Player Killer's Pub Crawl

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Vice and Morality. To kill or not to kill. Is drink the devil's solution or the nectar of the gods?

It's deep thoughts about abstract concepts like these that most player killers disdain. In an attempt to openly flaunt our disregard for both human life and sobriety, the PKA is sponsoring Malton's FIRST ANNUAL PLAYER KILLER'S PUB CRAWL.

It's a blood bath! A drinking contest! An Odyssey! A Movement! A Meaningless Distraction! An Empty Statement! A Chance to Urinate Beer on the Citizens of Malton as they Bleed!

Join some of Malton's largest player killing groups as they race across Malton visiting the city's many drinking establishments for wine, murder and song!!

More to come here soon!

  • Have suggestions for a route? Specific pubs you'd like to hit?
  • Ideas for friendly PK'er competition? Perhaps a demonic game of bar golf with specific par values assigned to particular survivors? The sky's the limit, and we've just started planning.
  • Specific dates, routes, times, participants, et cetera to follow. The super secret parts won't see the light of wiki until after it's over, so head on over to the 'boards for the full scoop, as well as your chance to help shape this soon-to-be historical event.
  • Questions? Feel free to use the discussion page here or head over to the boards.


Sunday, November 18th, 2007

The Sabbath. The Lord’s Day of Rest. The quiet suburb of Dulston reeks of stale beer and whiskey vomit as drunken sots waste brain cells in this relatively safe suburb. Meanwhile, the rest of Malton struggles for survival. The Fated Scales of Justice cry out for a grand rebalancing through karmic retribution.

This night the merry making of Dulston’s disciples of John Barleycorn came to a screeching halt. The gin-soaked calm was shattered the The PKer Alliance. The revelry ceased as the 2007 Player Killers’ Pub Crawl commenced in earnest.

Shaking the chill night air off his military jacket, Dr. Jock of the Creedy Guerilla Raiders entered The Gouger Arms. Empty peanut shells crunched under his feet as his nostrils were assaulted by the combined smells of stale lager and recent urine. He asked himself, “What breed of human filth would choose such a place for habitation?”

It was not a question he would ponder for long. Now was a time for action, for ultimate justice. Dr. Jock removed the safety on his shotgun, and brought it to bear at close range on dougdent. Dent died poorly, crying and begging for mercy, as wine cooler dribbled onto his dated velour shirt.

Next Dr. Jock enjoyed a rare treat. Two depressing symbols of the fascist hypocrisy plaguing Malton decayed along with the moldering barstools. Two disgusting soldiers of the survivor oppressor army known as FOXHOUND leaned against one another in partial consciousness.

The good doctor first relieved Shane Nothnagel of his attachment to the mortal coil. Nothnagel had most recently been bleating over the radio about my own location and others, yet failing to actually find the stones to do something about the “PK’er infestation” himself. Now, death came as a hardly noticeable alteration of Nothnagel’s temporal state. Dr. Jock discovered the drunken bum laying face down on the bar, and failing to noticeably twitch through multiple gunshots given his advanced state of alcohol induced anesthesia.

Lastly, Dr. Jock ended the existence of Concordia One, as the facist soldier miscalculated an inebriated lunge for his weapon, and was rewarded with a bullet from Jock’s sidearm between the eyes.

Seeing the foul den of iniquity was now cleared of sinners, Dr. Jock exited.

At the same time, across the suburb at The Slade Arms, I, Sarah Silverman entered the well-lit drinking establishment to see what I might find therein.


What I found offended even my somewhat liberal moral sensibilities. Here sat four souls engaged in such debauchery that I could not unload my weapons into their flesh fast enough to erase the vision from my senses.

A makeshift stage had been erected using several decaying tables. A survivor named Autumn May forcibly performed a submissive dance as two other survivors, Tjis and Link Fyre threw bottles at her feet. She wore a deranged catholic school girl outfit and clown-like makeup streamed down her face in polychromatic streaks. I could hear audible whimpers as she winced from the pain of multiple lacerations across her legs and arms caused by the shattering glass. She nearly slipped and fell on her own blood as she danced a kind of psychotic 'river dance' for the tossers' pleasure. Nearby, Dead De Gaulle cackled as he polished off a gallon-sized container of single malt scotch while nibbling on stale crisps and rubbing artificial cheez flavoring residue through his unkempt mane.

I decided to put the already injured Autumn May out of her misery. Next, I quickly dispatched her tormentors Tjis and Link Fyre. Finally, I rid the world of an olfactory offender (a nasty combination of peat and and Chee-Tos) as I filled the former French President with buckshot. So much in fact, that it grew difficult to distinguish the bits of his skull from the wooden shards of the bar against which he was righteously and expertly executed.


Lastly, in the northeastern quadrant of Dulston, my fellow Late Night TV Crue member Sheila Broflovski entered The Much Arms with judgment in her eyes and murder in her heart. With an exclamation of “What what what?!? Drinking on a school night?!?” she executed the prophecy-waiting-to-be-fulfilled that was the plastered sad sack known as Not So Alive. Witnesses claimed they saw Sheila grab a bottle of Stolichnaya as she exited out the rear door shouting “Blame Canada!!” but I have seen no proof.

More PK'ers are on the way. More pubs are being listed for visitation. Will YOU be a death-witness to the pub crawl?

Three pubs. Three PK’ers. Eight deaths. The Pub Crawl has begun! We’re coming soon to a drinking establishment near YOU.

Fellow PK’ers – it’s not too late to join in our next night of terminal carousing! See the PKA forum for more information, or leave work on the discussion page here and someone will contact you.

Until our next outing, this is Sarah Silverman signing off with...Kiss kiss!--Sarah Silverman 17:00, 19 November 2007 (UTC)

Monday, November 19th, 2007

Pub Crawl, Day TWO

After the first leg of the pub crawl, I retired to The Gouger Arms to rest up after so many shotgun blasts had shaken my strong yet attractive arms. As luck would have it, just about the entire traveling contingent of The Late Night TV Crue assembled there this afternoon in a beautiful moment of serendipity. There was only one other unfortunate survivor there, Targut who was the equivalent of a sheep wandering into the wolves' den. He was quickly dispatched over a couple of Guinness. Actually I think Sheila had a Lager and Lemon. We sat and shared our exploits over the previous few days and I must admit the ale flowed freely.

Given the rare good fortune that we were all active at the same time, we decided to head to The Rayment Arms in Pescodside. Jimmy and Stephen were eager to join the crawl, so after a few more shots of red headed sluts (with no offense intended toward the lovely Ms. Broflovski), we departed with every intention of doing wrong by the citizens of northeast Malton. It was a bit of a stagger – honestly I could have used a bit more rest after the previous night’s work.

We arrived to find an only moderately decrepit edifice, with a mostly in tact shingle announcing the establishment’s name – The Rayment Arms – depicting a ram’s head in mid-heavenward bleat. Someone had roughly scrawled the line, “Protected by the United Bar Alliance” beneath the pub’s name.

Heading inside, we sidled up to the bar, and were politely served a round of black and tans by a friendly enough looking sort called Von Bob. From a badge on his lapel we discerned that it was mostly likely he, a member of the United Bar Alliance, who had altered the sign out front. His sunny demeanor almost made it difficult to imagine shooting him in the face – but not really.

Scattered elsewhere around the bar were several other survivors. In a far corner Nayban and dippyu were engaged in what looked to be a best out of 6,000 games Dart Tournament. It was clear that their rate of consumption was ahead of Von Bob’s best efforts to keep their pints full an their area tidy. Watching them, and now us as the newcomers was an incredibly bored Sugar Pie. Sugar Pie had the look of a woman who’d logged far too many hours in this particular establishment, and appeared to have used other methods besides her scavenging abilities to survive since the outbreak began…

We honestly were delaying getting about our business thanks to the cozy atmosphere, a healthy head of beer, and the friendly nature of Von Bob. Then the skank Sugar Pie walked up to my main squeeze Jimmy Kimmel and suggested something that I won’t repeat here on this rated-G wiki. That was all I needed to nudge me from my alcohol-induced stupor to firearms practice.

With a roar, our guns came alive. I started with Sugar Pie’s knees, then her arms, lastly giving her something slightly more metallic to put in her mouth than the item she’d earlier offered to place there. Unfortunately this on packed a somewhat more final shot. The nerve saying such things to my man!

We’ll never know who would have won the perpetually tied dart game between Nayban and dippyu, as Sheila blew dippyu’s head clean off. I’m afraid neither the board nor the darts are salvageable. Nayban feebly tried to hit Jimmy with a dart as bullets perforated his abdomen, but it lamely bounced into an artificial philodendron.

Stephen smiled as he killed the publican Von Bob. Stephen truly enjoys killing those in positions of authority, so the rest of us were happy to let him have this one. With a one-to-one ratio, the killing didn’t really take that long. Soon we were refilling our pints and taking them on the road for another chilly trek to our next chosen locale for continued death and destruction…

Does this sound fun to you? It’s not too late my Pker friends! Join up before our next evening jaunt! We’re killing our way toward a town near YOU!!

Phew! Big start for me! I'll need a rest for a day or so now! Until then, Kiss kiss!--Sarah Silverman 02:42, 20 November 2007 (UTC)


Pubcrawl.gif "I swear to drunk officer! I'm not God!"
This user or group did the watermelon crawl, bar hop, and pub shuffle across Malton in 2007 with a bunch of inebreated murderers and got totally hammered.