there were those who could be doubted comfortably but only in the worst regard. Second, there were those who had described what had been accidentally painted. Third, there are those who are now tied-up beside the plastic table.

The first group did clearly upset the Count. They could be trusted and molded at the simplest will; their loyalty was always nearly guaranteed. Their presence among the lots was equal and necessary.

The second group was the most unfortunate. Captive, distraught and unluckily loquacious, unfortunate words had been stolen from their minds.

The third group was far more free in brief comparison. Their boundlessness was screamed at great length for all to understand.

The Count put his hand in an extravagantly decorated paper box and drew out folded blue paper card. He glanced at the card and threw it to the floor. He moved to draw another.

His hand emerged this time with a red card. His face was still beat red from the feast. He looked down and unfolded card.

A digit had been carved in vibrant ink. He spoke the emblazoned number aloud: "Two." He dropped the card.

The Count stared at the man in front of him. The man staring back knew that he was going to die.

The Count began to pace frantically and retrieved a pistol from his jacket. He spoke the number aloud again. "Two."

He moved to the sideways door cut in the floor, a facade disguising a clean steel stepladder to below. The Count struggled to climb down.

Once below, the Count faced the three grim cells, designed precisely to eternally enclose those who were destined to remain captive.

He moved to the second cell and opened the heavy iron door.

Inside was one man and three women. The man was standing in the center of the room, staring at the Count. The women sat on the ground behind him, their faces absent of emotion.

The Count entered the cell slowly, his breathing now soft. He stepped toward the man.

The man reached out his gloved hand. Without flinching, the Count handed him the pistol.

The Count thought briefly of the number on the card, the bold, scarlet 2 that remained seared into his consciousness. Upstairs, a little blue card rested on the carpet, undisturbed.

The man pointed the gun at the Count and fired three times. The Count fell to the ground because he had no other choice.

This post has been edited by Jp. on Tue - Sep 18 2012 - 20:47:09

tl;dr

you should get on your other account and respond to yourself

I'm clearly reading this.

die

nope

tl;dr

but i like the double spacing

na forgot pw

For a moment I almost considered reading this.

the initial reference to another person bring present (after he draws the first card) is actually just him looking in the mirror, even though it isn't explicitly stated

This post has been edited by Jp. on Wed - Sep 19 2012 - 12:39:55