Final final votecount:
Corwin (1): Ryogo
Ryogo (2): Corwin, Shale
And so it was that only three of the ringleaders remained. People were quick to accuse the odd man out in this equation...or the odd woman, really. "She's a witch! Burn her!"
"You can't burn me, I'm already dead!" Hildegard retorted. "And besides, I ran an abbey! You can't be much holier than that short of being the pope, now can you?"
A lone voice yelling "Burn her anyway" was quickly shouted down, but others spoke up against her. "Aha, but a woman can't be the pope! Gotcha there, haven't we?"
Flustered, she started again with a "That wasn't really my point," but the crowd was incensed and longing to see an end to the whole affair. Many were past the point of listening to reason, so a few hearty "Whoever heard of a woman writing a symphony anyway" remarks was all it took to rouse them into action.
And so, the last innocent victim was flung down to an eternity of endless "Rawhide" covers.
Ryogo, AKA Hildegard von Bingen, 1098-1179 (Vanilla townie) was lynched!
After that, it was just Handel...and someone else. The "someone else" celebrated their apparent victory by framing his hands on either side of his body, as though holding a phantom guitar, and producing a noise which, to classical ears, was akin to high-pitched shrieking.
Naturally, Handel was quite perplexed by this display. "Did you just...did you just play air guitar?"
The heretofore nameless composer shrugged. Something akin to chanting, just on the edge of audibility, could be heard as he spoke. "Well, so what if I did? It's clinically proven to reduce air pollution, you know."
Handel gave the man a sidelong glance. His last remaining comrade was a blond man with a flamboyant (and, to 18th century eyes, tacky) style of dress. "...Who are you, anyway?" Handel asked.
The chanting grew louder. Words could be made out now. "...happy happy happy, everybody's happy..."
Yngwie Johan Malmsteen, Swedish shred guitarist extraordinaire, grinned. "Ah, well, as to that...I don't really like these postmodernists all that much, you know, but this was the only way I could get in. No hard feelings, right? I mean, I got to hang with Beethoven for a week. Who wouldn't do anything for that?"
A pulsing electronic rhythm, monotonous and deafening, filled the land. "HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY, EVERYBODY'S HAPPY."
Malmsteen put a sympathetic hand on the Baroque composer's shoulder, Handel looking horrified beyond words at this turn of events. "Hey, sorry about this, man, but we're taking over," the guitarist said as the chanting permeated every inch of reality. "You should probably prepare for the coming of Goz--er, our leader."
"HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY, EVERYBODY'S HAPPY."
And so everyone was...or else. The Benevolent Dictatorship of Minimalism kept everyone in line under threat of exile. After suffering from just a week of slide guitar and banjo music, the classical composers were broken and not apt to resist. Milton Babbitt ruthlessly interrogated the few resistant ones, tormenting them by remixing their most famous compositions into a mangled electronic hodgepodge and forcing them to listen to it until they fell apart. In time, order was established and all was officially well. Composition was strictly regulated and no one strayed from the officially acceptable conventions.
And there was a performance of John Adams' Nixon in China every night, every week, for eternity.
At least until some upstart rockers led by a curious individual known only as "Prince" initiated a revolution. But that is a story for another time...
Scum win!
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Comments, role setup and night actions will be posted when I get home.
