| abstract | - Opportunity Knocks is a British television and radio talent show originally hosted by Hughie Green, with a late-1980s revival hosted by Bob Monkhouse, and later by previous winner Les Dawson. The original radio version started on the BBC Light Programme from 18 February to 29 September 1949 but moved to Radio Luxembourg in the 1950s.[1] It was shown on ITV from 20 June 1956 to 29 August 1956, produced by Associated Rediffusion. A second run commenced on 11 July 1964 and lasted until 20 March 1978, produced first by ABC and then by Thames. Hughie Green presented a single episode of Opportunity Knocks for RTÉ in 1979. It was revived by the BBC from 21 March 1987 to 2 June 1990, hosted initially by Bob Monkhouse from 1987 to 1989 (under the title Bob Says Opportunity Knocks!) and subsequently by Les Dawson in 1990.
- Opportunity Knocks ECHO 2 location.png|The second ECHO is found on a bench in the center area, where Jack's Body Double is found during The Man Who Would Be Jack. Opportunity Knocks ECHO 2 on map.png|ECHO 2 on map Opportunity Knocks ECHO 3 location.png|The third ECHO is found on a bench in the far end of the city, on a bench near vending machines. Opportunity Knocks ECHO 3 on map.png|ECHO 3 on map
- Current Active Writers:
* This story has no current active writers. Any of the characters can be used by other writers. The brawny Westerner strode down the twisting dun colored streets of Jerusalem looking for a coffeehouse in which to break his fast and read the newspaper he had just purchased from a corner newsstand. Around him the city had already come to life and was full of the sights, sounds and smells of the Middle East. The aroma of fresh baked bread and ripe produce mingled with the stench of animal dung and car exhausts. Colorful awnings shielded peddlers and their wares from the elements and people from a wide collection of cultures went about their daily business in a clamor of humanity. It was winter in Jerusalem and that meant cool days and cold nights. The colder weather also brought the rain but in a region like Palestine it did not rain much even in the �rainy� season. Palestine, a region in political and religious turmoil. Jerusalem was a city sacred to the three major religions in the area. The Muslims wanted it, the Jews wanted it, and the Christians wanted it. It seemed like everyone wanted Jerusalem except for the British� and the British owned it. Palestine was the spoils of war for the British, seized by the victors from the Ottoman Empire at the end of the Great War. That probably sounded like a good idea at the time. The man was dressed in a pair of crisp khaki slacks and a long sleeved shirt made of Egyptian cotton. On his feet were a pair of polished but well worn brown boots that laced up the front and on his head was a brown felt fedora. Around his muscular neck was a scarf-like red and white checked kaffiyeh that added a dash of color to his wardrobe and over his shirt was a leather jacket, its purpose was twofold. It was primarily worn to ward off the cool winter air but it also served to conceal the big bore Colt service pistol that was riding snugly in a holster under the Westerner�s left arm. A man couldn�t be too careful in a place like this. There was trouble brewing between the Arabs and the Jews and the Jews and the British. The problems were many and complex� and they were none of Blake Garrison�s business. He didn�t want to get embroiled in the middle of all that but if trouble came his way he would be ready as always. This looks like a good spot� kinda like Fishawi�s� The coffehouse he had spotted was just off the edge of a market souk just like Fishawi�s coffeehouse in Cairo hugged the edge of the famed Khan al-Khalili. The entrance to Blake�s favorite hangout in Cairo was through an alley and the best seat were padded benches around small tables in the alley itself. There were a lot of memories there, some were good� and others were best left in the recesses of his mind. Blake Garrison found a table just outside the door where he could put his back to a wall. Setting his newspaper on the table he took a seat. --WickedWays From his outdoor perch, the cafe was visible, masked only by a weather-worn sand-pocked window. Strange decorations inside suggested that this was not an average local hang out. There was a strong Indian decor and besides that the distinct smell of cumin, garlic, and caraway seeped into the street. Frescos of Biblical scenes animated the walls and sandalwood incense danced above the food aroma. The coffee was rich and exotic with a creamy texture. The beans were likely grown in a tropical habitat with a very recent vintage. Silky and with only the slightest bitter tang. There was a strong assortment of teas as well, rivaling anything found in England, the region's staunch proprietors. Blake was served by a young Jewish woman, who's head scarf and sarong were meant to give her an Indian appearance. Quite enamored with the American, she stood by his table long enough to get a disapproving glance from a passing server, likely her boss. "Hello," she said in very broken English, "welcome, what are you drinking and eating today sir?" A quirky smile split her lip as she waited to hear what her dreamboat's voice sounded like. --Laveaux 20:18, 10 December 2005 (CST) Blake noted the d�cor with a bit of pleasant surprise. India was a place that had captured his imagination when he was but a child and years later he still found himself intrigued by its draw. His travels had not carried him that far to the East as of yet but he was still young and had a lot of miles left in him he hoped. The aroma of the food wafting from the kitchen was mouth watering and Blake made a mental note to return here for dinner and experience the exotic fare when it was most likely at its best. The American removed his hat and set it on the bench beside him underneath the coffeehouse�s colorful outdoor awning. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his cigarettes and lighter. Removing a cigarette he flipped open his Ronson and lit up his first smoke of the day. Inhaling deeply, Blake enjoyed the taste of the dark almost black French tobacco of the Gauloise cigarette. Setting the Ronson on the table next to the cigarettes he reached for his newspaper but something stayed his hand. The presence of the young waitress was felt by the American as soon as she arrived and he paused a moment before looking at her. It was obvious she was either a Christian or a Jew for no Muslim woman would be working in a job such as that, her family would never allow it. When Blake leveled his gaze upon her he took in her Indian style dress and how it contrasted pleasantly with her features. �Good Morning� His voice was a rich baritone full of confidence and composure and his smile showed a flash of pearly white teeth under a pencil thin mustache. Blake unabashedly looked her straight in the eye as he spoke in a manner designed to capture her attention fully. He answered her in English for he had no knowledge of Hebrew having recently arrived in Palestine and never being exposed to the tongue before. Sir Richard Burton had once commented that the best way to learn a foreign tongue was in bed with a willing local woman. A hundred years later Blake Garrison could not agree more and he owed his knowledge of several Mediterranean languages to the fairer sex. He toyed with the idea of adding Hebrew to his list of studied tongues before he placed his order. �I hope you are having a pleasant day so far? I would like a cup of that delicious coffee I smell, a slice of melon if you have it, and some fresh baked bread if you please.� --WickedWays A bow of the head, continued eye contact, and hesitant move back into the cafe suggested she was not quite ready to leave the American's presence. Following her motion inside would reveal that she avoided the eye contact of who was most certainly her mother. An aging version of the young woman, glowering with folded arms from behind the bakery. It would hardly be two minutes before she returned with coffee, honeydew, and naan with herb butter all the while receiving a harsh supervisory stare from the woman at the bakery. The unspoken drama was broken as one of the cafe's occupants became suddenly visible. A round man with a salt and pepper beard sat with a young man at a table inside, just beneath an open arched window. The man was none other then Doctor Benjamin Ben-David. Blake worked as the professor's bodyguard in the early days of 1946 as he excavated a Moroccan tomb dating back to the Roman era. Ben-David was under a great deal of scrutiny by the local Muslims and at last the pressure got to him and he retreated back to Palestine. The American was awarded a handsome sum for two weeks work, although they hadn't spoken since. Still trying to gather Blake's attention, the young Jewish girl waited for a response from his coffee tasting. Smiling with young earnest, she hardly noticed her mother stepping onto the patio. They exchanged strong words in Hebrew before she reluctantly returned to the cafe. --Laveaux 20:18, 10 December 2005 (CST)
- Benefit: Whenever you hit with an opportunity attack, or when an enemy misses you with an opportunity attack, the enemy you hit or the enemy that missed you grants combat advantage to you until the end of your next turn.[MP2:138]
- Opportunity Knocks is a continuous quest from Opportunity of a Lifetime in Jadestone Village.
- It is four thirty in the morning, and I've just woken up in the shower, laying in the tub with a fierce stream of hot water gone cold with time running frigid down my face. I have no idea how long I've been asleep. It doesn't really matter. Rising, I grab a towel from the pile on the floor, wrapping it around my body with an odd sense of gratitude, and move down the short hallway to my tiny bedroom. Looking around the clothes strewn about the floor, I find a T-shirt and pants I like (or maybe just choose them at random, I'm not really sure anymore…) and shrug them on, tug, zip, button, adjust for comfort. Ha, comfort. Ignoring the insistent tapping from the other side of the cardboard and duct-tape covered window (where my gaze lingers for a moment, but only a moment. I think.) I head into the kitchen for breakfast (soggy cereal with milk grown slightly warm from the broken refrigerator) and a demotivated perusal of the help wanted section of last weeks old newspaper. I used to get the newspaper every morning, searching diligently for a job, a task, anything to get me moving forward and upward, out of this shitty fourteenth floor loft in a slumhouse on the south side of a city that hasn't been worth living in by all accounts since the seventies, but it doesn't really feel worth it anymore. With a sigh, I dump the remaining cereal and set the bowl on the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink. I need to get out of here. Back down the hall and into my room to grab a jacket (it's freezing in here), and my eyes lock on that sheet of cardboard taped over the window. From behind it, softly, tap, tap, tap. She's still out there. She always is, as soon as it gets dark, until the sun rises, knocking gently on the window, fourteen stories up, hair blowing in the night time breeze, beckoning me to open the window, to let her in. I can change your life, she seems to say, if you'll let me. Shuddering, I look away. Nate (God I miss that kid) used to tell me that I was depressed, that I was seeing things, that I should get help. Used to, till one day she came knocking on his window too. He called me then, breathless, apologizing for not believing me. He sounded strange on the phone… eager. I never heard from him again. I wonder if he's better off. When I first came here, it felt like life was amazing, like the world was one big opportunity stretching itself wide in front of me and just waiting for me to take that first step. I'd chosen this apartment, with its window view of the entire, sprawling, electric starscape of the city lit up at night like God's own fallen Christmas tree, just so I could look out and revel in that feeling, in that high. That feeling got me through the first few months. Gradually, though, the joy faded, and I was left with so many needs, and so many troubles, and never enough money, and so much time to think about it all, and I slipped into the bleak depression I've been in up till now. Then one day, she came. Back then, I'd been able to sleep at night, every night, regularly, instead of falling into fitful patches of restless slumber at disjointed times, and I'd been asleep when she first showed up. I was awoken by a soft, almost polite knocking, so soft that at first I got up and went to the door, looking out into the silent hallway. When I went to return to bed, I saw her. Standing on nothing, fourteen floors up, her dress blowing in the wind, one hand knocking on the glass like a door, the other waving as I saw her, beckoning, a friendly gesture. I've read stories in my lifetime of creatures and spirits that knock on windows at night, of vampires who can only enter a home if the owner answers the door. I knew (or thought I knew) the risks. I went out into the living room and tossed and turned on the couch, hoping she'd be gone by morning. And she was, but she was back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, knocking, calling silently to me, promising wordlessly that she could change my life, make it better. Eventually, I covered the window, trying to ignore her, hoping normalcy would return, but no. It never did. It never will. So here I am, looking down, looking away, looking anywhere but at that window, shaking with desperate desire to look out, to open it, to let her in, and knowing with every fiber of my being how desperately wrong it would be. I've held out this long, but as I sink deeper into myself, I know that soon, soon, I'll walk to that window, and with shaking hands I'll tear down the barrier, and I'll reach for the latch… Fuck that. Tomorrow, I'm buying a gun. No one will miss me anyway.
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