A Murderer Sits Amongst You
Someone at this table is not who they say they are. Indeed, someone here is a murderer.
Is it the young ingénue? Did she tire of the attention from her adoring public? Did she long for a thrill greater than the glare of the footlights? Could it be she who planted the blood-stained gloves in the grandfather clock?
Or, was it the gardener? He had access to the library where the victim was found strangled. Just hours before, he was heard arguing with Lord Whimple about the size of begonias. Was that enough to incite murder?
Or, could it be the escaped lunatic, on the loose from the nearby mental institution? He had the motive of already being a serial murderer. After the crime, he was found outside the library wearing the earl’s cracked glasses. What did he stand to gain, besides sating his unending bloodlust?
Could it have been the handsome tennis pro? Rumor has it, he had been seen spooning young Honoria, the earl’s sole heir. Did he plan to hasten her inheritance? Or, could the tennis pro have gotten a taste for blood when the escaped lunatic stabbed him in the leg with a serving fork?
What about Lady Whimple? She’d often argued with the earl over his refusal hire a new cook. Also, she had killed and eaten all of the family pets. No wait, that was the escaped lunatic who did that. Sorry, my notes are a shambles.
Could the murderer be Rupert Pepper, the earl’s personal secretary? He certainly knew his way around the castle library. He had every opportunity to commit murder, what with the entire household searching the grounds for the escaped lunatic.
Speaking of the escaped lunatic, can someone please tighten the ropes binding him to his chair? He’s tried to bite me several times during my speech. Thank you.
Could the murderer have been the bishop? Bishop Dunsberry was no fan of…
The Purplest Nurple
The following is an excerpt from my tween murder mystery novel, The Purplest Nurple, about a kid who dies from a titty twister:
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“What are we even doing in here?” begged Smitts. “There might be a ga-ga-ga-ghost.”
Smitty could be a real dork sometimes. I flicked him in the junk. Hard. That shut him up. “Shhh, we’re getting evidence, stupid,” I told him, because that’s what we were doing.
Smitts kept tugging at his shorts, trying to get his nuts to not ache. “But, the school said it was anophalastical shock. ‘Cause he ate a peanut.” He meant antapolapstic shock. Duh.
“You saw those bruises around his nips. That was no accidental death, Smitts. It was murder by titty twister.” I was right, of course. I’m right a ton of the time.
I had just set down the victim’s Lego Deathstar when his mom came in with a tray. “I thought you boys might like some Rice Crispy treats and juice,” she said, all chipper and stuff. Smitts is a lard-ass, so he snatched ‘em up right away.
“Thanks, Mrs. Flannery. Hey! These are real good. Do they got M&Ms in ‘em?” Smitty asked with his fat mouth.
“They sure do, Riley. Peanut M&Ms.”
“Peanut M&Ms?” I said, “I thought Josh was allergic to peanuts.” Josh’s mom’s face got all sad, and I realized I was coming on too strong, Batman-style.
“He was, poor thing. We haven’t been able to have peanuts in the house since he was born.” She was kind of sniffling, but then she got real happy again. “But, now we can have all the peanuts we want!”
Right then’s when I noticed the locket she was wearing. It was the same locket I had saw on coach Meyerson’s desk in the locker room where Josh was found. No, it couldn’t be--Josh’s mom and Coach Meyerson? Were they boyfriend and girlfriend, even though she was married?
And, could that have something to do with the titty twister? Holy balls! We had to get out of there …
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Axe Murderer
Axe murderer is such a weighted term. I mean, yes, when I murder, it tends to be with an axe. But, is that all that defines me? No. I’m much more than that.
I enjoy playing the piano and cooking. I dabble in watercolors. I collect pottery and German medical books and human thumbs.
When people hear the term “axe murderer,” they think of some seven-foot-tall hairy mute, hitchhiking along a desert highway. That hasn’t been me for years. In fact, the more I murder, the chattier I get. Why, that nice newlywed couple I killed last week—I practically talked their delicious ears off.
If I killed people with a gun, would I be called a “gun murderer?” But, you kill one guy with an axe and the media brands you for life. (Alright, it wasn’t just one. But, c’mon!) If I had known people would be so narrow-minded about my work, I would never have sent the newspaper those doll heads.
It’s gotten me thinking; maybe I should try new tools for killing. I’ve always been interested in mining equipment. But, then I think, “Whoa. Who are these people to tell me how to murder? That’s my dog’s job.”