Nobody debated that Melbourne Fitch was in the morgue.
The problem was, there were three of him.
Three Melbourne Fitches, completely identical.
Well, except in how they died.
One had a gaping gunshot wound.
The second had been poisoned.
And the third, drowned.
But everything else, they were the same.
Melbourne had no brothers, so he wasn’t any kind of triplet set.
Nor did any of the three show signs of plastic surgery to render two identical to the third.
The coroner shrugged, released one body, and dismembered the other two for disposal as medical waste.
So much less paperwork.
Category: Halloween
You lean, you clean
Medical schools have strict rules with how students are supposed to treat donated cadavers.
They’re not allowed to use them in pranks, abuse them, or conduct resurrection experiments.
On the other hand, there are no rules when it comes to the bodies of people that they grab off of the street and murder.
Well, besides the fact that they’re not supposed to be grabbing them off the street and murdering them.
The administration does its best to cover those incidents up.
They dress the frankensteins in janitor’s overalls, give them mops, and set them to cleaning with the night shift.
Begging
Halfway through the dinner, Foster tapped his glass to bring silence to the table.
“They say that holding a grudge is like drinking poison and hoping that the other person will die,” he said. “Which is why I’ve brought you here to apologize, and to beg for forgiveness.”
Foster’s enemies muttered among themselves, and then came to agreement to accept Foster’s apology.
They raised their glasses in a toast, and drank.
One by one, they clutched their throats, gasped, and collapsed.
“… and to serve you poisoned wine,” finished Foster.
He knocked over a candle, and left as the flames spread.
What wine goes with baby?
Josie wanted an abortion.
“My body, my choice,” she said.
A counselor was assigned to help her with her decision, just to make sure she didn’t regret anything later.
“What’s there to regret?” said Josie. “It’s not a person. It’s not human.”
So, the counselor gave approval, and Josie had the abortion.
The next night, the counselor invited Josie over for dinner.
She lifted the cover off of the main course: Josie’s aborted fetus, roasted and garnished.
“It’s not a person or human, right?” said the counselor.
And then she opened a bottle of wine… white goes with baby, right?
Quantum Murder
I tested my quantum teleporter on my lab assistant.
He reached the destination pod successfully.
Well, sort of.
He actually disintegrated into dust on the first pad as the scanners determined every one of his particle’s quantum states.
So, technically, I murdered my lab assistant.
And there was an exact quantum duplicate on the teleporter pad.
But before you arrest me for murder, please keep in mind that after I teleported my assistant, I teleported myself.
The me you see is a quantum duplicate of my original self.
Completely innocent of my original’s act of murder.
Or suicide, I suppose.
Double Homicide Fantasy
The truth is, Mark David Chapman didn’t want to kill John Lennon.
He really wanted to kill Yoko Ono.
However, when he finally got his chance, outside of the Dakota, Yoko grabbed her husband and used him as a human shield.
Lennon lay dying on the ground.
Chapman, out of bullets, pulled out his copy of Catcher In The Rye and began to smack Yoko with it.
Yoko paid off the witnesses to get them to say he wanted to kill John, not her.
She was terrified that a sympathetic jury would let him go to finish the grisly task.
Empathy Vampire
Zoe was a strange little girl.
When she saw other toddlers crying, she’d give them her blanket or teddy bear to calm them down.
She’d dry their tears, say nice things to them, and hug them until they were better again.
Over the years, she demonstrated an aggressive empathy to all those in need or in pain.
They called her Saint Zoe, and everybody loved her.
But nobody noticed that Zoe didn’t really do anything.
No homework. No quizzes. No tests.
No work at all.
Everyone did things for her. Out of gratitude.
Love is all you need, I guess.
Jack Chick
I remember this one house that used to hand out Jack Chick tracts for Halloween.
They’d say “You’re all going to burn in Hell!” every time someone rang the bell, and they opened the door.
Kids and parents out for Trick or Treat didn’t take them literally. They thought it was a performance thing, and laughed and thanked them.
Because Halloween is all about ghosts, goblins, and the spirits of Hell and all that.
It’s like saying “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy New Year!”
We’d read them and laugh, and throw them away.
And go back to fighting over Snickers bars.
The Secret Ingredient
Don’t you hate it when the secret ingredient is love?
How many calories does love contain?
Are there any trans-fats in love?
Can you be allergic to love?
Ingesting it, of course, not experiencing it.
And I don’t mean the crude metaphor for oral sex, either.
And why is love a secret ingredient if you’re telling people it’s in there?
Doesn’t telling people defeat the purpose of a secret?
When I add secret ingredients, I don’t tell anyone.
I keep them a secret.
I mean, what if I were to say “The secret ingredient is poison?” when I poison people?
Scars of Memory
Every cut she makes, it reminds her of someone she’s lost.
The jagged scar along her shin for her grandmother.
The puckered hole on her arm for her mother.
The slashes on her hip for her father and brother.
The crisscrossed welts on her back from all of her boyfriends at the “wellness facility.”
And the fresh gash on her face for her therapist.
The blood on the letter-opener… some of it his, some of it hers.
She wipes it on the therapist’s sleeve, sits calmly in his chair, and waits for the orderlies to come to take her away.