You're Wearing Quincy's Shoes!

(colour: "red")[YOU'RE WEARING QUINCY'S SHOES!] An exciting and highly accurate portrayal of forensic medicine, brought to you by Dr. Quincy, M.E. and Wayne Goodchild (wayne[dot]goodchild[at]virgin[dot]net) (colour: "red")[This riveting adventure is (c)Wayne Goodchild 2015 and is absolutely authorised by Quincy and the LAPD.] ------------------------------ I'm Dr. Quincy, M.E. - you may have seen my exploits with the Los Angeles police force on television. Or rather, you may have seen me doing their work for them, as they are routinely useless at solving homicides. I also work tirelessly to serve justice to those who would seek to undermine others. Recently, I've been working on a case involving city-wide corruption that stretches all the way to the mayor's office. Unfortunately, he's a tricky son of a bitch and it's requiring more time and effort than usual to get him banged to rights. This is where YOU come in. I need to devote as much time as possible to figuring out how to solve this case. I can't do this while I'm doing my usual work, so my intention is to mentally retreat into the farthest recesses of my brain. This will allow me to concentrate solely on the case. YOU will take control of the rest of my brain, and my body, and use them to continue doing my day-to-day work for me. That way no one will ever suspect I'm close to bringing down the mayor once and for all. However, I won't be completely detached from reality; if you act too out-of-character for me, I'll be forced to retake control and kick you out like the snot-nosed punk you are, thereby ruining my chance at bringing down the mayor. Don't mess it up. Before you settle in, let me set the scene: it's a Tuesday morning. You - which is say I - have been called into work to examine a John Doe. Figure out who he is, who killed him and the cause of death. And remember: if there's even a hint of social injustice, give the perp both barrels. That sorta thing really grates my cheese. Letting you into my body in [[3...2...1...]]

Congratulations! (colour: "red")[You're wearing Quincy's shoes!] And everything else. From this point on you're in full control, unless you mess things up and make people suspect you're not really Quincy. You're in his - which is to say, your - office. There's a typewriter on the desk with a large pile of paper next to it. It looks like some kind of [[manuscript]]. There's also a [[notebook and pen]]. There's also an empty sandwich wrapper, but no trace of the sandwich. Your boss, Bobby, and your assistant, Sam, are both stood looking at you. [["What the hell are you two eyeballing me for? Show me this John Doe!"]] [["Where the hell did my sandwich go?"]]

It looks like a novel. There are currently 168 typed pages. You quickly scan a few of them and see it's about a world class forensic expert called Chuck Connors and his adventures with his best friend, the President of All the Americas. There are hints of science fiction and other genres thrown in, by the looks of it. Bobby says "Quince, what are you doing? We need you to examine a body, not your own damn novel!" He wouldn't be so insistent if he had a read of the novel - Chuck Connors sounds like a real man's man, and his adventures make police work look like Bozo the Clown's Day Out, whatever that means. Maybe you oughta [[suggest he reads it]]...? Alternatively, pretend Bobby didn't say anything and act like he's wasting your time by demanding [["What the hell are you two eyeballing me for? Show me this John Doe!"]]

The most recent scrawl reads: "Chuck Connors stared open-mouthed at his best friend and adventure buddy, The President of All The Americas. "You want to what?" "Chuck my friend, you've got a pretty excellent Adventure Jet we both use to get to adventures, but I'd like to do you a favour and give you a land-based Adventure Vehicle." "Wow," said Chuck, making his mouth form a relevant shape. "What exactly are we talking about here?" "It's a technologically advanced car," the President said, opening a folder and pulling out pictures a fancy black automobile. "We've put a robot in it so it can fire guns and drive itself. We'd like you to have it to do adventures in." "Wait a minute," Chuck said. "Don't think I'm not grateful, but what the hell do I want with a car that drives itself? You might as well give me a bike with no wheels, that's how much use it'll be to me." and underneath this: ROBOT CAR? SCIENCE FICTION APPEAL FOR NERDS? OR MOTORBIKE CAPABLE OF REACHING INCREDIBLE SPEED, ALSO WITH GUNS? Sounds fascinating! Do you want to read the [[manuscript]] or shout at Bobby and Sam: [["What the hell are you two eyeballing me for? Show me this John Doe!"]] Alternatively, you could demand [["Where the hell did my sandwich go?"]]

All three of you walk through to the morgue. A chubby John Doe is laid out on a metal bench ready to be examined. Do you: examine the corpse's [[head]], [[right arm]], [[torso]], [[left arm]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]]. Remember, you need to identify the victim and cause of death. (colour: "purple")[MAIN QUEST!] Alternatively, you could [[mouth off at the chief]], [[boss Sam about]] or decide to [[go find your sandwich!]]

Bobby says "How should I know? This is your office! Maybe you ate it already." Sam pipes up with "This isn't the first time one of Quince's sandwiches has gone missing, Bobby." You use Quincy's masterful voice to inform your boss that "I can't work on an empty stomach! I need to find my sandwich before I do anything else." Bobby sighs with characteristic exasperation. "Fine. Don't take too long, though." Congratulations! You've found a (colour: "purple")[SIDE QUEST.] Now [[go find your sandwich!]] Or say [["Ah, it's only a sandwich. Show me this new corpse instead."]]

Bobby throws his hands in the air, not as if he doesn't care, but rather because he cares too much and you're (which is to say Quincy, is) annoying him. "Why aren't you taking this new case seriously, Quince? There's a dead man in the other room and he needs examining!" Uh oh, he's right! There's no denying the (currently untitled) adventures of Chuck Connors and the President make for riveting reading, and maybe even some form of exciting movie or video game, but it shouldn't be your focus right now. Better try and hide your mistake by gruffly shouting [["What the hell are you two eyeballing me for? Show me this John Doe!"]]

Where do you want to start looking? [[The bin]] in your office? [[Your desk drawers]]?

Sam says "Quince, I'm proud you're taking this new case seriously, but it's not like you to let this form of injustice go unpunished." He's right! Now [[go find your sandwich!]] Or try to brush off your uncharacteristic behaviour by blustering [["What the hell are you two eyeballing me for? Show me this John Doe!"]]

The bin is full of crumpled paper and old sandwich wrappers, but nothing WAIT A MINUTE! Your keen forensic senses start going bananas - this bin should have been emptied yesterday! Perhaps you oughta go have a word with the [[receptionist]] about this unforgivable lack of cleanliness! [[Your desk drawers]] might hold something you've missed. Or not. Otherwise, you can let Bobby and Sam's combined stares of frustration get to you. [[Some dead guy's laid out in another other room waiting for someone to solve his death]] and you're the one to do it! Solve his death, that is!

You didn't leave your sandwich in here, and why would you? Drawers are for alcohol, not bread. And here's your [[gin]] to prove that last sentence factually accurate. Now what, smart guy? [[The bin]] might hold sandwich-related clues! Wait, there're also some handwritten notes in the drawer about an [[exciting novel]]... Ah, this is a waste of time! [[Some dead guy's laid out in another other room waiting for someone to solve his death]]. That should be you!

You read Quincy's distinctive handwriting: -------------- Chuck Connors could get hold of an Adventure Jet. The President suggests they go to Cuba for some reason. Everyone goes nuts for zombies. Should zombies appear? ------------- Wow, this sounds a lot more interesting than a boring old corpse! "Hey kid." It's Quincy, speaking to you from the depths of his brain! "Either find my goddamn sandwich or figure out the deal with that body Bobby and Sam keep going on about." He's right. Of course he is, he's Quincy! You're sure there'll be time to read the novel later, but first: [[The bin]] might hold clues to your missing sandwich! [[Some dead guy's laid out in another other room waiting for someone to solve his death]] and that someone is YOU! Because you're Quincy!

"Hold on, kid!" Quincy's voice booms through your brain, which is of course his brain. "You haven't solved the main case yet! You haven't even found my goddamn sandwich! Do one of those then you can celebrate." Bobby says "Quince, you're not seriously considering drinking that NOW, are you?" Sam adds: "You haven't figured out who the John Doe is yet, or what killed him!" Ouch, it's like there's an echo in here! [[Some dead guy's laid out in another other room waiting for someone to solve his death]] so you'd better get on with it! [[The bin]] might lead you in the direction of your sandwich, if you decide your hunger comes first.

All three of you walk through to the morgue. A chubby John Doe is laid out on a metal bench ready to be examined. Do you: examine the corpse's [[head]], [[right arm]], [[torso]], [[left arm]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]]. Remember, you need to identify the victim and cause of death. MAIN QUEST! Alternatively, you could [[mouth off at the chief]] or [[boss Sam about]].

The receptionist is a cranky old thing in horn-rimmed glasses and an unfashionable grey sweater. You know her name but can't be bothered to use it. She looks up when you announce your — that is to say, Quincy's — presence. She puts her arms over whatever's on her desk. THAT'S SUSPICIOUS. [[Ask her about the bin]]. [[Ask her to move her arms]].

"Why hasn't my office bin been emptied?" “Why you asking me, I'm not the cleaner.” "I know that. Have you seen the cleaner?" “No.” Hmm. Better change tactics! Accuse her of [[lying]]. Ignore her and [[examine her bin]]. [[Ask her to move her arms]].

"What're you hiding from me, Dorothy?" "My name's Sandra!" "I know. What're you hiding?" "N-nothing. Paperwork! I'm very busy, Dr. Quincy..." How do you respond? "I bet you are, you [[lying]] beast!" Ignore her and [[examine her bin]]. Go around behind her desk and [[move her arms for her]].

"You're keeping something from me!" "Dr. Quincy! I...I don't know what you're talking about!" Bobby and Sam have followed you through and it's your boss who loudly declares "Quince! What the devil do you think you're doing? You can't go around harassing staff like this!" "I can if they're LYING TO ME!" The receptionist looks upset. Well done, tough guy. You'd better back off a bit. [[Some dead guy's laid out in another other room waiting for someone to solve his death]], remember? Alternatively, you can keep looking for your sandwich. Why not [[examine her bin]] or [[move her arms for her]] since she looks like she's covering something up. Literally!

It's full of crumpled paper and chocolate wrappers. But wait, what's this? A flash of colour grabs your eye. "Look at this!" you declare in Quincy's magnificent voice. "Either Doris here shops at the same deli as me, or she's the sandwich thief!" "My name's Sandra!" "I know. What have you go to say for yourself?" "I...I shop at the same deli!" "If that's the case, you should have no trouble telling me [[what today's special was]]!" Accuse her of [[lying again]]!

Bobby yells "Stop manhandling my staff!" But it's too late - you've uncovered her dirty little secret: she's been working on a crossword instead of doing any legitimate work! "Well well Bobby, looks like Sam's not the only lazy one around here." "Hey!" Bobby says "It's hardly the crime of the century, although I expected better from you, Sandra." The receptionist looks suitably meek. "I'm sorry, sir." Maybe if she's too lazy to do any work, she's also too lazy to correctly dispose of any evidence! Why not [[examine her bin]] for clues!

She stutters and her beady eyes dart around the room, looking at Bobby and Sam for help but they're waiting to see how she responds. "I...I...I can't remember!" "So you ARE lying!" you triumphantly roar. "No! It was...it was...pastrami and swiss on rye!" Bobby notices the look on your - which is to say Quincy's - face, because it's the look you - that is to say, Quincy - gets every time he - Quincy - has cracked a case. "That's not right is it, Quince." You dramatically crumple up the sandwich wrapper and bounce it off the receptionist's stupid ugly face. "There was no special today because there never is on a Tuesday!" The receptionist sobs into her arms. Bobby pats her on the back and says "You're lucky stealing a sandwich isn't a sackable offence." "It would be if I was in charge," you say. Sam says "Come on, Quince. Can we finally look at the body?" He's right! [[Some dead guy's laid out in another other room waiting for someone to solve his death]] and that someone is still you, Dr. Quincy, M.E. (colour: "purple")[SIDE QUEST COMPLETE!] Unfortunately, all you've earned from this escapade is a sense of righteousness, which is effectively worthless in the long run. OR IS IT?

Bobby comes over and forcefully grabs your arm. "Quince, that's enough! Who cares if she took your sandwich? This is no way to treat a woman!" Shake your boss off and demand the receptionist tell you [[what today's special was]] at the deli. This is borderline social injustice and you can't let it lie! [[Give the receptionist both barrels]]!

"Yooouuuu miserable excuse for a human being!" you begin. "Always stealing my sandwich. And if it's not mine, it's someone else's. Like Sam's baloney and pickle last week." "I thought that was you, Quince." "Or salads. Or chocolate bars. You don't care, do you? As long as you don't need to spend money on your own food! Your kind makes me sick! You should be ashamed of yourself! Why don't you crawl back under whatever rock you call home, you vile hag." Bobby storms over, his face like a thunderstorm. "QUINCY!" he roars. "This is unnecessary, even for you!" Sam agrees. "It's only a sandwich, Quince. This isn't like you. Well, it is, but not when it's just a hungry receptionist. It's not like she's a...a paedophile or anything." "Or maybe she is!" you shout. "First it's sandwiches, then it's children. Does your appetite know no bounds?" "Oh that's too much, kid!" Quincy's voice appears! "I'm going to have to take control before you get me fired, you snot-nosed punk!" BOOM! You're back in your own body! FAIL. Maybe if you ask him nicely enough, Quincy will use his magic powers and reverse time to let you have another go? In [[3...2...1...]]

Someone or something gave this guy a face not even his mother could love. Sam pipes up with "I think he was beaten to death, Quince." "So why has Bobby asked me to examine him if you already figured that out?" Bobby interjects with "Because we can't tell if the wounds were inflicted by a person or an object." INTRIGUING! No wonder they've got you - which is to say, Quincy - on the case! Examine [[the right arm]], [[the left arm]], [[torso]], the [[left leg]] or [[right leg]] (set: $head to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

The defining characteristics of his arm are enhanced biceps...and a ruined hand. Looks like he really gave someone or something a damn good pasting! Bobby asks "What're you thinking, Quince?" "Examining a corpse is like assembling a jigsaw," you answer. "It's all about fitting the pieces into the right places." Bobby considers this then nods his head. "Sam noticed interesting wounds on [[the head]]." Sam adds: "I think he was involved in a fight, Quince." You could examine the head, or ignore this obvious clue and continue examining the [[the left arm]], [[torso]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]] (set: $rightarm to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

At first glance the John Doe looks a little chubby, but then you notice subtle muscle definition. Chances are he worked out, likely with an emphasis on upper body strength. There's a small amount of dried blood around his neck and shoulders. Examine [[the head]], [[right arm]], [[left arm]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]]? (set: $torso to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

The arm is powerfully muscled and terminates in a bloodied hand. Wounds on the knuckles suggest a fight. But with what, or whom? Turns out you actually monologued that last paragraph, because Sam says "I think he was involved in some kind of brawl, Quince. I wondered if the mark on his [[left leg]] rings any bells with you?" You can check that out or his [[head]], [[right leg]], [[the right arm]] or [[torso]]. (set: $leftarm to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

There is absolutely nothing of note about this limb. It's the most boring leg you've ever seen in your distinguished career as the puppetmaster of famous medical examiners. Stifling a yawn, do you turn your attention to [[the head]], [[right arm]], [[left arm]], [[torso]] or [[left leg]]?

His left shin features a large tattoo of a grey wolf's head over a red boxing glove. It takes a moment of internal reflection to remember where you - that is, Quincy - saw this before: it's the logo for a boxing club downtown, near a bar you (Quincy) likes to frequent. +5 Memory! Examine [[the right arm]], [[the left arm]], [[torso]], [[the head]] or [[right leg]] (set: $leftleg to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

"Damn it, Bobby! Can't you see I'm trying to solve a murder here? If it is a murder. Which it probably is, since that's the only type of crime you can't solve without my help! Let me do my job, dammit!" Bobby looks utterly bewildered. "But that's exactly what I am doing, Quince!" Somewhere in your brain, you hear Quincy chuckle. (colour: "green")[+10 Personality]. Now examine the corpse's [[head]], [[right arm]], [[torso]], [[left arm]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]].

"You could have examined the body yourself Sam. While I'm around you'll never be the best, but you're good. Good enough to not have to wait until I do your work for you!" "But I have looked at it, Quince! But I'm confused by a few things, which is why we're turning to you." "What things?" "The marks on his face and hands. We're not sure if they match up or not." Interesting! Examine the [[the head]], [[the right arm]], [[torso]], [[the left arm]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]].

The guy's face looks more like a second-hand punching bag. Bruises and abrasions cover it completely; it's almost impossible to see what he should actually look like. Sam asks "What do you think, Quince?" "Any idiot can see the guy was beaten to death." (colour: "green") [+10 Insight!] "But I can't figure out what weapon was used, Quince. I think you'd better keep examining the body." Check out [[the right arm]], [[the left arm]], [[torso]], [[left leg]] or [[right leg]]. (set: $head to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

Powerful biceps suggest this man worked out to some degree. The knuckles on his hand are cut up and covered in dried blood. It's entirely possible he punched something or someone before his death, but the wounds are too numerous and closely grouped to figure out which. Examine [[the head]], [[the left arm]], [[torso]], [[right leg]] or [[left leg]] (set: $rightarm to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

His powerful biceps suggest a degree of working out. The knuckles on his hand are covered in wounds and dried blood. It's entirely possible he punched something or someone before his death, but the wounds are too numerous and closely grouped to figure out which. Examine [[the head]], [[torso]], [[the right arm]], the [[left leg]] or [[right leg]] (set: $leftarm to 1) (if: $torso is 1 and $head is 1 and $leftarm is 1 and $rightarm is 1 and $leftleg is 1)[[[Make a verdict]]]

"From the wounds on his face and hands, which are consistent with blunt force trauma not uncommon to pugilists, this man was clearly beaten to death." Sam says "But Quince, we already-" "Ah ah ah," you say, holding a finger up. "I haven't finished. This man was clearly beaten to death...BY HIMSELF!" Bobby splutters in disbelief and Sam gasps in amazement. "Quince," your assistant says, "you've done it again!" Yes, you have. "Care to explain your verdict?" Bobby asks. --------------- [["No. Quincy doesn't need anyone questioning his brilliance."]] [["Another time, Bobby. Right now we need to focus on the man's tattoo."]]

Bobby frowns. "Why are you talking in third person?" Uh oh! That's not very Quincy! "Because I felt like it, and you know I do whatever I damn well please," you say. Quincy rumbles away in the back of your head: "Good save, kid." "In any case," you say, "I need to investigate The Den." "The boxing club near Danny's?" Sam asks. You point at the cadaver's left leg. "That tattoo is the logo for the club. I bet we get some answers there." Bobby says, "Great thinking, Quince! Your powers-" but you stop listening to him because you're already [[halfway out the door]].

"We need to what his what?" "The tattoo on his left leg is the logo for a boxing club called The Den. It's near Danny's. It stands to reason we should head there to retrace this fella's last steps." "And find out who he is," Sam interjects, unhelpfully. "That goes without saying, Sam," you growl, but with a twinkle in your eye so he knows you're not really mad with him. "I don't know how you do it, Quince," Bobby says, but you don't really hear him because you've already grabbed your coat and are [[halfway out the door]].

Not even Quincy, which is to say you right now, can ignore the laws of physics, so [[continue out the door and head to The Den]].

You get Sam to drive because you like sitting in the back and pretending he's your chauffeur. Pretty soon, you arrive at The Den. It's nestled in the arches beneath a train bridge, which surprises you because you never realised there was a train in Los Angeles. You enter first, with Sam close behind. The Den is dingy; bare brick walls covered in tattered posters for old boxing matches. Several low-hanging florescent lights tick and buzz over a boxing ring positioned in the centre of the cave-like room. A large logo - the wolf head over a boxing glove - covers the far wall. The place stinks. A stocky gent in a flat cap with a cigar is leaning on the ropes talking to a young man in shorts and gloves in the ring. [[Approach the gent]]. [[Approach the young boxer]].

He has the weary look of a man who's failed at life and blames everyone else for it. "Can I help ya, pal?" Can he? Let's find out! Do you say: [["I'm looking for a chubby guy, short dark hair, mid-fifties. Got your club's logo tattooed on his right leg. Sound familiar?"]] OR [["I've got a dead boxer in the morgue and a tattoo on his right leg lead me here."]]

You figure him as being around mid-twenties. Muscled. Looks like he eats with his mouth open. He wipes from sweat from his brow and eyeballs your rugged face. He grins and says, “Aren't you a little old to take up boxing, gramps?” Remind him to respect his elders by using your [[words]] or by using your [[fists]]. Return your attention to the stocky [[gent|Approach the gent]].

The grizzled gent — you figure him to be the owner — squints as if your face is the sun. "Maybe. Who's asking?" Hmm. Now might be a great time to play it cool. [["Just a guy he owes money to."]] Or make sure this chump understands exactly who he's dealing with. [["Dr. Quincy. I'm the LAPD's M.E. And this is my reasonably-able sidekick Sam."]]

He grimaces like he can't stand the taste of his own mouth. "You police?" [["I'm better than the police – I'm a Medical Examiner!"]] [["Not exactly. How about you tell me his name so I can contact his next of kin."]]

The stocky gent thoughtfully rubs his prickly chin. “Sounds like Howard. Does that sound like Howard to you?” He addresses this question to the young boxer, who has so far sat listening intently to your conversation. “Chubby bastard with a tattoo? Could be any of your old clients, Frank.” “Watch ya mouth, Lorenzo” He turns to you. “Kinda sounds like Howard Kitson. He's usually in Monday nights. So you're not police?” [["I'm better than the police – I'm a Medical Examiner!"]] [["Dr. Quincy. I'm the LAPD's M.E. And this is my reasonably-able sidekick Sam."]] [["Not exactly. How about you tell me his name so I can contact his next of kin."]] (set: $boxer to 1)

The gent points his cigar at you and squints. "Yeah...yeah, I know you. You and your Oriental friend here like to hang out in Danny's, don'tcha?" [["Correct."]] [["Maybe you're confusing us with someone else."]]

He chews on his cigar. "Well laa-dee-dah. I suppose that I, as a humble boxin' club owner n' promoter, should feel honoured ya decided ta leave ya office n' come downtown to mingle with us mooks." "Cut the tough guy act! A man is dead, seemingly by his own hands, and the trail lead here. So gimme some answers or [[I'll make sure your club's closed down for health and safety reasons within the hour!]]" "Cut the tough guy act! A man is dead, seemingly by his own hands, and the trail lead here. So gimme some answers or [[I'll get Sam here to do some of that martial art stuff his lot are so good at!]]" [["Your breath stinks almost as bad as your attitude. If you're not going to co-operate with me, let's see how you handle a visit from L.A's second finest. I say 'second finest', because I'm the first finest."]]

The gent points his cigar at you and squints. "Hang on, I know you. You and your Oriental friend here like to hang out in Danny's, don'tcha?" [["Correct."]] [["Maybe you're confusing us with someone else."]]

The boxing club owner is eyeballing you like he maybe wants to wipe his feet on your craggy face. "You threatenin' me, pal?" [["Yes."]] [["We got off on the wrong foot..."]]

"Quince!" Sam yells. "You can't say things like that!" You can, and in fact just did. (colour: "green")[+15 Racism Caused By Old Fashioned Opinions!] Quincy's voice growls in the back of your head, which is of course his head. "You're a funny kid, but you're also a punk. Don't insult Sam again or I'll have to regain control." "Hang on a minute," you reply internally, not externally or everyone would think you're mental and talking to yourself, "you regularly put him down." "Are you arguing with me? Do you WANT to get kicked out of my body?" (colour: "orange")[-5 Quincy Points!] You apologise and return your attention to the situation at hand. The boxing club owner is eyeballing you like he maybe wants to wipe his feet on your craggy face. "You threatenin' me, pal?" [["Yes."]] [["We got off on the wrong foot..."]]

"Tough luck, kid," Quincy's gravelly tone intones in his gravelly voice. "Our time is at an end!" Oh dear. This is what we in the business call "the end of the demo". For updates, you can send a polite email asking WHEN THE HELL CAN I JUMP BACK INTO QUINCY'S SHOES?! to wayne[dot]goodchild[at]virgin[dot]net and you'll get your answer. At some point.

"Huh. Any pal of Danny's is a-ok with me." (colour: "green")[+5 Six Degrees of Separation!] (if: $boxer is 1) [[["Yeah, Danny's a real stand-up guy. So how about you tell some more about Howard Kitson?"]]] (else:) [[["Yeah, Danny's a real stand-up guy. So how about you tell some more about the dead boxer?"]]]

"Like I said, comes in Monday nights. Lorenzo here sometimes spars with him." You turn to Lorenzo. (if: $lorenzo is 1) [[["Something tells me he could wipe the floor with you."]]] (else:) [[["Did you give him a hard time about his age, too?"]]]

barf"Tough luck, kid," Quincy's gravelly tone intones in his gravelly voice. "Our time is at an end!" Oh dear. This is what we in the business call "the end of the demo". For updates, you can send a polite email asking WHEN THE HELL CAN I JUMP BACK INTO QUINCY'S SHOES?! to wayne[dot]goodchild[at]virgin[dot]net and you'll get your answer. At some point.

The snot-nosed punk touches a gloved hand to his face and scowls at you. "He could dream, gramps." "Just tell us about Kitson please, Lorenzo," Sam asks with his trademark bedside manner, which isn't as charismatic as yours but damn it, it gets the job done! "Howard's a chump. Likes to think he's a tough guy, but he ain't. He told me he's an enforcer for Tommy Spinelli, but c'mon, the guy can't even tie his shoelaces without gasping for breath." Lorenzo chuckles, and this annoys you. Oh boy, does it! "Show some respect, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch. The man is DEAD." The owner blows smoke at Lorenzo. "He's right. Howard might've been a chump, but he was a good customer n' he took his trainin' seriously. Unlike some I could mention." Sam says, to you, "Tony Spinelli?" "Tough luck, kid," Quincy's gravelly tone intones in his gravelly voice. "Our time is at an end!" Oh dear. This is what we in the business call "the end of the demo". For updates, you can send a polite email asking WHEN THE HELL CAN I JUMP BACK INTO QUINCY'S SHOES?! to wayne[dot]goodchild[at]virgin[dot]net and you'll get your answer. At some point.