Rich sez, "This is not for the faint of heart, but a friend and I recently wrote a 120 page murder mystery game for 8 daring role-players. It's called 'The Little Engine That Could Kill.' The game consists of 8 short stories, each of which details the perspective of a character who may have been involved in a somewhat gory murder that has occurred on a transcontinental train in 1932. Everybody reads a story and then plays their character as they wish, using what they know to try to figure out who did it. The true murderer, of course, must lie to avoid being caught. The characters are over-the-top and super-suspicious, and, the plot is ridiculously complicated - nobody we've seen has been able to figure out the whole thing so far. We've posted it free on Scribd under a CC license. Hope you enjoy!"
You waddle through the Bar Car
into you room. You waddle past the Violinist who is sitting on your bed red-faced and angry. You
open the door and waddle forward with a last desperate step as your lungs burn with every breath
and you see the Barman entering the Magician’s quarters. Your sweaty fingers clasp the bottom
corner of his white apron, but they are too wet and slippery and you are too drunk on capitalism and
whiskey to maintain your hold. The Barman pulls himself into the room and swiftly closes the door.
But you are out of control. Your weight is propelling you forward and you can’t stop in time. You
crash into the firm metal door and crumble into a pile of flesh and bones – more flesh than bones --
and the voice of Adam Smith, now wheezing and hacking with exhaustion, whispers “A true
capitalist would tear down barriers to entry. A true capitalist would. A true capitalist. Capitalist.”
You shove your flabby shoulder against the door, but you are shoving against more than just
a steel barrier. You are shoving against fair trade, shoving against the public school tax, and shoving
against...no, you can’t say it, but you can think it. You think, “I am shoving against the the not-for-
profit charity. You shove with the full force of thought conviction, but your weak shoulder bounces
off the door and your bulky body makes a soft wet thud against the cool tile floor...Mr. Smith, are
you there?...Mr. Smith?...You call to him through the darkness of your mind, but he’s not there
anymore and you pass out.