This fabulously upscale island community that features top-of-the-line amenities, including a diamond-accented swimming pool, spring water hot tubs, deluxe gardening services, a full-size shooting and archery range, white-sand beaches, axe-throwing, special classes, recreational center, a concert hall, gourmet restaurants, private bar, and a 600-acre synthetic forest with hiking trails, and botanical gardens, all with 24/7 security and an irresistible urge for everyone to murder you in the most brutal ways possible.
The moment the door opens, a concealed contraption tips forward, releasing a torrent of molten salt, cascading down with terrifying intensity. As it plunges into the fish tank below, the blistering salt collides with the electrified alcohol—a volatile solution already crackling with tension. In an instant, the mixture erupts into a chaotic blaze, electrified vapors igniting and dancing wildly, sending searing heat into the air.
The turbulence stirs up a series of sharpened lithium pins scattered across the tank, which had been lying in wait for just such an opportunity. When exposed to the heat and moisture, the pins begin reacting with a violent energy, sparking and bursting. Sharp fragments and shards, propelled by the power of each small explosion, fly outward, aiming mercilessly toward exposed flesh. The chemical heat, combined with the kinetic force of the exploding pins, inflicts lacerations and burns as they make contact, each embedded shard intensifying the agony by corroding and reacting further with flesh and any moisture present.
This brutal Level 4 mastermind offensive attack card will have a limited run available for individual sale and mixed packs. Get yours before it’s gone.
The metal cleaver—its edge honed to brutal perfection—slices through layers of flesh, bone, and muscle with chilling ease, embedding itself in the center of their sternum. As nerves scream awake, a crushing wave of pain radiates outward, a relentless ache that drowns out everything else. Their heartbeat stutters, pounding erratically, sending sharp, echoing pulses around the wound, each one intensifying their agony.
Use this card against the biggest boobs at the table to give them a not-so-subtle hint. Allow the sharp and sudden impact of this card cut through the competition. This is a stable mid-level card that will fend off any low level attack.
This jet-black offensive playing card with crafted from matte PVC material, giving it flexibility, resilience, and a waterproof quality. Dark blood-colored edges provide a subtle but eye-catching metallic glint, catching light with each move and lending an elegant, almost shadowy quality when held with other cards.
On the card’s face, gold metallic detailing showcases deathly attack symbols against the black background and creating an eye-catching contrast. The back of each card has dual metallic detailing that accentuates the artwork, adding both dimension and a luxurious appeal.
Ideal for collectors or enthusiasts of high-quality card artistry, this card brings a powerful attack option to your arsenal, giving you an edge during gameplay.
This is the card to destroy opponents that can’t stop picking up their phone! If they survive it, the exposed nerve ending on the side of their face will tingle with an almost unbearable sting since the flesh itself is being seared away. The harsh smell of burning plastic, metal, and even hair overwhelms them, pushing them into a state of shock. Pain courses through them, sharp and relentless, as the reality of the situation sinks in, leaving them shaken, scorched, and scarred both physically and mentally.
This jet-black offensive playing card is crafted from matte PVC material, offering flexibility, resilience, and waterproof durability. Its edges are tinged in a dark blood-red hue, subtly metallic, catching the light with every movement and adding a refined, shadowy allure when stacked with other cards. The card’s face is adorned with striking gold metallic symbols that depict deadly attack moves against the black background, creating a captivating contrast that draws the eye. The back features dual metallic detailing, enhancing the artwork and lending a layered, luxurious effect to the card.
Perfect for collectors and card enthusiasts, this premium card is not just visually striking but a powerful addition to any game, delivering a distinct advantage in gameplay. Because “Murderville” is in the actual card description, the value of it will increase much faster as soon as it is discontinued.
The only thing worse than having sharpened sugarcane spikes puncture your vital organs is having scores of fire ants feast on your deliciously sugared broken body as you suffer. sugar cane spikes, though not as sharp as metal or glass, would penetrate the skin with their hard, fibrous tips, causing immediate lacerations and bruising. Each movement, every attempt to find footing or balance, would result in deeper cuts as the spikes press into the body. The sugar cane fibers would splinter on impact, leaving fine, irritating shards in the wounds, complicating every twitch and flex. The combination of the spikes’ sharp, deep pain and the unceasing burning from the fire ants would make any movement unbearable, yet staying still would only invite more ants to swarm. The pit would feel inescapable, the spikes and insects working in tandem to ensure that every inch of skin is punished. In such a pit, even seconds would feel like an eternity of physical and mental torment.
Adding to the horror, swarms of fire ants would immediately invade any exposed skin. Fire ants are notorious for their aggressive bites and stings, which inject venom that causes an intense, fiery burning sensation. They would swarm in seconds, covering limbs, torso, and face, their bites creating tiny but numerous blisters that feel like the skin is on fire. The pain is unrelenting; each sting triggers waves of pain, and as the ants dig in, the wounds start to swell and throb.
This jet-black offensive playing card with crafted from matte PVC material, giving it flexibility, resilience, and a waterproof quality. Dark blood-colored edges provide a subtle but eye-catching metallic glint, catching light with each move and lending an elegant, almost shadowy quality when held with other cards.
On the card’s face, gold metallic detailing showcases deathly attack symbols against the black background and creating an eye-catching contrast. The back of each card has dual metallic detailing that accentuates the artwork, adding both dimension and a luxurious appeal. Ideal for collectors or enthusiasts of high-quality card artistry, this card brings a powerful attack option to your arsenal, giving you an edge during gameplay.
The shock begins with ice-cold water crashing over their body, drenching clothes and skin in a stinging cascade that steals their breath. Before they can gasp, your boot slams into their chest with bone-snapping force, lifting them off their feet and sending them flying backwards. Their body slams against the steel interior of a freezer, the echo of flesh on metal ringing out like a death knell.
The door swings shut with a heavy clang, and the lock snaps into place. Instantly, their screams fog the air, breath rising in frantic clouds as frost spreads across their soaked skin. They pound the steel from the inside, fists raw and knuckles split, but the cold sinks deeper with every second. Water turns to ice on their clothes, eyelids stick as lashes freeze together, and teeth chatter in violent spasms. Slowly, the sound of pounding weakens… until there’s nothing left but silence, frost, and the dull thud of a lifeless body sliding down the frozen wall.
Freezer Kick is a Level 1 attack card—but it delivers a cinematic chill unlike anything else. Brutal in its simplicity, it’s the kind of move that turns the battlefield into a meat locker. Play it when you want to lock your opponent away, turn them into a permanent ice sculpture, and remind everyone watching that cold-blooded doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Throw down this rejuvenation card to start vibrating with a dark energy that will seep into your veins. You suddenly feel a surge, like a thousand volts jolting your spirit awake. Your body ignites in an electric haze of crimson flames, shadows swirling around as if you’re the very heart of chaos itself. Your eyes blaze with an unholy glow, and before you can even think, your limbs begin to move in perfect sync with a beat only you can hear.
As the rhythm takes over, each bone snaps into place like gears in a wicked machine, propelling you forward in an eruption of spinning kicks, flawless backflips, and popping moves that defy gravity. Your hands move with surgical precision, plucking 2 cards from the shared armory deck. As you move, a spectral audience of demons cheers you on, their twisted smiles reflecting the thrill of each new card you add to your armory. Fueled by the demonic hit, you’re unstoppable—a storm of energy, power, and rhythm, leaving your opponent stunned as you reclaim control and take the round.
You can also feel good knowing that 30% of the revenues for this card goes to assistance for the elderly.
Imagine the flush of embarrassment as your opponent is forced to hold out their hand, each card representing a piece of their carefully guarded strategy. Your eyes sparkle with glee, lingering over every card as though savoring the secret strengths they are forced to reveal. The moment stretches, tainted with the sting of vulnerability; their hard-earned armory laid out for you to dissect and dismantle. With a smug, calculating grin, you reach out, plucking the best card from their hand. They’re left with a fragmented version of what was once promising. The humiliation clings, a bitter reminder of the control you stripped away from them.
It is best used against a level 5 attack card or to match another level 6 card to avoid losing the round. The biggest advantage of this card is that you know the cards of your opponent and cripple them by taking one away to add to your own. However, you only have up to 6 seconds to study your opponent’s hand and choose a card.
The silver accents emphasize intricate, delicate patterns, forming ornate symbols and flourishes around the card’s title and description, while the the back of the card is adorned with a combination of silver and gold that adds a bold, central Murderville design. This dual metallic finish not only highlights each card’s details but also provides a luxurious look, adding depth and texture.
You can feel good knowing the 30% of revenues for this card goes to assistance for the homeless community and runaway teens.
Elude fate’s grasp with a stroke of cunning, weaving your escape through a simple, ingenious plan: hiring a lookalike on minimum wage. As you vanished into the shadows, your stand-in took center stage, unwittingly absorbing the stares and sinister intentions meant for you. The low paid body double acts your shield, an unwitting decoy, leaving your enemies to chase an illusion while you remained untouched and alive.
Each card features deep crimson foil edges, giving off a subtle yet striking metallic gleam that dances in the light as you handle it, casting a dark, refined aura over the stacked deck. The face of each card is adorned with metallic silver artwork and framing, creating a rich, layered contrast against the black backdrop.
The silver accents highlight intricate, delicate patterns—ornate symbols and flourishes that frame the card’s title and description—while the back showcases a bold central Murderville emblem in a blend of silver and gold. This dual metallic finish not only amplifies every detail but also lends a sense of luxury, depth, and texture to the entire deck.
You can feel good knowing that 30% of revenues for this card goes to assistance for domestic violence victims and children in need.
Because you were smart enough to cut a deal, you gasp as air forces its way back into your lifeless lungs. You opponent trembles, as power courses through your veins, molten, furious, as a reborn specter of their underestimation, brimming with wrath and the Devil’s own malevolent grace. Every cell in your body hums with the dark pact sealed in your rebirth. You return as vengeance incarnate, raised not by mercy but by a force that feeds on your contempt. It isn’t salvation—it’s the reckoning of a mind wrongly bested.
This sleek black defensive playing card that exudes sophistication and a touch of mystique that is best used against a level 5 attack card or to match another level 6 card to avoid losing the round. Taking a card from the shared armory and another from your opponent is the best of both worlds.. The card’s base is a smooth, jet-black matte PVC material, designed to be both flexible, durable, and waterproof.Each card has dark red foil edges, adding a subtle but striking metallic shine that catches the light as you handle it, creating a dark, elegant aura around the deck when it’s stacked. The artwork on the card’s face is rendered with a metallic silver artwork and framing, creating a rich, layered contrast against the black background.
You can feel good knowing that 30% of revenues for this card goes to job and career training for ex-convicts and veterans.
Your opponent’s eyes water uncontrollably, their throat tightens, and a wave of nausea rises in their stomach. There’s an urgency in their chest as they gasp for breath, gagging as the acrid taste lingers, unyielding and repellent. The sheer discomfort and shock make every second feel like an eternity, their body heaving as they struggle to clear their mouth, their mind spinning from the bizarrly artistic encounter.
Their senses are on high alert, each one overloaded: the bitter taste, the chemical smell, the sensation of paint thickly sliding in their throat, and the dull throbbing from the impact of the kick itself. Their eyes water uncontrollably, their throat tightens, and a wave of nausea rises in their stomach. There’s an urgency in their chest as they gasp for breath, gagging as the acrid taste lingers, unyielding and repellent.
This sensation alone would be overwhelming—a chaotic assault on both their senses and body, until your first kick lands, swift and forceful, which jolts them backward, their jaw snapping open involuntarily. Suddenly, another thick, cold gush of acrylic paint fills their mouth, an intense and unexpected flood that coats their tongue and gums as you elbow, kick, and uppercut them to oblivion.
This Murvillian card design, causes a nightmarish twist of fate, as your opponent locks eyes with a creature, primal and powerful, emanating an intensity that they can’t quite comprehend until it’s too late. This chimpanzee, frenzied with sexual rage, adrenaline, and a disturbing edge of black market ED meds, will let out a guttural scream that slices through the air, freezing your opponent in place. Its muscles, visibly tensing under its bristling fur, will ripple as it charges toward them with an unnatural speed. They won’t even have time to brace themselves before its ironclad grip clamps the back of their head and forces its rock-hard monkey dick into their gaping mouth hole with rough and unyielding and unyielding hands, fingers curled with an overwhelming strength that defies its size.
A brutal, savage movement, it will wrench and tear at their face, pain erupting in sharp, relentless waves as it rips away flesh and sinew. Their senses will reel—smell, touch, and even sight will distort and blur, caught between searing agony and surreal disbelief. The animal’s fervent, almost delirious growls as its engorged man meat drowns out their cry, its eyes glazed with a manic energy as it continues its assault. The world around them will dim, leaving only the horrifying, visceral sensations of flesh torn from their skull and boundaries breached in the raw, horrifying power of this creature’s unleashed frenzy.
Avoid any low-level attack as you slide sideways, with a fluid, almost predatory motion, eyes locked onto your opponent with razor-sharp focus. In a heartbeat, you snatch a wooden chair from nearby, its weight solid in your hands. With a swift pivot you launch forward, bringing the chair down with explosive force. The crack of wood meeting flesh will ring out, the impact so powerful that splinters spray into the air like wooden raindrops. Your opponent will stagger, momentarily dazed by the sheer brutality of the blow, but the attack won’t end there.
With a fierce glint in your eyes, you will twist one of the chair’s jagged legs, breaking it free with a sickening snap. Without hesitation, you plunge it into your opponent’s side, driving it in with unrelenting fury. Each thrust will be calculated, each impact precise, the remaining legs of the chair becoming ruthless weapons in your hands. Blood will stain the shattered wood, seeping into the grooves and cracks and spread across once pristine carpeting like and abstract organic painting.
The echoes of your movements will fade, but the brutal mark you’ve left behind will remain etched into the scene, a testament to your fierce resolve.
You grab a bottle of BBQ sauce from the counter and your opponent barely has time to turn before the bottle crashes down with a sharp, splintering explosion with thick sauce splattering in dark streaks across their face and shoulders. The tangy scent of BBQ fills the air as the glass shards tumble to the ground, glinting like sinister confetti.
Without missing a beat, you reach for a tin of black pepper and you hurl a handful of the fine, stinging powder straight into your opponent’s wide eyes. There’s a moment of sheer shock as they gasp, stumbling back, blinking furiously against the fiery prick of the pepper.
You lunge forward, seizing a hefty handful of uncut sausage from the countertop, a swift, brutal swing slams across your opponent’s face, the impact sending a resonant thud through the room. Again and again, the sausage finds its mark, swelling their face and cock-slapping them into unconsciousness.
This is the card for pit masters, grillers, and those who love getting saucy with their oversized meat.
This card lets you wrap your fingers around the warm wood of your favorite bat. It’s heavy, solid, worn from years of rough use, each spike a promise of pain. Rust clings to it, flaking like old blood as you lift it, feeling its weight, your grip tightening as your opponent stands across from you, eyes wide, a flicker of fear hiding behind bravado. You swing, hard and deliberate, each hit landing with a sickening crunch. The sound reverberates, filling the space, as bone and flesh give way under the spiked metal.
As the bat rises, the jagged tips gleaming even in the darkness. You take a step forward, and then another, your heart pounding with each step.
Starting with an arm you hear the snap as it splinters beneath your blows, your opponent’s scream cuts through the air. You’re relentless, moving methodically—each limb, one at a time, feeling the resistance break under your fury. The bat feels alive in your hands, each swing a raw, brutal reminder of your power until their body collapses piece by piece, crumbling under the force of every strike.
Use this card to arm yourself with a 30lb barbell of solid metal that you bring down, fast and brutally on your opponent’s head. The impact is immediate, a sharp crack echoing as metal meets bone. Pain explodes across their face, radiating from the point of impact, but you don’t stop. Your face is intense, focused, and unyielding. Each swing is deliberate, fueled by a fierce determination, and every hit lands with sickening precision.
Your opponent’s vision fades, pain swallowing every sense, yet glimpses of your resolve remain in their fading awareness, unwavering, as you lift the barbell again and again, the weight crashing down without mercy.
The barbell crashes down on their neck, the force pushing them back, forcing them down. Another blow follows, smashing into their face, the metal cutting into skin, breaking bone, and drawing blood. It splatters, spraying arcs of blood with each swing, staining your hands and speckling the metal, yet you press on, relentless, defeating the ever frustrating, ever disciplined, greater-than-thou gym rat in your life as they throw down their meager level 1 card.
This card allows you to move silently, carefully, and calculatedly to sneak up behind your opponent, oblivious to your approach, completely unguarded. Your heart pounds, but your hands are steady, gripping the roll of duct tape and the thin, crinkling plastic bag. You’re close enough now to hear their steady breathing, their focus somewhere else, unaware of the danger lurking just inches away.
Without a sound, you unroll a length of tape, your fingers brushing against the adhesive as you prepare. Suddenly, you lunge, slipping the bag over their head in one swift motion, pulling it down tightly against their skin. They thrash, startled, their hands clawing at the plastic, but you’re already securing it, the tape winding around and sealing it shut with each firm press. Their muffled breaths are frantic now, echoing inside the confined space of the bag.
You hold steady, feeling every panicked movement as they struggle, trying to rip free, but your grip is unyielding. The plastic fogs up as they gasp for air, each breath becoming more desperate. Their hands push at you, fingers clawing, but they begin to slow, the fight draining from them as they struggle against the inevitable.
Your hand holds the needle, a slim vial of liquid fury, as you plunge it into your opponent’s chest. The sharp prick of metal pierces their skin, but the pain is fleeting—only a precursor to the firestorm that’s about to rip through them. The caffeine-adrenaline cocktail hits their bloodstream like a detonator. They feel it immediately: a surge, a blaze, as if every nerve has ignited, sending jolts of raw, white-hot energy across their entire body.
Their heart thrums faster, wild and uncontainable, on the brink of collapse. Then—crack. They feel it rupture, the rush of finality hitting as their chest caves inward, an explosion within. They’re frozen in this devastating instant, the caffeine-fueled fire snuffed out in a single, unbearable flash. The world fades around them, colors and sounds blink into silence, leaving only the echo of a final gushing heartbeat reverberating into the void.
Their heart explodes within their chest and the blood of every venticle drains inside of them causeing their body to wilt and slump lifelessly, their eyes closing as consciousness drains away into the welcoming cold of deep sleep. With dialated eyes, they crumble to the floor, slowly drifting night-night with only the sight of your fading feet. The floor is soft. Death is was violent, then gentle as it cradled them in the next world.
Your opponent barely has time to register the weight of what’s coming before you toss the content of the bucket forward. The acid spills out in a viscous rush, hissing upon contact with their skin. A raw, jagged scream tears from their throat as the searing liquid spreads, eating through fabric, flesh, and bone with merciless speed. Steam curls up in ghostly wisps as if their very essence is evaporating, and the air fills with the sickly sweet scent of burnt hair and charred skin.
Their body convulses as it breaks down, the acid working its way inward, revealing sinew and muscle, layer by melting layer. Blood pools, thick and dark, around their feet, mingling with what’s left of their dissolving form. Eyes wide with horror, they’re caught between pain and the grotesque realization of their own disintegration, skin bubbling and sloughing off in sheets. The bones—sturdy and solid only moments ago—begin to soften, losing their structure, bending under the relentless onslaught.
Unphazed, you look down at the mess and grab the kitty litter to soak it up before it ruins the floor.
With a flick of your wrist, you hurl the first ninja star, and it whips through the air, finding its mark in your opponent’s right eye with a sickening, muted thud, softened by the burst of their internal eye jelly. Their head jerks back, but before they can react, another star slices through the still air, burying itself deep in their neck. Hot blood spurts and gushes down their skin, staining their shirt as they stagger, stunned by the precision of your attack. Your clearly a natural.
You rub another star between your middle finger, index finger and thumb. The excitement builds inside of you. The temperature of your body rises and you become aroused as you think about where to throw the next one. In one swift motion, you send it slicing through the dense air and it stops hard as the third star embeds itself into their chest. A jolt of sharp pain radiating outward, like wildfire spreading beneath their skin.
They clutch at the wound, feeling the shuriken’s cold, unforgiving metal against their hand, but it’s buried deep and it’s already too late to stop the bleeding. Their vision blurs, darkening at the edges, and then, they feel the final blow land—a shattering, paralyzing strike to their groin, one that instantly drops them to their knees.
Grab this card for the martial artist or would-be ninja that you know will appreciate it the most.
You hold your phone, fingers hovering over the screen, a sinister determination burning inside you as you start your live stream. You don’t have to say much. Your followers already whats about to happen. Your opponent spews their final words of disrespect. Your reply is no more than a light chuckle as a black SUV quickly skids to a halt. Five friends immediately jump out, those who understand the kind of loyalty that doesn’t waver. They have no fear of prison and can even spell the word consequences. Within minutes, they respond, ready and eager to be part of something that will be remembered, something that pulses with the raw, unsettling power that only a faithful entourage can provide.
As your opponent moves takes a step back. They are unsure how to react as you capture the expression of fear in their face. Anticipation crackles between you, fueled by a collective, unspoken glee of upcoming violence. Your heart pounds with adrenaline, as the group circles closer and their shadows merge into a single, unstoppable force. Each of you steps in, with phones raised, as the first slams their fist into the side of your opponent’s head from behind.
The rest of the group laughs and nods before they join in. You swith to your front camera, getting yourself in the shot while recording the chaos you created, capturing each brutal stomp, every furious blow, each flash of anger turned physical. It’s not just violence; it’s a declaration and a message wrapped in one satisfying show. Shit, it’s performance art. The video is uploaded onto your feed and spreads like wildfire, gathering views, reactions—a twisted badge of proof, a warning, immortalized online for everyone to witness. The only thing better than being violent, is going viral.
With a single card, a bottle smashes at your opponent’s feet with a sharp, shattering crack, and in an instant, flames leap hungrily from the ground, curling up around their legs like living things. The heat is immediate and brutal, a fierce, blistering wave that claws its way up, searing through the fabric of their clothes and licking against their skin. Your opponent’s heart pounds, each beat a jolt of terror as they stumble back, desperate, feeling the flames chase them, clinging with relentless fury. Smoke thickens around them, blurring their vision as the fire roars louder, devouring everything it touches with a crackling hiss that drowns out all thought.
Every nerve in their body screams as the fire sears deeper, eating into their flesh, its heat a merciless predator. They thrash, flailing as if somehow they could beat the flames back, but the flames grip tighter, feeding off their fear, their desperation, and the dry air thickening with acrid smoke. Their breaths turn shallow, each one a painful gasp that pulls in heat and ash. They stagger, feeling the world dim, edges blurring as the pain crescendos, sharp and unyielding, gnawing through their senses until they fray and splinter. The ground tilts, their legs buckle, and they drop to their knees amid the fiery inferno as they cling to their lower level card.
Kick it old school with a simple yet effective move, as you anticipate your opponent’s next move, every muscle in your body coiled like a spring. They charge forward, eyes blazing, fists clenched, fully committed. At the very last second, you shift, weight transferring onto one leg in a fluid, precise sidestep. Your other leg extends just enough to send them off balance, a ghostly maneuver that leaves nothing but empty space where they once stood.
The momentum propels them forward, the ground slipping away beneath their feet as they struggle to regain control. For a split second, a flicker of panic surges, a sense of helplessness as the edge looms. Then, with a violent, sickening crash, They hit the glass window behind you. It shatters instantly with the sound piercing the air as fragments explode outward, a lethal spray of sharp, jagged edges. Time seems to slow as they fall amid the glittering shards that catch and refract the dim light, creating a fractured halo as they realize that they should not have fucked with you.
They are silhouetted against the night, framed by the glint of broken edges in a chaotic aerial dance. They all twirl, aiming to stab into the flesh that remains once their body slams on the ground. This is an easy evasion attack card for the over 35 year and older crowd.
They spring to life at your command, muscles taut beneath sleek coats, eyes glinting with lethal precision. The air pulses with their snarls as they hurtle forward, each step rippling with controlled aggression, claws scraping earth, jaws poised to crush. Your pack surrounds your opponent in a heartbeat, a whirlwind of teeth and fury, drawing a vicious circle that tightens like a noose. Their growls grow darker, an undercurrent of menace that drowns out all other sounds.
The card drops and a split-second glance flashes in your opponent’s eyes, a moment of pure terror, but it’s already too late. They leap as one, an orchestrated assault, each one a weapon with fur and fangs honed to brutal perfection. One clamp onto your opponent’s leg, the other bites into their shoulder, jaws latching, crushing with merciless strength. Your opponent struggles, but they are relentless, tearing through fabric and flesh as if the body is no more than a plaything under their assault.
The pack moves in coordinated chaos, shredding, pulling, every muscle straining with purpose. Their powerful jaws lock, rip, and snap in waves, calculated and unforgiving, a symphony of destruction that echoes in the air, filling it with the raw, metallic scent of blood. Your opponent screams, but it’s a sound swallowed by snarls and gnashing teeth. With a flick of your wrist, they pause, pulling back, their eyes still locked on the opponent, watching as they collapse, torn and defeated, a torn shell of what they once were.
The ultimate death card for the dog groomers, trainers, or lovers that know that a few good doggos can be all that you need.
As your opponent’s skin gleams, raw and exposed, you coat every inch of them in a potent layer of thick, cold menthol ointment. The sharp scent floods the air, making it hard for them to breathe, each inhale laced with a stinging chill. Their muscles tense, but they can’t move, not with the ropes cinched tight, securing them to the sinewy frame of a wild pig, its eyes wild, rolling in every direction. It snorts, sensing something amiss, hooves scraping against the ground in anxious little bursts.
Without warning, a spark catches. The flames lick up quickly, igniting the ointment like dry tinder, crawling over their skin with a ravenous, relentless heat. Fire and ice fuse, the intense burn of the flame mingling with the chilling tingle of menthol, a torment that sears through every nerve, a paradox of pain. The pig beneath them squeals and bucks, eyes flashing as it launches forward, fueled by fear, tearing through the sharp underbrush in a frenzied sprint that sends their fiery naked body into the darkness of the abrasive woods.
Each jolt fuels the blaze, stoking it hotter, fiercer. The wind whips the fire into a frenzy, turning their world into a storm of agony and speed, the pig’s chaotic dash scattering embers into the darkening night. Twigs bristle and stab as they skewer and ignite. More fuel to keep the body burning into a human bacon wrap.
You stagger forward, half-drunk, your blood thrumming with a volatile mix of rage and craziness. The vest feels heavy against your chest, every inch of it pressing cold metal and plastic into your skin. Your fingers tighten around the deadman switch, slick with sweat. Every step you take is unsteady but intentional, dragging the weight of your choices and a pounding headache. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, part booze, part bile, and it fuels the fire burning behind your eyes. Life’s stacked its odds against you for too damn long, and you’re finally ready to make someone pay.
You scan the room—faces twist in confusion, fear, a cocktail of emotions that feeds your spite. A silence falls as your opponents realize what you’re wearing, and they freeze, eyes locked on the vest like it might already go off. For a split second, you savor their panic. You can feel your heartbeat hammering against the switch, a hair-trigger away from blowing everything to hell. The world blurs at the edges, but the rage and resignation stay sharp, tethering you to the moment.
This is it—the last thing you’ll control, and you won’t waste it. Friends? What friends. The urge to vomit start to set in. So you take everything they discarded and make a clean getaway.
This card allows you to Judo-toss your weaker handed opponent into a putrid mountain of discarded refuse of a Murderville garbage truck. They scramble to stand as you press the compactor button, slipping on slimy, unrecognizable debris, panic flooding their veins as the unmistakable whir of the compactor gears up. The hydraulic hiss grows louder, and they whip their head around to see the steel press beginning its slow, merciless advance, closing off any hope of escape.
They claw at the walls, trash sliding down in clumps around them, fingers slipping on grime as they desperately try to find a handhold. The compactor’s relentless grind is deafening, a mechanical growl that drowns out their hoarse screams. Their mind races, the seconds stretching into an eternity as the cold, unforgiving metal draws closer. With nowhere left to go, they kick wildly, feet thudding against the closing wall of waste, but the truck’s mechanisms are immune to fear and desperation.
The compactor inches closer, the filth compacting around them, their body wedged tighter with each brutal second. Their breath comes in gasps, but the air grows thinner, fouler, pressing in like the weight of a nightmare. The metal closes in, unforgiving, unyielding, until there’s nothing left but the heavy silence of machinery completing its grim task until their bone crunch and burst blood from the back of the truck like a stepped on ketchup packet.
Somewhere in your mind is a person you would love to slam this card down on. The title alone says it all.
You stand confidently rubbing this card between your thumb and index finger, every sound amplified by the microphone pressing uncomfortably beneath your shirt. It feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of your betrayal, pulsing with each heartbeat. Your opponent moves closer, a glint of menace in their eyes as they prepare to throw down their own card. You’re trying to keep steady, knowing any twitch could give you away. Until now, you’ve both had a cordial politeness about you. The falsity of friendship and the tension of knowing that this encounter would eventually happen. Your throat tightens as your opponent narrows their gaze, suspicion flickering across their face as they select a card.
They do a poor job of hiding an arrogant smirk and lean back as they slam their level 4 attack card onto the table top. Your mouth opens slightly as you pretend to be surprised. You look at them as if you were caught off guard, quickly scanning your cards as if unsure of how to react. You savor the charade then look up at them with a cold expression as you reach for the card you had been saving the whole time. You place it down slowly and gently, pausing before you move your hand away.
The door crashes open! They jump to their feet and before your opponent can even fully turn, the room erupts. Deafening gunfire blasts through the air, and everything moves in sickening slow motion. Your opponent staggers, confusion clouding their expression as the bullets hit blast their stomach, chest and face. Blood spirts from their body andf their remaining cards fall to the floor as their knees give way to gravity and the life drains from their eyes.
You don’t breathe until the last echo of gunfire fades. Your heart hammers as you feel hands gripping your shoulders, pulling you back from your opponent’s motionless form. You stare at the scene, the ringing in your ears slowly subsiding, replaced by a murmur of voices and the blur of blue uniforms. The wire feels unbearably hot against your skin now. The taste of betrayal dries your mouth. You smile, taking a new card from the Shared Armory. Round over. They’ve been eliminated.
The moment the tripwire snaps, the room springs to life in a horrifying, calculated assault. The swift “whoosh” of 144 sharpened pencils, honed to needle-like tips, shoot upward at a deadly 45-degree angle, cutting through the air with terrifying precision. They strike, relentless and unforgiving, as if guided by something sinister, aiming for every vulnerable spot. The first wave pierces your opponent’s eyes, searing pain detonating as their vision splinters into darkness. The sharp stabs follow, one after another, sinking into the tender flesh of their nose, puncturing the soft tissues of their throat.
Your opponent’s arms flinch reflexively to shield themselves, but the pencils meet them too, embedding into their forearms, turning them into pin-cushions of raw agony. Their chest heaves, desperate for air as each breath pulls against the punctures now riddling their torso. Stinging, biting pain claws down their stomach, pins tearing flesh from abdomen to legs.
They barely register the pencils skewering through their thighs, calves, and feet, pain and shock merging into a blur. But a sharp, blinding agony jolts through their body as one pencil finds that most private place, targeting the urethra with unrelenting malice. Nerve endings scream, every inch of them aflame, as the assault completes the brutal, mechanical precision of your genius.
This is the card of engineers and artist who knows that nothing is as unlimited as a well sharpened pencil.
Without hesitation, you grip the ax, feeling its weight settle in your hand, solid and ready. You pull back with a swift, calculated motion, momentum gathering like a coiled spring on the verge of snapping. The blade catches a glint of light, a cold warning too fleeting for your opponent to notice. You release, and the ax slices through the air with a deadly precision, a whispering promise that explodes into a sickening, thudding impact. You are not one for words, speeches, puns, and overthinking anything. You execute.
Their eyes widen, shock freezing their face as the blade buries deep into their forehead. Blood splatters outward in a violent spray, droplets momentarily suspended like dark jewels before they fall. Your opponent staggers, almost as if pulled by invisible strings, held upright by the force of the blow. Their knees begin to buckle, rigidity melting away as they collapse, the handle of the ax swaying slightly, an eerie aftershock of the strike.
A faint, choking gasp escapes their lips—a sound that could be surprise, agony, or even betrayal—before silence engulfs the space. The room is still, dense with the raw scent of iron, the ax quivering in their forehead. They wobble as their momentum moves them forward like a drunk unicorn. They inhale for the last time as the frontal cortex of their brain shuts down. The blade crunches further into their head as they hit the floor. Who’s next?
The heel of your boot slams into your opponent’s gut, and they double over, air forced out in a choked gasp. You can almost feel the shock rippling through their body, their muscles contracting in an attempt to shield their core from the pain. They stagger, clutching their stomach, gasping as their knees buckle. There’s a raw, guttural sound—a struggle to draw in a breath that’s just out of reach. But you don’t give them a chance to recover.
With swift, cold determination, you grab a filthy sock from the floor. It’s grimy and stained, smelling of old chicken grease, sweat, and foot rot. They jerk their head up, eyes wide, the realization dawning just as you force it past their lips, deep into their mouth. Their hands fly up, clawing at your wrists, desperate to dislodge it, but you press harder, smothering any space left for them to breathe.
They inhale instinctively, gagging as the taste and stench flood their senses. Their eyes bulge, wild and terrified, as they choke on the coarse, foul fabric that blocks every attempt at oxygen. The muffled, desperate sounds they make only drive you further into rage, holding firm, and watching as panic consumes them, teetering on the edge of survival.
This is whats known as a set up card. A sacrificial lamb to rotate the challenger, match a low card, or make your hand seem weaker than it really is. A throw away card that allows you to manipulate and take control of the game.
As you press this card between your fingers the color drains from your opponent’s face, they try to keep a look of cold confidence, but for an instance they falter and you catch it. They shift, shoulders tensing, calculating. Somewhere out there, hidden in the shadows beyond the window a sniper’s scope is trained on them, fingers wrapped around the trigger, every breath synced to the pulse of the mission.
Your opponent tries to keep their composure, their smirk faltering, their fingers twitch, betraying their bluff. They have no higher card.
The silence between you hums with tension. You don’t flinch, you pause before you throw down the card, letting your opponent marinate in their own fear, the cold weight of inevitability settling over them like a shroud. They know there’s no escape; any wrong move, any flick of aggression, and they’ll be nothing but a target, a silhouette in a sniper’s sightline, extinguished before they can even blink. You dramatically drop the card and stare into their eyes. Your eyes sear into them like a red dot on their forehead. Round over.
Buy this card to power up your deck.
You toss this card own and bolt out into the street, oiled up, completely naked, adrenaline coursing through every cell of your body holding a wild-eyed honey badger – amped up, teeth bared, practically vibrating with a manic energy that matches your own. Its eyes are sharp, feral, glinting with the kind of reckless rage only raw, unfiltered chaos and cocaine could create.
Your opponents freeze, their faces twisting from confusion to a dawning horror as they realize what’s coming at them. You launch forward, making no attempt to cover up, the absurdity only adding to the insanity of the moment. The honey badger hisses, its fur bristling, as it lunges at the first target, claws ripping at the fabric of their clothes, drawing a scream as they stagger backwards.
Without missing a beat, you start to eye the cards on the table, their stunned eyes locked on the snarling animal. The honey badger lets out a guttural growl, leaping onto the second target with the wild agility of something out of a nightmare. You snatch everything from the table, stuffing them into your free hand, barely managing to hold onto your loot.
Used properly, you can rebuild your hand quickly from 2 other players. It’s the ultimate power move and they are helpless to stop you.
At the flip of a card, your opponent staggers, a subtle tremor working its way through their hands, disbelief flickering in their eyes. The realization blooms, slow and terrifying, as they clutch their side. The air between you thickens, tinged with the faint, metallic scent of impending dread. They thought this would end differently—finding you sprawled at their feet, gasping your last breath, their plan executed without a hitch. But you were one step ahead, watching every sip, every bite they took, slipping in a carefully calculated dose when they weren’t looking. An hour ago, you laid the groundwork for this very moment, quietly biding your time.
Now, you watch the poison creep through their veins, stealing their strength in soft, deadly waves. Their vision blurs, jaw slackening as they grasp for the knife at their side, fingers sluggish, too weak to tighten around the hilt. They manage to rasp, voice edged with the panic of a predator undone. You smile, almost regretfully, leaning just close enough for them to see the finality in your eyes. They thought they had control, believed they held your life in their hands. But the tables have turned. Their legs buckle as they crumple to the floor, powerless, fading fast. The irony thickens the air, and as they struggle to hold onto the last shreds of consciousness, they see it all too clearly: they were the one outmaneuvered. And now, there’s nothing left but silence, yours to savor.
This is the only other original renovation 1, level 5 attack card. Once it’s gone, it will never be produced again. Buy it, hold it, then resell it at maximum value.
At the flip of a card, your opponent staggers, a subtle tremor working its way through their hands, disbelief flickering in their eyes. The realization blooms, slow and terrifying, as they clutch their side. The air between you thickens, tinged with the faint, metallic scent of impending dread. They thought this would end differently—finding you sprawled at their feet, gasping your last breath, their plan executed without a hitch. But you were one step ahead, watching every sip, every bite they took, slipping in a carefully calculated dose when they weren’t looking. An hour ago, you laid the groundwork for this very moment, quietly biding your time.
As you press this card between your fingers the color drains from your opponent’s face, they try to keep a look of cold confidence, but for an instance they falter and you catch it. They shift, shoulders tensing, calculating. Somewhere out there, hidden in the shadows beyond the window a sniper’s scope is trained on them, fingers wrapped around the trigger, every breath synced to the pulse of the mission.
Your opponent tries to keep their composure, their smirk faltering, their fingers twitch, betraying their bluff. They have no higher card.
The heel of your boot slams into your opponent’s gut, and they double over, air forced out in a choked gasp. You can almost feel the shock rippling through their body, their muscles contracting in an attempt to shield their core from the pain. They stagger, clutching their stomach, gasping as their knees buckle. There’s a raw, guttural sound—a struggle to draw in a breath that’s just out of reach. But you don’t give them a chance to recover.
With swift, cold determination, you grab a filthy sock from the ground. It’s grimy and stained, smelling of sweat and rot, an old remnant from some dark, forgotten corner. They jerk their head up, eyes wide, the realization dawning just as you force it past their lips, deep into their mouth. Their hands fly up, clawing at your wrists, desperate to dislodge it, but you press harder, smothering any space left for them to breathe.
Your opponent lunges forward, their gaze fierce, unyielding. Without hesitation, you grip the ax, feeling its weight settle in your hand, solid and ready. You pull back with a swift, calculated motion, momentum gathering like a coiled spring on the verge of snapping. The blade catches a glint of light, a cold warning too fleeting for your opponent to notice. You release, and the ax slices through the air with a deadly precision, a whispering promise that explodes into a sickening, thudding impact.
Their eyes widen, shock freezing their face as the blade buries deep into their forehead. Blood splatters outward in a violent spray, droplets momentarily suspended like dark jewels before they fall. Your opponent staggers, almost as if pulled by invisible strings, held upright by the force of the blow. Their knees begin to buckle, rigidity melting away as they collapse, the handle of the ax swaying slightly, an eerie aftershock of the strike.
A faint, choking gasp escapes their lips—a sound that could be surprise, agony, or even betrayal—before silence engulfs the space. The room is still, dense with the raw scent of iron, the ax quivering in their forehead as if it’s drawing breath, a final, brutal statement etched in blood and cold steel.
The moment the tripwire snaps, the room springs to life in a horrifying, calculated assault. The swift “whoosh” of 144 sharpened pencils, honed to needle-like tips, shoot upward at a deadly 45-degree angle, cutting through the air with terrifying precision. They strike, relentless and unforgiving, as if guided by something sinister, aiming for every vulnerable spot. The first wave pierces your opponent’s eyes, searing pain detonating as their vision splinters into darkness. The sharp stabs follow, one after another, sinking into the tender flesh of their nose, puncturing the soft tissues of their throat.
Your opponent’s arms flinch reflexively to shield themselves, but the pencils meet them too, embedding into their forearms, turning them into pin-cushions of raw agony. Their chest heaves, desperate for air as each breath pulls against the punctures now riddling their torso. Stinging, biting pain claws down their stomach, pins tearing flesh from abdomen to legs.
They barely register the pencils skewering through their thighs, calves, and feet, pain and shock merging into a blur. But a sharp, blinding agony jolts through their body as one pencil finds that most private place, targeting the urethra with unrelenting malice. Nerve endings scream, every inch of them aflame, as the assault completes the brutal, mechanical precision of your genius.
They stagger back into the far wall, which is covered in a sharpened grid of erected pencils. It slams into their skull with a meaty crunch, splintering wood and bone alike. Shards of cedar and fragments of lead scatter across the floor like confetti at a demented celebration.
They crumple, convulsing, their body a grotesque mosaic of broken shafts jutting out at unnatural angles. Blood pools, swirling with graphite dust, staining the floor into a dark, metallic sheen. The machine gives a final mechanical groan, then one last pencil fires—landing dead center in the exposed hollow of their throat.
Silence. Only the faint drip of red onto the polished floor breaks it, the perfect period at the end of your orchestrated carnage.
You stand confidently rubbing this card between your thumb and index finger, every sound amplified by the wire pressing uncomfortably against your chest beneath your shirt. It feels heavier than it should, as if it carries the weight of your betrayal, pulsing with each heartbeat. Your opponent moves closer, a glint of menace in their eyes, a gun held firmly in their hand, muzzle pointed at your chest. You’re trying to keep steady, knowing any twitch could give you away. Your throat tightens as your opponent narrows their gaze, suspicion flickering across their face.
You don’t breathe until the last echo of gunfire fades. Your heart hammers as you feel hands gripping your shoulders, pulling you back from your opponent’s motionless form. You stare at the scene, the ringing in your ears slowly subsiding, replaced by a murmur of voices and the blur of blue uniforms. The wire feels unbearably hot against your skin, the betrayal still fresh. You slowly smile as you gaze down at their blood covered body and calmly put the card back in your pocket. Round over.
This card allows you to Judo-toss your weaker handed opponent into a putrid mountain of discarded refuse of a Murderville garbage truck. They scramble to stand as you press the compactor button, slipping on slimy, unrecognizable debris, panic flooding their veins as the unmistakable whir of the compactor gears up. The hydraulic hiss grows louder, and they whip their head around to see the steel press beginning its slow, merciless advance, closing off any hope of escape.
They claw at the walls, trash sliding down in clumps around them, fingers slipping on grime as they desperately try to find a handhold. The compactor’s relentless grind is deafening, a mechanical growl that drowns out their hoarse screams. Their mind races, the seconds stretching into an eternity as the cold, unforgiving metal draws closer. With nowhere left to go, they kick wildly, feet thudding against the closing wall of waste, but the truck’s mechanisms are immune to fear and desperation.
The compactor inches closer, the filth compacting around them, their body wedged tighter with each brutal second. Their breath comes in gasps, but the air grows thinner, fouler, pressing in like the weight of a nightmare. The metal closes in, unforgiving, unyielding, until there’s nothing left but the heavy silence of machinery completing its grim task until their bone crunch and burst blood from the back of the truck like a stepped on ketchup packet.
Kick it old school with a simple yet effective move, as you anticipate your opponent’s next move, every muscle in your body coiled like a spring. They charge forward, eyes blazing, fists clenched, fully committed. At the very last second, you shift, weight transferring onto one leg in a fluid, precise sidestep. Your other leg extends just enough to send them off balance, a ghostly maneuver that leaves nothing but empty space where they once stood.
The momentum propels them forward, the ground slipping away beneath their feet as they struggle to regain control. For a split second, a flicker of panic surges, a sense of helplessness as the edge looms. Then, with a violent, sickening crash, they hit the glass window behind you. It shatters instantly with the sound piercing the air as fragments explode outward, a lethal spray of sharp, jagged edges. Time seems to slow as they fall amid the glittering shards that catch and refract the dim light, creating a fractured halo as they realize that they should not have fucked with you.
With a single card, a bottle smashes at your opponent’s feet with a sharp, shattering crack, and in an instant, flames leap hungrily from the ground, curling up around their legs like living things. The heat is immediate and brutal, a fierce, blistering wave that claws its way up, searing through the fabric of their clothes and licking against their skin. Your opponent’s heart pounds, each beat a jolt of terror as they stumble back, desperate, feeling the flames chase them, clinging with relentless fury. Smoke thickens around them, blurring their vision as the fire roars louder, devouring everything it touches with a crackling hiss that drowns out all thought.
Every nerve in their body screams as the fire sears deeper, eating into their flesh, its heat a merciless predator. They thrash, flailing as if somehow they could beat the flames back, but the flames grip tighter, feeding off their fear, their desperation, and the dry air thickening with acrid smoke. Their breaths turn shallow, each one a painful gasp that pulls in heat and ash. They stagger, feeling the world dim, edges blurring as the pain crescendos, sharp and unyielding, gnawing through their senses until they fray and splinter. The ground tilts, and their legs buckle, dropping them to their knees amid the fiery inferno as they cling to their lower-level card.
You hold your phone, fingers hovering over the screen, a sinister determination burning inside you. Your message is short, to the point, and relentless as your opponent approaches: “It’s time.” Five friends arrive, those who understand the kind of loyalty that doesn’t waver. Within minutes, they respond, ready and eager to be part of something that will be remembered, something that pulses with raw, unsettling power.
As your opponent moves closer, the anticipation crackles between you all, electric, fueled by a collective, unspoken fury. Your heart pounds with adrenaline, as they unsuspecting circle closer, shadows merging into a single, unstoppable force. Each of you steps in, precise, every motion a calculated, dark, violent dance with phones raised, recording the chaos you create, capturing each brutal stomp, every furious blow, each flash of anger turned physical. It’s not just violence; it’s a declaration. The video is uploaded onto your feed, spreads like wildfire, gathering views, reactions—a twisted badge of proof, a warning, immortalized online for everyone to witness.
With a flick of your wrist, you hurl the first ninja star, and it whips through the air, finding its mark in your opponent’s right eye with a sickening, muted thud. Their head jerks back, but before they can react, another star slices through the still air, burying itself deep in their neck. A spurt of hot blood trickles down their skin, staining their shirt as they stagger, stunned by the precision of your attack.
Breathing becomes a struggle for them as the third star embeds itself into their chest, a jolt of sharp pain radiating outward, like wildfire spreading beneath the skin. They clutch at the wound, feeling the shuriken’s cold, unforgiving metal against their hand, but it’s already too late to stop the bleeding. Their vision blurs, darkening at the edges, but they feel the final blow land—a shattering, paralyzing strike to their groin, one that drops them to their knees.
Add one the most horribly creative death methods to your armory. This powerful Level 4 attack card is a true gem for the rat lover in your life. The scurrying of tiny claws echoing off the metal walls, growing louder and faster as thirteen rats, ravenous and sensing food, skitter closer, their dark, beady eyes reflecting a singular, focused hunger. They pause for a second, sniffing the air, assessing their new prey, before darting in with sharp, relentless bites and scrambles.
As the heat intensifies, your panicked opponent thrashes, but each movement only seems to invite more interest from the creatures, now frenzied. The rats tug and gnaw, smearing the peanut butter further as their tiny teeth nip and scrape. The sound of frantic squeaks fills the cramped space, mingling with the sounds of your opponent’s desperate, breathless gasps, trapped in a writhing nightmare, the oppressive heat only amplifying the intensity of each chilling moment.
This jet-black offensive playing card with crafted from matte PVC material, giving it flexibility, resilience, and a waterproof quality. Dark blood-colored edges provide a subtle but eye-catching metallic glint, catching light with each move and lending an elegant, almost shadowy quality when held with other cards.
On the card’s face, gold metallic detailing showcases deathly attack symbols against the black background and creating an eye-catching contrast. The back of each card has dual metallic detailing that accentuates the artwork, adding both dimension and a luxurious appeal.
In Murderville, the line between dinner and death is razor-thin. Everything at Steak is a Level 2 kill card that proves survival isn’t about luck—it’s about appetite. Picture this: frozen steaks hurled with bone-cracking precision, a marinade of chaos splattered across the room, and a pack of ravenous wolves waiting in the shadows for the leftovers. Brutal? Yes. Delicious? Absolutely.
This card isn’t just a weapon—it’s a statement. Use Everything at Steak to punish the overconfident, disrupt alliances, or season your opponent’s downfall with a side of twisted flair. Its art-deco design highlights the elegance of carnage, while the card’s in-game power reminds players that Murderville rewards the cunning and devours the careless.
Perfect for fans of dark humor, adult party games, and collectible card chaos, this kill card brings the bloody charm that makes Murderville unforgettable. Whether you’re stacking it in the Basic Bitch set for quick play or building out a True Killer strategy deck, Everything at Steak guarantees your next game night will be cooked to perfection.
Because in Murderville, everything really is at stake.
Your opponent thought they had the upper hand. You slip the nunchaku from your belt, grin wide, and let the weapon sing as it whistles through the air. The first crack smashes across their temple — a dull, wet thud that makes their knees buckle. You don’t stop. You spin again, the wood catching their jaw, rattling teeth like dice in a cup. Their eyes roll back, body stumbling toward the shimmering edge of the pool. One final strike to the ribs, and you send them toppling in — face-first. Their body sinks slowly, limp, bubbles rising until there’s nothing left but silence and the moonlight glinting off the water’s surface. That’s the beauty of Nunchuckle Head — brutal efficiency with a dramatic finish.
Now, when you lay this card down, you’re not just swinging blindly. A Level 3 is all about timing. Use it to break an opponent’s momentum mid-play, to crack their defense open and watch their strategy collapse just like their knees under a nunchaku strike. It’s not the strongest weapon in the deck, but in the right hands it can turn the tide — especially when you target a player who relies on fluid combos or has just overextended. Think of it as your poolside insurance policy: once they’re in, they’re not climbing back out.
This card belongs to the fighters at heart — the martial arts junkies who live for precision, rhythm, and the satisfaction of a clean strike. If you’re the type who shadowboxes in the mirror, practices spinning moves with broomsticks, or just loves the poetry of controlled violence, Nunchuckle Head was made for you. And if you’ve got a friend across the table who swims? Drop this card, and let them relive their last breath beneath the waterline.
Mr. Meth’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of greed and calculation as he stepped forward, every movement deliberate, predatory. In a heartbeat, he lunged, swinging a jagged piece of metal with terrifying precision.
You barely had time to react before his strike found its mark, and the world went black as he snatched the money you were trying to protect. The chaos of the moment froze in your mind: the metallic scrape, the flash of his satisfied smirk, the echo of your last gasp. Step into his shoes, feel the thrill and the danger of living—or dying—by his rules.
Mr. Meth strikes fast, kills first, and leaves his opponents reeling, taking what’s his before anyone else can blink. Outthink him, outrun him, or be the one left empty-handed in the haze of smoke and shattered glass.
In Murderville, he always collects what’s owed, no excuses, no mercy, just meth-fueled mayhem.
A sly smirk creeps across your face as you quietly choose your unsuspecting target, eyes glinting with wicked intent. With a speed that defies belief, you press a live grenade into the most audacious spot imaginable — betwixt your opponent’s rear — and leap away with acrobatic finesse. Time slows. The target spins, realizing the danger too late, their limbs flailing in panic. Then — BOOM! — A violent eruption shakes the room, walls rattling and shards of debris hurling in every direction. Smoke and sparks fill the air, the stench of cordite overwhelming every sense. Your opponent is thrown, tumbling helplessly across the floor, limbs numb, eyes wide with shock. By the time the haze clears, the chaos has claimed them entirely: defeated, disoriented, and left to stew in their shitty misfortune. Leave every shred of dignity obliterated along with the room around them.
Deploy this KL4 card to deliver devastating damage to a single target. Standard defenses struggle against its explosive reach, meaning once it lands, there’s no turning back. Its shockwave leaves opponents scrambling and ensures your offensive momentum dominates the table. Perfect for turning the tides in a tight round or clearing a particularly troublesome foe from your path.
Step into the chaos yourself — imagine the adrenaline surging as you plot, execute, and watch the explosive spectacle unfold. Feel the tension snap, the room shudder, and the thrill of absolute dominance pulse through your veins.
A flick of the wrist and a sinister grin: two high-voltage tasers spring to life, crackling with blue-white energy. Sparks dance along the wires as your target freezes, muscles locked in a convulsing dance they can’t control. The first jolt surges through their body, making their knees buckle, but there’s no time to recover before the second taser amplifies the chaos. Eyes wide, teeth clenched, they stumble and convulse uncontrollably, electricity dancing across their skin like a cruel light show. The buzzing intensifies, filling the room with an ear-piercing hum, until every ounce of strength drains from their limbs and they collapse, twitching and powerless. By the end, they lie utterly defeated, the air still vibrating from the electrical assault, every nerve on fire from the relentless voltage.
Use this KL2 card to deliver moderate but relentless damage to a single opponent. While not as explosive as higher-level kills, its repeated shocks bypass minor defenses and disrupt enemy strategies, giving you an edge in tight situations. Perfect for softening up a target before finishing them off with a stronger play.
Feel the crackling energy in your hands as you unleash Electric City — imagine the panic in your opponent, the twitching chaos, and the thrill of holding absolute control over the battlefield.
The entire room falls silent as the shimmering gold and silver card is flipped upward in the dim light. Whispers ripple through the crowd — only the chosen few have ever held this key. With a flourish, you slide it across the table, and suddenly the barriers of the game world vanish. Doors swing open, velvet ropes part, and a golden spotlight bathes the holder in triumphant brilliance. The card pulses with energy, announcing that its bearer is no longer just a player, but also a force to be reckoned with. Those who dare oppose them could win entry to potentially the wildest tournament party event ever created. Opponents can only gape as the player steps forward, fingers gripping the ultimate level 8 artifact, their path to an unforgettable night is nearly guaranteed or will be at least irrevocably legendary.
This KL8 card grants exclusive access to the first-ever Murderville Tournament and any after. Forever and ever. You can choose to attend as a tournament spectator or (assuming you’re old enough) participate in all the events for the tournament night from 6:00 pm to 6 am the next mourning.
Its value is unmatched (only $49.99) it gets you total access to every event for the whole night in Las Vegas. Only the first 500 starter sets come with this card, making it both a collector’s trophy and a game-changing asset. In play terms, it’s less about damage and more about prestige: holding this card instantly elevates your status at the table, granting you legendary advantages and bragging rights that last beyond the match.
Step into the spotlight and imagine the thrill of standing among the elite — the game is no longer just a deck of cards, it’s your personal stage. Will you spectate, strategize, or dominate? The choice is yours.
The room falls silent as the copper gleam catches the light—this isn’t just another Murderville card. This is the Original Backer Card, a weaponized symbol of power, forged in copper foil so heavy it feels like holding a piece of blood-soaked history. Only 600 will ever exist, each one pulsing with the aura of finality. When unleashed, the Backer Card doesn’t just win—it obliterates, swallowing the table in absolute silence as every other hand crumbles to dust. The edges shimmer like molten fire, the weight in your grip reminding everyone at the table that you’re not just playing—you’re rewriting the rules.
**USE THIS CARD TO ENTER AND COMPETE IN ANY MURDERVILLE LIVE TOURNAMENT EVENT
Owning one means you’re part of the upper echelon, the secret 600 who stand above the chaos of Murderville. It’s not just a card, it’s an invitation to dominance, a declaration that when the stakes are highest, you are the executioner. Untouchable.
Your palms shoot out like sledgehammers, one to the face, one to the gut, striking with a bone-rattling crack that echoes through the air. The first blow caves into their nose, cartilage snapping as blood geysers outward in thick, hot streams, painting their mouth and chin in crimson. The second sinks into their stomach so violently that their body folds in half, convulsing as everything inside them decides it’s time to evacuate at once. They lurch forward, spewing vomit in a sour arc across the floor, while the wet hiss of piss and the foul gush of shit escape in a humiliating spray that drips down their legs.
The scene is grotesque, a collapsing marionette unraveling before your eyes. Their eyes glaze over, pupils rolling as drool strings from their lips, and they drop, twitching and broken, a puppet with its strings cut. You don’t just win—you desecrate them, leaving behind a ruin of bodily fluids and shame for everyone to see.
Gush Puppet is a Level 1 kill card, the lowest rank in Murderville’s arsenal—but don’t mistake that for weakness. This card represents the raw, unfiltered violence of the streets: dirty, humiliating, and unforgettable. It’s not elegant. It’s not clever. It’s chaos, spectacle, and filth wrapped in a single, crushing double strike. Every deck needs a Gush Puppet—not just for the play, but for the reaction it rips from the table.
Slice by slice, your opponent’s skin is flayed with hundreds of papercuts, each one carving stinging lines across every inch of their body. Fingers, arms, face, even the delicate folds of skin they thought were safe—all marked, all burning with the sting of raw, exposed flesh. As they scream, the sound is drowned out by the final shove that sends them toppling backward into a pit designed for pure agony.
Steel glints below. Thousands of razor blades catch the light in a sea of sharpened hunger. They land into them hard, their body shredded as metal teeth tear them apart. But the horror doesn’t end there. You took the time to make sure that every blade drips with the liquid fire of freshly poured Carolina Reaper sauce, the world’s cruelest burn now seeping into every cut, every wound, every inch of raw skin. The pain is indescribable—skin boiling, eyes watering, body spasming as they flail in a bed of fire and steel. The air fills with the smell of blood, sweat, and peppers, their body convulsing as they squirm, creating more damage as push against the razor blades to climb out. They want to scream, but they fall face-first into the pile of hair-thin metal blades, slitting their mouth and eyes without escape.
When it’s over, they’re nothing more than a writhing mass of lacerations and chemical fire, a monument to pain. The card is played, the pit is sealed, and their suffering becomes legend.
Hot Paper Slut is a Level 1 attack card, the lowest tier in Murderville’s deck—but don’t underestimate its shock value. It’s loud, humiliating, and designed for maximum cruelty. This isn’t just a card—it’s a spectacle of creative torture, guaranteed to make the whole table wince. Use it as a sacrificial card or the final blow when you know they have no more to use.
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