Monday, November 24, 2014

Dogtown Memories Part 7

Pictures!  At last I found some.

The Final Map drawn up for the area at the time.

The Draft Map

The Town of Dogtown

Dogtown Races.

Dogtown Memories Part 6


Attention good (& not so good) people of Dogtown!

I have terrible news for us all. I have received a letter from The Beef Baron's lawyers that may spell the end of our wonderful little town. Apparently the Beef Baron is insisting that we vacate Dogtown, leaving the land we had been granted by him not sixteen months ago. Here is a full copy of the letter.

8 May, 1870.
To the residents of Dogtown, via Administrator Marty O'Doney.

I, The Beef Baron, owner of the land on which Dogtown is constructed, demand that all residents and itinerants in Dogtown vacate my lands completely within twenty-one days of the date of this notice. You may take all your possessions and construction materials with you.

Any person still in Dogtown at the end of this period will be forcibly evicted. Any building remaining will be burnt to the ground.

Any person returning to my lands, after the end of the twenty-one days, will be assumed to be tresspassing and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Signed, The Beef Baron."

They seem to have found some loophole in the "deeds of lease" arrangements which apparently allows The BB to legally resume his land.

I demanded that the lawyers tell me why he was doing this to us. Their reply was simply to pass me another document listing The BB's grievances against us, things that apparently have upset him. Here is a copy of that document.

"# Townsfolk attacking innocent cattlemen.
# Unauthorised construction outside the limits of Dogtown.
# Failure of tenants to actually start up their business after being given land.
# Failure of some tenants to build after being given land.
# Construction of a Roman Catholic Church.
# Introduction of sheep to the area, & the resultant devastation of grazing lands.
# Lazy K Ranch cattle grazing on The BB's land due to lack of fences.
# Opening of a Bordello in the town.
# Gambling on the Dog Races."

As you can see, the list is constructed as to give the impression that we are are a bunch of rustlers and thieves and brigands. These accusations are outrageous - we're not the type of people he is making us out to be. We know very well that we have put huge amounts of sweat and tears into building our little town. We started with nothing and have built a thriving little community. It is not fair to take this off us!

I propose we fight this eviction notice tooth and nail. We must fight it on two fronts.

Firstly, we should take immediate legal action to stop, or at least put on hold, the eviction. From there we will fight for our rights in the courts. I have already contacted a high profile legal firm in Kansas City and am awaiting their reply.

Secondly, we should fight this on the streets if necessary. I know The BB uses strong-arm tactics to get his way so he'll probably hire thugs to intimidate us into leaving. If we are still here at the end of the twenty-one days, these same hired guns will move on to more brutal tactics. We must prepare for this, starting immediately. The things we need to do are:

Stockpile food and water, we need transport and stockpile locations.
1. Buy in sufficient weapons and ammunition in order to defend ourselves.
2. Turn the town into a mini-fortress by:
a) barracading the entry and exit points so entry into town is difficult for 'outsiders';
b) sandbagging up the windows and doors of our buildings so they are more easily defended.

Any further ideas/suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Finally, I believe we should form a defence committee headed by our very own sheriff, Casius Clay. Any persons wanting to be involved please let me know.

So, good citizens of Dogtown, get working so we can keep our little community together. I know I won't be getting much sleep in the next three weeks.

Administrator Marty O'Doney

Dogtown Memories Part 5

Well unless you’re dead or have been on vacation, then you know what I’m talking about. This is a club campaign with a difference, you get to run your own business and act as part of town’s future direction. Shoot your way out off trouble or into it. What you put into it you’ll get out it. Remember that everything you do does have bearings on the town and the people in it.

The idea is to supply your own figure if you can or one will be given for use. If you want a family then you will need to supply them yourself. On any club day at high noon it is open season in Dogtown. It means that if somebody puts his figure on the table then you can place yours too and get involved or decide to look the other way . Between club weeks your income will be worked out and posted on the net and in Snake Eyes as well.  It is up to you to think of ways to improve your business as well as pay back the loan. The life of Dogtown depends upon the people who are in it.

The beef Baron is the man who has given you your chance to start out fresh. You will need to remember that. Beware that the dangers are there and you will need to stick together as a town. Could be Indian’s or Mexican’s or Outlaws or whatever, are you ready? Don’t forget the natural disasters like the diseases, twisters or fire. Anyhow I’m sure I’ll see you down Main Street in Dogtown U.S.A.

May your gun never jam
Beef Baron

The Dogtown Gazette and Town plan are located a little later in this publication.

Dogtown Rumours

The Dogtown Cemetry to be named after the famous Kunde Poney Express Riders, of whom all are to be buried there.  Or so it is said.

The content rancher John Cartwright of the Lazy K Ranch is hiring hands for his ranch.  Honest, hard working individuals need only apply.  Can’t see too many of them being found in Dogtown.  Can you?

Dogtown Deputy seen expressing his concern to the Mayor of Dogtown by cleaning the Mayors boots with his tongue.  Apparently a new Sheriff will be appointed shortly.  Guess who!

Fr Liam the town priest is to be shot shortly by clergy of a competing faith.  Rumours of a religious war are spreading, as are the rumours of another civil war erupting.

Seadog or is that Riverdog Johno Rossco has been seen looking over the plans for a paddle steamer for Dogtown.  The Mayor has been seen looking perplexed as he looks for water sources on his map.

Don’t worry Mr Mayor, apparently a Devil is about to bring about an apocalyptic deluge of rain that will solve the problem, as well as the population of Dogtown?

The Undertaker has been seen leaving his abode late each evening and returning just before dawn.  Whereabouts during these hours are unknown.  A Lady in Black is rumoured to have business arrangements not known to the rest of the family.  Wife not happy, perhaps looking for a better citizen to be husband and new Undertaker?

The Chinese laundry said to be a hoax.  Person involved in scheme talks like Benny Hill when pretending to be Chinese man.  Don’t be fooled by cheep substitutes, look for the real thing.  Large number of coolies seen heading this way with the approaching railway.  They don’t all seem to be very happy.

Dogtown Memories Part 4

Written by Dave Grounds


The rattling and shaking stopped. The few moments of sleep I had managed to snatch came to an end as the coach driver leant through the door.

“Dogtown, mister. Everybody out.”

I yawned and stretched a little. “Thank-you driver.” I muttered as I clambered from the cabin. “Just drop my bags off at the hotel, would you.”

“You’ve gotta be joking.” The man laughed as my cases hit the dirt. He climbed back into his seat, and with a “Jah!” whipped the horses into motion. A plumb of dust rose from the wheels as it sped down the little street. I coughed at few times and removed my glasses to wipe them on my handkerchief.

“What a coarse individual.” I murmured as I picked up my cases and looked about me. So this was Daugton, USA. Two and a bit thousand miles to see this. There were a few houses, a saloon, a general store and a sheriff’s office. It was cold, and a chill wind blew up the street, such as it was. There was no one to greet me, despite what my letter of employment had said. I picked up my cases and trudged to the saloon, in search of warmth and food. I didn’t get through the swinging doors of the “Dirty Dog”, as a voice sang out from behind me. A Yankee-Irish accent.

“O’Flaherty! Doctor O’Flaherty!”

I turned about on the veranda of the saloon and put down my cases. Coming across the street were the oddest-looking pair I have ever seen in my life, and I have seen a lot of odd things, especially in the war. The first was a little man in a bright green waistcoat, grey whiskers trimmed into a long moustache, and a cloth union blue cap. A pace behind and to his left walked the grim reaper himself. Excessively tall, lithe, draped in black with a Lincoln top hat to match. The little man was grinning with delight; the reaper was smiling like a skull, joyless.

“Doctor O’Flaherty! It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“Sir, the pleasure is all mine.” I replied, extending hand. The little fellow gripped it tightly and shook it vigorously.

“O’Doney’s the name. I’m the mayor of this bustling metropolis you see. This,” he indicated the reaper, “is Mr O’Donnell, one of our city’s proud citizens and businessmen.”

“Undertaker?” I asked.

“I hope you aren’t too good a doctor. You’ll take my business away.” The voice from the crypt said.
Instantly I was defensive. “I am an excellent doctor, sir.” I replied. “I’ll do you out of as much business as I can.”

“Well spoken, O’Flaherty! Well spoken indeed. Although soon we'll have business enough for you both. Dogtown is growing at a tremendous rate. These gold in these here hills gentlemen!”

The Mortician was not so impressed. He indicated my six-shooter. “I hope you know how to use that, with your tongue, fancy-boy.”

“This is no Boston, sir. I carry a weapon and I know how to use it. I served in the war. As a surgeon, perhaps, but I have had occasion to defend myself from rebels and thugs.”

“And you’ll have plenty of opportunities to defend yourself in Dogtown.”

“Here comes one now.” Mayor O’Doney peered down the street. “Who are they?”

Two shady figures were ambling up the road. They looked like ordinary men, except for the way they looked about the place. Highly suspicious.

“Never seen them before.” The Mortician replied. Mayor O’Doney replaced his cap and started down the street. “Come on, sawbones.” O’Donnell continued. There’s trouble brewing.” The man in black took his place behind the mayor. What can a man do in such circumstances? I flicked the cover from my holster, set my bowler hat on straight and stepped quickly to the odd pair. Together we made an odder threesome.

“Where is everybody?” I enquired. The town seemed to be deserted.

“Posse. They rode out two hours ago.” The mayor replied. “Somebody’s stolen the beef baron’s prize herd. Sheriff, deputy, all the young men went to help.”

A figure appeared on the balcony of the saloon in front of us.

“Except that guy.” The Mortician added.

“Hallo Mr O’Doney, Mr O’Donnell.”

“Hallo Andrew.” The Mayor replied. “You got your piece, boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Stay there, then, whiles I speak to these fellows.”

“You got it, Mr O’Doney.”

We continued down the street. The two men had seen us coming, and were glancing up and down. They had stopped outside the Sheriff’s office. A hundred yards stood between us.

“You there! Yes, you two! State your business!” The mayor bellowed down the street.

The two didn’t stop to answer. One of them drew a revolver and fired down the street, before he kicked down the Sheriff’s door. The other man, who seemed to have a wooden leg, leapt through the glass plate window.

The mayor swore as he leapt into the street. O’Donnell drew his pistol and fired at the man still outside. I fumbled my own weapon, but managed to bring it to bear. Shots rang out up and down the street. Behind my head, the boy named Andrew managed to hit the scoundrel in the leg. The Mortician shot him in the other, and down he went, screaming in pain. A Shot from the upper window of the general store silenced the man altogether.

“Spread out!” O’Doney yelled.

“They’re trying to free the prisoners.” O’Donnell replied.

“I know that!” the mayor returned as he climbed to his feet, and continued his way toward the office.

“How many prisoners?” I asked the mortician.

“Two.” He replied. “Former Rebels.”

This drew my attention. “Rebels?”

The man in black nodded. “That’s right, sawbones. We’ve got plenty of rebels out here.”

I cocked my revolver, ready to shoot whoever came out that door. O’Doney had approached right up to the Sheriff’s Office now, standing a few feet from the door. A single shot rang out inside, evidently as peg leg shot the lock from the door.

“You men in there!” O’Doney yelled through the door. “Come out of there! We’ve got you surrounded!”

“Go to hell, Yankee!” A big, hairy man came roaring out of the door, fan-firing as he went. The mayor dodged them all, and managed to fire back. Shots blazed up and down the street, and the big man fell. Next out came a thin reb with a red beard. I closed one eye and squeezed. That fellow went straight to the undertaker with a hole in the back of his head. Last out was ole peg leg. He blasted at the mortician with a shotgun, and then struck mayor O’Doney with the butt of his weapon, before trying to run down the alley between the Sheriff’s office and the general Store. O’Donnell stepped forward and plugged him in the back. The bullet didn’t penetrate, but the slug knocked him senseless. I advanced to the Mayor and inspected his wound. “He should live.” One could almost see the disappointment in the dark man’s eyes. “Let’s get him to the surgery.”


“In the letter I received was stated that I would have a surgery.”

The Mayor moaned quietly “Hunter’s cabin.”

“That canvass shack?”

Andrew and the man from the General Store arrived, and picked up the mayor. I went with the Mortician to inspect the rebs. One had a bullet through the heart, another through the head. The other two needed surgery, but would live.

“Pretty fair, Mr O’Donnell, I would say. Two for your graves, two for my table.”

“Very true, Sawbones. Except that the two you patch up will end up on the end of rope and in my boxes anyway. Everyone does.”

Dogtown Memories Part 3

It's not that no-one likes you, that was always there. Lets look at your list of offences you will be charged with. Let me know if I missed any.

Suspected involvement with cattle rustlers
Suspected murder by poisoning of prisoners
Defamation of Mayor
Defamation of Sheriff
Fraud - creating a false Governor
Suspician of involvement in murder of Tommi Kunst by admission
Guilty by admission of rape of said deceased
Guilty by admission to rash of theft around Daugtown - see previous comments admitting to being a thief
Dereliction of duty by allowing escape of gaoled villians - cattle rustlers
Concealing a crime scene object - poison bottle in Sheriffs' bin
Threats of assault on Mayor and various townspeople
Threats of rape against Mayors daughter and threats of sodomising Mayor

Would these charges hang Mr MacGregor??? Lynch mob or Judge's decision...can Macgregor afford legal representation? Can he afford to pay off the Judge? Find out this club meet in DAUGTOWN.


YOU GOOD SIR "me I'm Mayor Doney"

Come see me at the market gardens on club Saturday and get your weekly supply.
Indian Tonic - Stops you seeing red skin
Horsefire Tonic - Makes horse go fasta
Yellow water - When out numbered, makes you
think clear -run
Eye of Terror Tonic - good for every thing
Untouchable Tonic - Can't get it
Southern Tonic - Helps you believe the
South won
Northern Tonic - Makes you wish the south
had won , dam fine drop.

You can get these from me or the following :-
Dirty Dog Saloon
Doc Sawbones
All at the great price two dollars a bottle.

Each character and family must have accomodation sorted out by the end of the next club meet. The alternatives are:

Build a house - $150/perch to build (perch = 3" x 3")
- must actually have a structure built by 9th Feb.
- - nil costs per month

Live in a tent - must have an actual tent or similar
- nil costs per month

Live out of town - must be employed at Lazy K Ranch
- nil costs per month

Stay at the Saloon - $30/month meals not included

Stay at the Hotel - $40/month meals not included
- must wait until it is built

Stay at the Boarding House - $30/month including meals
- must wait until it is built

Sleep in the street - nil
- will be thrown in jail for vagrancy

Dogtown Memories Part 2


Well unless you’re dead or have been on vacation, then you know what I’m talking about. This is a club campaign with a difference , you get to run your own business and act as part of town’s future direction. Shoot your way out off trouble or into it. What you put into it you’ll get out it. Remember that everything you do does have bearings on the town and the people in it .

The idea is to supply your own figure if you can or one will be given for use. If you want a family then you will need to supply them yourself. On any club day at highnoon it is open season in Dogtown. It means that if somebody puts his figure on the table then you can place yours too and get involved or decide to look the other way . Between club weeks your income will be worked out and posted on the net and in Snake Eyes as well . It is up to you to think of ways to improve your business as well as pay back the loan. The life of Dogtown depends upon the people who are in it.

The beef Baron is the man who has given you your chance to start out fresh. You will need to remember that. Beware that the dangers are there and you will need to stick together as a town. Could be Indian’s or Mexican’s or Outlaws or whatever, are you ready? Don’t forget the natural disasters like the diseases, twisters or fire. Anyhow I’m sure I’ll see you down Main Street in Dogtown U.S.A.

                                                May your gun never jam
                                                          Beef Baron

Memories of a town called dog. Circa 23 January 2002

The following was written by Dave Grounds.

Memories of a town called dog.


I remember it was bitterly cold that day. I had awoken on my old camp bed to discover that the flames in my pot-belly-black had gone, and that even the coals had turned grey and life-less. It took an age to relight it, all the time stamping my feet and slapping my sides as I had learnt on cold days at Fredericksburg. I soon discovered not to stamp my feet too hard however, as the floor of the shack where I was temporarily staying was flimsy and seemed at any moment ready to cave in. I spent the next hour or so waiting for my kettle to whistle, and, as a watched pot never boils, I set about patching up the holes in the walls of the shack. It certainly met the definition of a shack: the walls were but saplings lashed together and the gaps filled with mud. The roof was but a single layer of canvass. More and more this town and my surrounding reminded me of the bleak winter I had spent on the line at Fredericksburg, surrounded by mud and ice and lice and dirty, dirty men. I had just sat down to my coffee (without milk. Milk is among the many impossibilities in Daugton) when there was a fervent bashing on the door. I thought the rotted timbers would smash. I leapt up and opened it.

“What is the nature of the medical emergency?” I enquired as a burly figure pushed his way and shut the door hurriedly behind him.

“No emergency, doc,” an Illinois accent declared, “Just a friendly visit. My name is Slim McKenzie. Honest Slim McKenzie.” And to prove the point he shook my hand in a vigorous, but honest, manner.

“And what can I do for you, Mr McKenzie?”

“Call me Slim. Or Honest. Or even Honest Slim. Nothing.”

“Nothing what?”

“You can do nothing for me, Doc. I just came to say a howdy to my neighbour.”

“Neighbour?” I enquired in a curious tone of voice. As far as I could tell I had no immediate neighbours. This shack was the only structure on this block of land. Certainly there was a church to the rear, and the mortuary (more a tent and some holes, really), but there were no other buildings nearby.

“Yes, neighbour. I’m the storekeeper. Edibles to comestibles to commodities, we’ve got the lot.”

“I didn’t realise Daugton had a General Store. I’ve been buying my groceries from the Saloon.”

“The Dirty-Dog? I wouldn’t buy from there. Rumour has it the barkeep slips a little something in each dish that ain’t the most, ah, hygienic things. It isn’t built yet.”

I frowned, a little perplexed. “What isn’t built yet?”

“The General Store. “Honest Slim’s Mega-Mart”. Catchy name, eh?”

I nodded, but had no chance to reply as the curious chap barrelled on with his story.

“The wife and I just moved west from Chicago. Couldn’t make a go it there. The whole place is already developed. I said, “Doris,” that’s my wife, “Doris,” I said, “There’s no money selling things to people who can buy the same things from somewhere else. We gotta go where there ain’t no one selling, and only people buying.” And so, we packed up our things and headed west. Or more South-West, really.”

“So you are a Monopolist?” I interjected.

“I am indeed, and an Honest man at that, thankyou for noticing. We…”

I felt he was about to launch into another tirade, or some tale about one of his inordinate number of children (which I assumed then, but discovered later, that he had) so I interrupted again.


He seemed quite pleased at this, and beamed a toothy grin at me. “Don’t mind if I do.”

I scrabbled in my footlocker in search of a cup as he droned on about the difficulty he was having in getting the lumber and workers necessary to build his Store, which apparently was to go on the block next to my shack.

“I reckon Sampson and Sons are going slow just so they can charge a higher price.”

“That’s monopoly for you.” I agreed.

“A crying shame indeed, and me, an Honest man, having to put up with it.”

I handed him an enamel mug, and he immediately note the ‘US’ stamped underneath. He poured himself some coffee as he regaled me with tales of his days in the 43rd Illinois, a militia regiment, that would have been at Gettysburg, except they were somewhere in Kentucky digging earthworks, and never fired a shot in anger. I was dragged into discussing my time with the 55th Massachusetts, and was starting to tell of the horrors of Fredericksburg when he suddenly perked up his ears.

“Harken to that.” He stood and opened the door, letting in a terrible cold draught. I stood to protest, but then heard the noise. It was hooves, fast, and a clambering, wining voice on the wind.

“I reckon that’s Bruce Macgregor.”

“Macgregor? The Deputy?”

“Ex-Deputy.” Honest Slim corrected me. “He’ll be in strife if the Sheriff catches him.”

Macgregor came roaring into Main Street, whipping his horse viciously, and all the time yelling,

“The Indians are coming! The Indians are coming!”

I turned to mutter a comment about Paul Revere turning in his grave, but Honest Slim was heading out the back door, his six-shooter in hand. “Indians Doc! Gotta close up my shop.”

I watched him go in some surprise, then turned to lock the front door. I dug in my locker and pulled out my Patterson. Five shots and a .37 slug. I grabbed my bandolier and headed after the Honest Monopolist.

He was already gone as I came out the back door. I locked it too, and looked up the street. I was in time to watch the Mortician hurry through the Church gate, his black robes flowing around his enormous frame. “Mr O’Donnell!” I yelled, but he neither turned nor gave indication that he had heard me. All of a sudden there was a whooping and screaming from Main Street, as a band of redskins rode into town. I’d never been in an Indian fight before, but decided I’d better not get stuck on the ground. I clambered up the rear porch pole, and onto the roof. The canvass groaned under my weight, but held. The braves came screaming off Main Street and toward the Church. They whooped a few times and then shot flaming arrows into the main door. I aimed, but couldn’t get a good sight on them.

All of a sudden, shots rang out from below me. I watched as two bright wounds appeared in the nearest brave, and he fell from his steed. I peered over the edge to see the brilliant white teeth set in a grinning white face of Silas P. Trustworthy, attorney at law, and local Negro.

“Good shot, sir!” I cried.

“Yes, well done, boy!” Honest Slim appeared behind him. “Keep it up!”

“Yes boss!” Silas started down the alley, his gun up and ready.

I jumped down and grabbed Slim by the arm. “A bit more respect for Mr. Trustworthy if you will, sir. He is a citizen like you or I.”

Slim was a bit annoyed at this. “I didn’t say anything against him, Doc. He’s a good boy.”

I was about to get angry when Silas reminded us of our task. “Are you Gentlemen coming, or what?”

Abashed, Slim and I took our places beside the Lawyer. Together we advanced down the street. There were yells and shots from behind us, as more Indians attacked towards the mayor’s house. We ignored them and pressed on. There were plenty of armed men in Daugton today. More arrows struck the church, but we couldn’t see a clear shot on any of the redskins. Suddenly a yell came from the bell tower. “My Family! The savages are headed for my family!” I looked up to see Mr O’Donnell, secure in the tower and indicating toward the war-band.

“Come on, men! Forward!” I ordered.

We came around the corner. Honest Slim was a good shot despite his time in the Militia, and brought down a brave. I fired, but the shot went wild. We were in time however to see two braves enter the tent domicile of the O’Donnell family. We kept shooting at the Braves, and they returned our fire, but without much effect. Our gallant threesome were joined by a few locals firing from the roof of the Barber shop to our rear, who managed to knock a brave out of his saddle.

All of a sudden there was a shriek and screaming louder than any Indian braves. Frau Brünhilde, the local schoolmarm, and Mrs O’Donnell, as woman as tall and sombre as her husband, were dragged, kicking and biting from the tent. The Braves were big lads, but were still having a bit of trouble, as the ladies fought hard for their freedom, and, presumably, virtue. Frau Brünhilde (who stays with O’Donnell’s, as there are currently no other women in town, and doesn’t trust the staff at the Dirty Dog (Does anyone?)) was shouting things in her noble German tongue that could only be curses of the foulest kind, out-drowned Mrs O’Donnell, who was yelling similar things in English. Seeing these assault on the women folk of town, we redoubled our efforts.

Silas fan fired his remaining chambers, striking a redskin twice and knocking him to the ground. I took careful aim, but stumbled on a rock, sending the shot wide. A Brave seized this opportunity, and came roaring down on me with his spear, whooping and hollering. I raised my arms to fend him off, but stumbled over the same rock again. I fell out of the way of the vicious spear point, and the Indian steed reared up, unshod hooves swinging viciously in the air. Silas and Slim fired into the melee, but nearly took my head off. The Indian rose up on the horse's back, and was about to puncture my skull, when shots rang out from the Bell tower. The Indian collapsed to the ground as his horse bolted. I scrabbled for my hat and looked up at the church. The Mortician didn’t even give me a nod as he took sight down the barrel of his pistol. The distance of the shot was remarkable, and by rights he shouldn’t have been able to do it. But he did, and I believe fervently that I owe my life to his lucky shot.

I rose to my knees, but had no time to rise further. Silas and Slim, aided by fire from the Barbershop, brought down yet another Brave, with green and black war paint. I snapped a lucky shot off, and struck another in the chest. Smoke was billowing from the church doors by now, as the flames licked higher. I could just make out a rearing horse in the haze, and emptied my remaining chambers in its direction. I was rewarded by a scream and the thud of a body hitting the ground.

It was about this time that Mrs O’Donnell took a bullet in the abdomen, as her would-be defenders attempted to shoot her would-be attackers. Seeing the blood, the brave dropped his victim, before he too was brought low in a volley of bullets from the Barber’s and the Bell tower. It has yet to be ascertained who it was that accidentally (we hope) struck the grim reaper’s wife. Ugly rumours have started that it was Silas Trustworthy, but I believe this is a vicious lie started because Mr Trustworthy is Afro-Hispanic-American. Furthermore, I doubt if Mr Trustworthy or Mr McKenzie could even see what was happen on the other side of the tent. Mrs O’Donnell, though shocked, is recovering well. The bullet passed straight through and left a clean wound. The wound may render her infertile, but I assume she would take this as a Godsend (her brother is the priest) as she has thirteen loud and rambunctious children, aged 16 to 3 months.

But I digress from the tale: Silas grabbed my arm and helped me up, and together we advanced through the haze toward the last brave and the struggling Frau Brünhilde. I tried to reload my Patterson but dropped most of the rounds on the ground. Another fusillade of shots rang out from the Barbershop, and the last warrior fell to the ground, where an irate teacher from Baden-Würtemberg kicked his corpse repeatedly (On examination the Indian had two black eyes, a broken thumb and forefinger. It is my medical advice never to attempt to interfere with a woman from Baden-Würtemberg).

I wiped the sweat from my brow, as Slim went to check the corpses were really dead, and not just playing possum. He was about to put a bullet in one when shots rang out from the Market garden. I dashed for cover behind a handy barrel and reloaded my weapon, occasionally peeping around the corner. Three braves with rifles had appeared amongst the lettuce and were raising hell across the open ground between the barbershop and the Mortician’s tent. I saw Slim and Silas return fire, and watched in horror as that brave lawyer took bullets in the leg and stomach. He fired as he fell, pushing a .37-inch round through the nearest warrior’s head. Suddenly I could remember nothing but my army training. Ignoring the bullets whizzing by I ran from my place of safety to the Negro’s side. I tore his shirt open and inspected the wound, even as slugs hit the dirt near my feet.

The man was swearing. ‘Jeepers Crackers! Mary, mother of God! Joseph, husband of Mary!’

‘Now, Silas, calm yourself! Everything will be alright.’

‘Just my stupid luck!’ he wailed. ‘Born a Black Mexican, twelve years as a slave, I get free and now I been shot and I’m going to die! God have mercy on a poor N*****!’

I forgot myself with rage. I think I may have slapped him. Yes, in fact I’m certain I did.

‘Don’t you damn well talk like that, Mr Trustworthy! You are a citizen like any other, and you’ll act like one, or so help me I’ll shoot you myself. I didn’t fight in the war so you could use that word about yourself or any other man!’

In the silence that followed I realized everything had gone quiet. The Indians had scurried off into the bushes. Honest Slim was standing above us, his face split in a wide grin, apparently at my bedside manner.

‘Don’t just stand there, you damn Monopolist! The church is on fire!’

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Patients were queued up outside the shack as I operated. All told we lost only one man, who had an arrow through the eye. Mrs O’Donnell and Silas were the most seriously injured, although others came in to be treated for burns trying to keep the church from becoming ashes. A few more came in with bullet wounds, which occurred as the townspeople opened fire on a bunch of farmers riding into town.

Partway through the afternoon I looked up from sewing stiches into Mrs O’Donnell to see the face of death staring back. The Mortician stood back to his full height and fixed me with a stare.

‘I saved you from one of my pine boxes. You save her.’

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

A flogging from the french - business as usual

After Andrews stint for the G20 he was all raring to go after a period of inactivity.

It was the day (yesterday 19th) that Brisbane and the surrounding areas copped a severe beating by the weather, flooding, hail and wind.  As usual I got some minor flooding downstairs, which was enough to trigger my depressed mood.

Rolled for table setup and all I can say was that is was crap, and I totally misread what Andrew had in store for me.  Half my army was deployed in a position that I really should not have deployed in.  The other fact that Andrews force this time round had a larger proportion of cavalry than I have previously experienced also threw the cat among the pigeons.

To say I had a defeatist attitude from the very first turn is not an understatement.  My dice were clearly in sympathy with my depressed mood and rolled as badly as expected.  Andrew though was doing very well, his artillery were especially potent this time round, where half of mine were still limbered waiting to get into a better position and the other was blocked for several bounds while cavalry milled about trying to best the other.

Below are pictures of my defeat.  Off to rethink my list, or hope for better terrain placement next week.  I do apologise for the less than brilliant photographs, I've moved my game table into another room and the single light bulb (apposed to the fluoresce) meant the flash was in action.  Hope to solve this issue sometime in the future.

All that cavalry, not what I wanted to see.

The french "centre", less infantry than I usually face.

The farm, under french occupation.

My dismal deployment, expecting Andrew to be cunning and stuff me around.
Lost a considerable amount of troops unable to contribute firepower or threat
to my opponents force.

The death blow.  The reserves arrive, horse artillery and more cavalry.

Pretty much how this side of the board was for the entire battle.
Formed in square, terrified of cavalry.  Slowly blown apart by

The cavalry melee that lasted a number of bounds, denying
my artillery the opportunity to target other units.

Prussian squares slowly advancing across the field.

The debacle that was the British.  Artillery not unlimbered, infantry confused,
Dragoons too slow to do anything.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Inner Monologue at work OR watch out he's writing about feelings again!

It’s the start of the dangerous season for me.  There are two times in the year where my illness is most likely to result in death.  First is in July, which is when my birthday is, the second is the Christmas and New Year period.

December and January are also the loneliest times of the year for me as an individual.  Certainly you can all see from my other online presences that I have lots of friends.  Actually the definition of friends is really a misnomer for online presences as this only ever indicate people you have accepted to view and share experiences online with.  There can be lots of friends, but few real friends.

I am on the whole a reserved and shy individual.  My anxiety keeps me from going places I have not been to before and my family and the few friends I have suffer from my phobias.  I attend a local game club where I can mix with my peers and find a few moments of happiness.  To say I am jealous of other people’s greater social circles and gatherings is not inaccurate.  It hurts me no end that my attempts to be included in social activities with my peers on the whole has been unsuccessful.  It seems to be I’m a nice enough chap to know if met at a venue, but not one whom one would seek out at other times.  Some people have invited me out, but my whole anxiety and phobia mentality mean that as often as not I pull out at the last moment finding some convenient lie to hide behind to mask my distress.  This attitude on my behalf has contributed to why people have probably given up asking me places.  I am flawed and it hurts.

As you can see the anxiety and fear feeds the depression and my destructive impulses.  I can hide my true personality very well from people.  To be honest no one has ever seen who I really am.  I’ve had a life time of practice.  My family (parents) were a very unloving lot; their expectations of what I was to achieve in life meant that I was never good enough in their eyes.  What I wanted to do was creative and expressive, my family wanted ambition, success and social standing.

I will be indeed fortunate that a few people will take the time and effort to keep in contact and socialise with me over this period.  My treating specialist has suggested I join other groups in areas where I have interests.  Yes I agree that this has merit, I certainly never considered it.  Would I be able to do this, most likely not.  Going to anything new leaves me vulnerable to the world I fear.  The amount of hurt I have suffered over the years from those I trusted or respected outweighs the good that I have encountered.  I trust very few people these days, I want to trust but deep down I know that eventually I will be let down and I will suffer yet again, and it will always be a greater pain than that suffered before.

My life has always been dictated to by my family.  The family I grew up in and the family I started.  People have said to me that I cannot own the problems of others.  Yet when the problems of others always impact on your life it is impossible to disassociate from the source.  I cannot walk away from my family, no matter how it might relieve me of the hurt I constantly suffer.  I am too old to start afresh; I have had a sheltered life, removed of many of the responsibilities that others have encountered in their life.  I don’t handle change very well.

I know that my situation is not unique.  Everyone struggles with life.  For me, the struggle is at times overwhelming to the point of suicide.  I have been on more medications than I can remember the names of.  My problem with medication is that it is a great crutch when a crisis appears, but if your mental intellect has not been impaired then no amount of medication is going to change how you look at the world.  Being pumped up with enthusiasm and optimism will not change a bad situation into a good one.  Whatever has gone wrong will not magically disappear, relationships won’t repair themselves, and hurts will not heal.

The older I get the less people I seem to have around me.  Should I be lucky enough to reach retirement then I can’t say there will be much to look forward to.  Who will want to play games with a 70 year old?  The age gap between me and many of the people I socialise with is slowly growing; in some cases I am old enough to be their father or even grandfather.  I’m not worried about the difference, but younger people don’t always want to be seen hanging out with oldies.  It’s just not cool.

Where am I going with this?  Oh I guess it’s just another inner monologue with myself which I’ll post online just because I can.  I’d like to think I’m beyond caring what people think of me these days, but that’s probably not true.  My moods and personalities run the whole spectrum, and my mental health isn’t going to change for the better.  One day it will get the better of me and then I will be free of all the burdens that life on this miserable plane of existence entails.  I suffer from mental illness, I cope as best I can, yet it would be nice if people can include me in their lives and activities.  After all it could be you at any point in your life.

Friday, November 14, 2014

Blind Pig Club Day 15th November 2014

The last Blind Pig has finished for the year.
It was to say the least very hot, Jason said 36C at Carina.
Paul was off enjoying a holiday with the family, so the regulars stepped in to help with the day.
I need to single out especially today, Jason, Leslie, Roy, Tim and Pat (I guess I was as well) for their help in keeping the day on track.
It was very hot, thanks to Tim who brought the ice, much appreciated by many.
All up I counted 35+ for the day.

There was the last BS&S for the year. A good range of product, with sales happening. Next year it is enviaged that the 2nd meet in the month will be available for BS&S. So there will be plenty of opportunities next year if you have items you want to sell.

Games in action today were:
Dystopian Wars
EPIC Armageddon
Smash Up
Kings of New York
Boss Monster
Krunch (the Goblin Wars game, I think that was it's name) - look forwarf to a four player game.
Legendary Encounters (I think people lost each of the two games)
D&D 3 Dragon Ante
Star Wars: Empire vs Rebellion (I liked this one)

So on behalf of the Blind Pig operator and the crew I'd like to wish everyone a safe holiday period and look forward to seeing you all next year.

Here are some photo's of the day!

Boss Monster Game

Deadzone setup with the newest member helping dad!

Slowly filling, the heat was horrible.

Yes the heat was bad, lets talk for a while.

Dystopian Wars in action.

D&D 3 Dragon Ante Card Game

Deadzone, with Michael taking his turn in a blur.

EPIC Armageddon

Add caption

Legendary Encounters

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Dogtown - The British have arrived, and two families of Dogtown

Captain Jack of Port Royal "ranch" has his cowboys ready.

The Dogtown Undertakers:  McDonald & McDonald
Brothers Perceval & Lester, Percevals wife Morag,
their son Erasmus and wife Davida, with son Rhys

The one time Baby Baptizing Bishop of Bath Cornelius McDonel, and
his wife Sheila.  Accompanying them are their seven daughters:
Theodora, Penelope, Modesty, Arabella, Winifred, Beatrice and Euphemia

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Warhound Restoration Part 1

A friend of mine Peter F, had an accident with his Warhound Titan, it fell from a shelf which moved and due to the instability of the model, it plummeted to its apparent death.  Peter posted on facebook about his sad tale and I made a comment about, leave it with me and I'll fix it for you.  So on the Blind Pig Games Club day Peter arrived with his Warhound in a box, the box wasn't that big and it did worry me when I collected it.

The box of pieces.  Doesn't look good does it?

After I pulled everything out and placed them out.  Looks like it's all there.

Went to Bunnings at 9am this morning to collect some strong bonding glue.  Looks fairly straight forward, from what I can see there is very little damage to the pieces themselves.  A little lick of paint for a few of the scrapes but it looks like it should all finish up "a proper job" in the end.  I just have to find a suitable base now as Peter tells me it's prone to topple.

What have I charged for my service?  Nothing.  Peter offered to pay me for my time, but I refused.  The world today should be more about helping people.  I have the time (too much) and the skill and patience to put it back together.  For me it comes back to community, and my community has sort of lost it's way and forgotten that it's a hobby we enjoy.  It's about sharing experiences and helping out mates when needed.  Pursuing the "money" trail is not what the hobby is about (though too many will argue that point).  Yes I may charge some people for my services, but that is usually when my finances are in dire need of assistance, and the people who know don't mind paying in those circumstances.

Stay tuned for the next installment of Restoration!

Blind Pig Games Club 1st November 2014 Meet

Today was the second last club meet for the year 2014. Thanks again to everyone who helps set up and pack up at each meet. Your help enables the club to run smoothly and is off great assistance.

Had just over 25 people for the day with a few new faces. To the new comers, welcome and we hope to see you at further meets.

Games in play today:

EPIC Armageddon
Dystopian Wars
Kings of New York
Legendary Encounters

Next meet is the 15th November 2014. See you all there.

This and the photo above - Kings of New York

EPIC Armageddon set up.

The hall filling up with happy gamers.

40K in action.

40K in action.

40k in action.

Dystopian Wars - Peter (waving) is a Spartan Vanguard.

EPIC Armageddon in action.

Legendary Encounters (Aliens essentially ie the movie)

Deadzone in play.