Tag: mystery

Contrived

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The police reviewed the tapes from the bank and admitted that the scene looked somewhat contrived.
Robbers were holding sheets of paper in their hands, reading their lines, while the bank teller kept prompting them every time they went off-script.
Their guns looked like toy guns. The orange tips gave them away.
When the bank teller accidentally hit the alarm switch with his knee, he kept saying “I’m sorry about that!” and helped the robbers carry two sacks of cash to the getaway car.
As we questioned him, the bank teller shouted: “I kidnapped the Lindbergh Baby!”
Crazy little twerp.

My Spy

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An assassin is following me.
He’s an expert at this. Wouldn’t suspect a thing if you saw him there.
Friendly. Polite. Well-groomed.
But I know what he’s really doing:
Following me.
So, I turn the tables on him.
I put on a disguise, cover my tracks, and follow him.
He doesn’t suspect a thing. Doesn’t break cover. Maintains his routine.
Excellent.
I corner him in an alley, a knife to his throat.
He’s surprised and denies being my assassin.
Just like all the rest.
I bury him in the park with the others.
And wait for another to follow me.

Astonished

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Nobody was astonished when Missy Johnson ended up in prison.
She was the black sheep of the family, the first kid to be sent to reform school kindergarten.
When other children were learning to count and watching Sesame Street, she was running guns to Belize and ruled the city’s drug lords with an iron fist.
In between Nap Times, of course.
Pretty soon, all organized crime in the world was under Missy’s thumb, and her babysitters became her lieutenants, helping her run a global prostitution ring.
And then, prison.
She turned herself in voluntarily.
Safer behind bars, opulent accommodations nonetheless.

Chances

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Four gangsters sit at a card table in a room in an abandoned warehouse.
They pass around a revolver, each spinning the cylinder and placing it against their head before pulling the trigger.
They pass it round, sliding cash into the center of the table to up the stakes.
As if their lives weren’t stake enough.
Eventually, one of the men checks the cylinder.
“There’s no bullet in here,” he says.
He gets up, and tries to open the door.
Locked.
He pulls out his cell phone, but there’s no bars.
Then the lights go out.
And they smell… smoke.

Rafting

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We’ve had this white water rafting business for a while now.
We load up the trailer, head upriver, and then Bart and the rafters head downriver. Then, I drive back down with the trailer.
We used to work out of the cabin upstream, but folks preferred to do the road trip first.
They also like midnight runs, but they’re not safe.
Tonight, something went wrong. I got to the downstream cabin and saw the boats floating down the river.
I check with a flashlight. Nobody in them, splattered with blood.
It’s a full moon.
Howling.
As I said, not safe.

The Smell of Gasoline

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There’s one thing worse than the smell of gasoline, and that’s the taste.
Murloney’s boys dragged me to this warehouse and tied me to this chair so they could splash me with high-octane cologne.
“You missed behind the ears,” I said, and they punched my lights out.
I woke up to a spotlight in my face.
Laughing, glasses clinking. Groans from dozens of other guys tied to chairs.
All on top of a gigantic cake in the middle of a party.
“Happy birthday, boss!” said a goon. “Sixty years young!”
Mulroney laughed. “I’ll take my time blowing out these candles.”

You’ve Got To Know When To Fold ‘Em

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Because of a shortage of buglers, military funerals often use a recording of a bugler performing Taps.
However, there’s no shortage of flags, so there’s always flags available to drape over coffins for folding and presentation to the next-of-kin.
The flag is folded by the honor guard in a specific order so that it results in a small blue triangle with white stars.
Some potheads have been known to employ their knowledge of the Japanese art of Origami to come up with more interesting shapes.
The rifle party handles those jokers by beating them with the butts of their weapons.

Saints

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Last year, the Catholic Church performed an audit on all relics throughout the world.
Concerned, they sent out teams to authenticate as many as possible.
The report detailed forgeries and fakes, but there was a curious situation with Saint Miraculon, the Wonder Machine.
After the explosion at the power plant had fried his original processor, saving dozens of workers from death by electrocution, it was enshrined in San Jose.
But a backup processor had been installed in the rebuilt chassis, keeping Miraculon 2.0 running.
“Ignore that,” said the Pope. “Will someone explain exactly how St. Ignatius had five authentic femurs?”

Cobblestones

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Every night I mark the cobblestones with chalk.
When I wake up, the markings are scattered around the street.
Does someone wipe off the markings and add them in new places or shuffles around the stones?
I tried to set up a video camera, but it’s far too dark. No streetlamp.
I’ve also tried to sit on the steps and watch the street, but I can’t stay up as late as I used to. I fall asleep on the steps.
I wake up, and the chalk marks are gone.
And then, I see myself in the mirror… they’re on me.

Brick Fight

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Why are we throwing bricks at each other?
Because we were having a snowball fight, silly.
One guy decided to play dirty and packed a snowball around mud and threw it.
Mudballs suck.
Then, another guy packed snow around a brick.
Pretty soon, we were tossing bricks at each other.
Now that it’s May, you’d think the fight would be over because all the snow is gone.
But because we’re using bricks, the fight doesn’t have to end.
Maybe we’ll take a break and build some brickmen. Or build up our brickforts.
But that’s boring. Let’s bring on the bricks!