You are Greg Mitchell, a collector of rubber band guns and related paraphernalia. Your house contains shelf after shelf of elastic weaponry from all over the world. You also have a substantial collection of rubber band balls. One night, you are awoken by a crash from downstairs. You grab a rubber band pistol from your nightstand and rush to investigate the noise. You discover a large man has broken through a window and is running around looking for valuables. He has a bag for the loot, but appears to be unarmed. You point your rubber band gun at him and make yourself known.
"Hello," you say in a deep voice. "I'm here to collect my money."
The robber looks surprised by your sudden appearance, as if he had been expecting someone else.
you aim for his soft, shitty eyeballs.
He screams and drops his bag, which begins to fly everywhere. You shoot him several times with your rubber band gun, killing him instantly.
The police come and get your side of the story. They inform you that there has been a series of break ins and you nervously blurt out, "It was suicide!" The police officer nods.
You have no way of knowing it at the time, but the events of that night will eventually lead to your rise in fortune...
you release a line of home defense rubber band weaponry. Perhaps the most interesting product is the Death Shooter, a large-calibre rubber band gun designed to bring down hostile birds.
The Death Shooters are so effective that people begin to use them for criminal activities.
Reindrob copies your designs and releases his own line of rubber band artillery. He sells them to every nation and soon the world is engulfed in rubber hell. You are known as the Father of Banditry, and you live comfortably off the profits of your company.
You could have easily designed more weapons, but you felt like that was done enough by the firearms industry.
You feel a sense of remorse and you feel haunted by everyone killed by a rubber band gun. You begin to drink heavily, to numb yourself. You design a rubber band television and show it at a techology fair, but no one is interested in such a blatantly analog device.
You go back to your home dejected and start to see a crowd of ghosts materialize in your living room.
"Ah, fuck," you say.
One of them grabs your arm and you wake up. It's just a dream. You're home, in bed, alone. You take the entire dream with you.
you use the dream as inspiration to fire a gun that can kill ghosts that fires rubber boo-nds. you hold a séance to summon your first target. It turns out that the suicide victim's sister isn't happy with the fact that he died by suicide.
You use a geas on the sister to make her like you so she stops her relentless criticism.
You continue your assault on the ghosts that roam your domicile until all the ghosts are dead... again. you have the police round to conduct a welfare check on you. Upon entering your home, they find all your ghost trophies and a tag-along goblin who apparently fell through your roof.
You tell the police the goblin is not with and is another home invader. The police, believing you, leave you alone. The goblin becomes a regular fixture at your home, and you use it to tag along on whatever endeavors you have.
The moral of the story: Do Not Fire Rubber Band Guns Near Dead People orgoblins.
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