Mafia: general discussions.

"You have to admit, it was a pretty good performance, wasn't it?" Joker asked, tilting his head slightly.
The Jester nodded and let out a nasty giggle, folding his bony hands.
"Well then, let's go. There are still many cities ahead of us, and everywhere we... ha-ha, aren't expected," said the patron of irony and mischief. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a small ball of colored paper, tossing it under his feet. There was a crack, as if a firecracker had exploded, and two figures in hats disappeared in clouds of smoke and a shower of confetti.
A playing card landed on the cobblestones – a red joker. It flipped over, and it became clear that on the back, in ornate handwriting, was written:
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

"That's how the story of the City ended," the elderly storyteller mumbled, lighting his pipe. A considerable number of people had already gathered around him: some had expressions of extreme disbelief on their faces, others were vividly imagining the strange story of the City, which had emptied in a week, but they all eagerly caught every word of the old man, who was bent under the weight of a large, worn backpack filled with books, many of which he had written himself.
"And that's it?" someone among the listeners asked. "They disappeared forever?"
"I don't think so, I don't think so," the storyteller said uneasily, shaking his head. "I've been traveling through different lands for twenty years, and I always feel like they haven't let me go."
"What do you mean?"
"As if..." the old man hesitated, trying to find the right word. "...as if... they... established a connection with me. They see the world through my eyes and are waiting. Waiting for a new City, where they will sow chaos..."
"Okay, this is going too far," another voice said from the pleasant semi-darkness of the tavern's far corners, sounding rather unsteady. "You told us a good fairy tale, but don't turn it into a tall tale, old man."
"You don't have to believe me," the storyteller replied wearily, "but I was there and saw everything with my own eyes, the day before I ran away from that accursed place. I just want..."
A strong gust of wind opened the window and whipped the curtains. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
The old man flinched and, without finishing, got up to gather the sheets of paper scattered on the table in front of him, covered in illegible small handwriting. The others also began to get up and leave – it was late, and the owner would soon close the tavern.
When everyone had left, the old man was still putting paper and the uneaten remains of his dinner into his backpack. Some kind of anxiety had been overwhelming him more and more often lately; he knew that the events of past years were echoing in his memory with dull blows. And now, he saw in the empty beer mug on the table a reflection of the Joker's snow-white smile.
The fire in the fireplace was still burning, but it wasn't getting any warmer. Something creaked. The old man openly rushed towards the doors, but he saw a familiar shadow in the doorway and froze. The shadow looked him in the eye and said:
"It's time for them to start preparing..."
"It has begun... Again..." the storyteller croaked and fell, scattering books on the floor. A piece of paper fell out of one of them, on which were written three words in large letters:
HE WILL RETURN.

In short:
About six months ago, I first came to this site, or rather, to "Mafia 18." The idea captivated me, so I ran the game several times (among acquaintances and through an agent). The next game is planned for August, so I will gladly accept those who wish to participate (10 people have already been found). The game is held on Skype, registration at proektmafia.
Link to the rules:
http://depositfiles.com/files/huv1grgtu