It is the start of another gray week in metropolis and it’s all just been getting you down … until, that is, a satisfying thud by the front door heralds the arrival of a large brown envelope. Unbeknownst to you, your life is about to change. You curse the postman, as the remains of the shattered letterbox (splinters and all) litter the hall carpet, and a chill Monday-morning breeze whistles through your dressing gown and up the ample trouser of your well-worn pajamas. But this concerns you not, for ripping open the letter reveals a simple house brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it, and a small yellow sticky note attached to the red clay top. The sticky label reads: "THROW ME THROUGH YOUR FRONT WINDOW” Stepping out into the blank a.m. you tut loudly at the myriad gnomes in next door’s garden before launching the plain building component, with fullest force, through the ornate Georgian bay window ‘pon abode’s frontage. Screaming with blue murder and foulest language, you first run into your house, and then emerge again a second later bellowing: “what b*****d did that?” You look to your left and, thence, to your right in vain hope of catching sight of the vandalistic culprit. Cursing under your breath, you return again to your home and gently close the door. The house brick silently mocks you, your moral outrage, and your ‘Mr. Bunny’ slippers, lying as it does on one of its long sides – the attached paper is crumpled, but intact. Sweaty-palmed, you pull the note away from its stony guardian and flatten the creased message before reading: “My dear nephew, Please forgive my indirectness (and the fact that you may not actually be my nephew) but I have been told (by the giant clams that live on my face) that I have so many relatives that it is nigh on impossible to remember all of your names; so I shall (instead) resort to the simple nomenclature ‘nephew’. My mind is not what it used to be – indeed, it used to be a liver – that being said, I address you as one of the potential beneficiaries of my capacious legacy! “Your capacious legacy?” I hear you cry – Yes! You will, with a bit of luck, by this time next week, be quite incredibly and most-certainly indecently wealthy. “How?” I hear you retort. The answer is very simple – you will attend my funeral this coming Friday and, once the merriment and festivity has subsided, you will kill everyone else in the house. That’s all – nothing complicated. The last person alive in the building when Monday (and my tall solicitor) comes will inherit my vast fortune, my enormous financial holdings, and my capacious legacy! Best Wishes Great Uncle Sir Hesketh Goodbody Three-Choirs Overcoat (Deceased) PS. Bring a Bottle. PPS. No blue jeans.” You stand amazed – Fate has saved you the last slice of Viennetta and stands poised to either offer it lovingly for consumption, or ram it in your face until you weep like a pansied fop. Are you up to the challenge? Summary (in plain English): The object is to be the last player left in the game with life counters, while all the other players have lost theirs. Download the cards and rules for free from www.surprisedstaregames.co.uk