Yours Truly's been dabbling in the Planet Motherfucker toybox for almost a year now, but it took until last weekend to actually do something with it at the gaming table.
And the players (about half my Mutant Future crew) have been absolute saints waiting on me, because they whipped up these bad-boys way back in February. Didn't know diddly about Savage Worlds, either—just dove right into the rulebook out of sheer enthusiasm for the material.
I told them to make whatever characters they wanted, but to look at Jack's Official Archetypes for guidance. I also said they'd each have a freebie tricked-out, Roth-ian vehicle, because this GM wanted nitro-burnin' highway mayhem from the get-go.
Their characters are below. I claim no responsibility for the madness that follows.
And the players (about half my Mutant Future crew) have been absolute saints waiting on me, because they whipped up these bad-boys way back in February. Didn't know diddly about Savage Worlds, either—just dove right into the rulebook out of sheer enthusiasm for the material.
I told them to make whatever characters they wanted, but to look at Jack's Official Archetypes for guidance. I also said they'd each have a freebie tricked-out, Roth-ian vehicle, because this GM wanted nitro-burnin' highway mayhem from the get-go.
Their characters are below. I claim no responsibility for the madness that follows.
—
Rob made...
 |
| "I like smoking cigars, playing cards, and cracking skulls." |
"Happy" Mikey Marchetta is twenty tons of gangster-cliche in a five-pound hobbit's body. He dresses like Pacino, swaggers like DeNiro, and rages like Pesci (and bludgeons like Pesci...and eviscerates like Pesci...and [insert terrifyingly-explosive-and-loudmouthed-and-violent-excess here] like Pesci)...plus gambles, drinks, and womanizes more than all three combined.
Don't look at him. Don't talk to him. And for Satan's sake, don't ever tell him he's funny!
Attributes: Agility d6, Smarts d6, Spirit d6, Strength d8, Vigor d6
Skills: Fighting d8, Gambling d6, Intimidation d8+2, Shooting d6, Streetwise d6, Taunt d6+2, Throwing d4
Derived: Charisma -2, Pace 6, Parry 6, Toughness 6(2)
Racial Abilities: as Half-Folk [p. 21 of Savage Worlds Deluxe]
Hindrances: Arrogant, Greedy, Mean
Hindrances: Arrogant, Greedy, Mean
Edges: Strong-Willed
Gear: Sawed-Off DB Shotgun (range: 5 / 10 / 20, damage: 3d6 / 2d6 / 1d6, RoF 1-2), Baseball Bat (STR +d4), 50 Shells, Flak Jacket (+2 / +4 vs bullets), Pot Helm (+3 Armor, +50% vs headshot), Backpack, Blanket, Crowbar, MRE, Rope, $55 in trade goods (toilet paper and beer)
—
Bill went with...
 |
| "You might have heard of me." |
"The Honorable" Mr. Butch is a hobo—the singin' kind, not the stabbin'—right out of Central Casting. He'll dance for his supper (wouldja believe he taught Fred Astaire everything about softshoeing?), and warble a soulful tune (which Elvis totally ripped off, by the way). Or tell you a stirring anecdote (like about how he was really the first man to stride the moon) while escorting you safely through a dangerous neighborhood (because he's totally impervious to harm, thanks to that enchanted trenchcoat forged by Hephaestus himself).
And he'll definitely rob you blind, but it's totally okay because he's simply keeping his skills sharp, what with being the reincarnation of Houdini and all.
You might think that Mr. Butch is yanking your chain...but he isn't, no sirree, because he's seen it all, done it all, and knows EVERYBODY. And if you press too hard in questioning his veracity...well, it's your funeral, because, yeah, he's totally the stabbin' kind, too.
"The Honorable" Mr. Butch
Attributes: Agility d8, Smarts d4, Spirit d8, Strength d6, Vigor d6
Skills: Climbing d6, Fighting d10+1, Intimidation d6, Persuasion d8, Stealth d8
Derived: Charisma 2, Pace 6, Parry 7, Toughness 6(1)
Hindrances: Delusional ("Thinks He's Famous"), Illiterate, Poverty
Edges: Charismatic, Florentine
Gear: Sword-cane (STR +d6), Hobo Duds (as Leather Armor), Whatever Isn't Nailed Down
—
—
And, last but not least, Alana created...
 |
| "Well, that worked out nicely." |
The dapper, wizened "Fumbles" McGee is a, ahem, "pharmacist" who always has the cure for what ails ya...assuming he didn't inadvertently mix poison, acid, or napalm instead. And no one can tell if he's as blind and deaf as a stump, or always high on his own supply, or outright crazy; any way you slice it, "Fumbles" should be dead a thousand times over. But somebody Downstairs keeps giving him a pass, because dude can wander obliviously through a warzone and come out without a smudge.
One question on everyone's minds, though: WHY THE FUCK DO THEY LET HIM DRIVE?!!!
Attributes: Agility d8, Smarts d4, Spirit d8, Strength d4, Vigor d6
Skills: Driving d8, Knowledge ("Recreational Chemistry") d4, Lockpicking d8, Repair d6, Riding d4, Shooting d4, Survival d6
Derived: Charisma 0, Pace 6, Parry 2, Toughness 6(1)
Hindrances: Bad Eyes, Clueless, Hard Of Hearing
Edges: Elan, Extraction, Luck
Gear: Sawed-Off DB Shotgun (range: 5 / 10 / 20, damage: 3d6 / 2d6 / 1d6, RoF 1-2), Cane (as Staff, STR +d4, Parry +1, Reach 1), 20 Shells, Backpack, Lockpicks, Umbrella, $15 in trade goods (toilet paper and beer)
—
So, that's the group.
A midget mafioso. A pathological vagabond. An oblivious coot.
And this GM was absolutely, positiviely flummoxed. I was expecting—nay, dying for—PCs along the lines of Cyborg Witchdoctor and Sasquatch Dragqueen and Vampire Luchadora, and I got...these pure-human psychos. Just look at, say, the thief with little in the way of thievery crunch; sheesh, another PC entirely had the necessary skills and the tools, instead of him.
And how the hell would they have awesome vehicles? Only one character could really drive...and he's blind.
So, after months of dragging my feet, game time was cemented for Saturday afternoon...and as of post-midnight Friday evening, I had nothing. Nada. Bupkus. I just kept staring and staring and staring at those character sheets, with no freaking clue how to make them all gel into something fun for everybody.
But then, KABOOM.
It was right there in front of me the whole time.
Happy. Honorable. Fumbles.
A legbreaker. A grifter. A wheelman.
All stylish. All uniquely skilled. All male.
Two of the three were pint-sized.
And one's picture was a literal cartoon.
Which means my image of these guys...
...which meant that only one vehicle in the entire universe would do:
The Ant Hill Mob just got Planet Motherfucker'd, y'all.
And campaign ideas engulfed my formerly-sleep-addled-but-suddenly-energized-and-ecstatic brain.
—
Come that aforementioned Saturday, my group was sweet enough to humor my vision of their characters, and the game was a rousing success. Next post is the recap!
Big, big shout-outs to Richard Guy for keeping the Wacky Races perpetually bubbling in the back of my brain, and to Planet Motherfucker's own progenitor, Jack Shear. Wouldn't be possible without 'im.
—
So, that's the group.
A midget mafioso. A pathological vagabond. An oblivious coot.
And this GM was absolutely, positiviely flummoxed. I was expecting—nay, dying for—PCs along the lines of Cyborg Witchdoctor and Sasquatch Dragqueen and Vampire Luchadora, and I got...these pure-human psychos. Just look at, say, the thief with little in the way of thievery crunch; sheesh, another PC entirely had the necessary skills and the tools, instead of him.
And how the hell would they have awesome vehicles? Only one character could really drive...and he's blind.
So, after months of dragging my feet, game time was cemented for Saturday afternoon...and as of post-midnight Friday evening, I had nothing. Nada. Bupkus. I just kept staring and staring and staring at those character sheets, with no freaking clue how to make them all gel into something fun for everybody.
But then, KABOOM.
It was right there in front of me the whole time.
Happy. Honorable. Fumbles.
A legbreaker. A grifter. A wheelman.
All stylish. All uniquely skilled. All male.
Two of the three were pint-sized.
And one's picture was a literal cartoon.
Which means my image of these guys...
...morphed in my mind's eye into these guys...
The Ant Hill Mob just got Planet Motherfucker'd, y'all.
And campaign ideas engulfed my formerly-sleep-addled-but-suddenly-energized-and-ecstatic brain.
—
Come that aforementioned Saturday, my group was sweet enough to humor my vision of their characters, and the game was a rousing success. Next post is the recap!
Big, big shout-outs to Richard Guy for keeping the Wacky Races perpetually bubbling in the back of my brain, and to Planet Motherfucker's own progenitor, Jack Shear. Wouldn't be possible without 'im.
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