The Gleefully Macabre Mystery, Part II
Vigilante justice. It's not pretty, but it's pretty darn sweet.
My next "client" was Rupert Munch. Though his restaurant, Naught But Enchiladas, had made him a wealthy man, he was a frustrated writer who screamed in primal rage with every word I typed. At least I assumed he did. Maybe he didn't. Either way, he was jealous. I knocked upon the door of his large, two-story home.
JEFF: Hello, Rupert.
RUPERT: YOU! I mean, hello, Jeff. Stopping by to accuse me of being a member of Mumblecrust, are you?
JEFF: I certainly am. So cough up my book before I open up a can of punch-you-in-the-face.
RUPERT: Ha! You can't prove an innocent man guilty, you fool. At the time of your kidnapping--which I read about on your blog, this isn't a clue to my guilt--I was distracted with other matters.
JEFF: Is that so?
RUPERT: Indeed. At the exact moment of your capture, I was probably glancing over my shoulder at my neighbor, whose strained voice as he spoke to his plants indicated the presence of a sore throat, and I just happened to have some throat lozenges in my pocket. That's the kind of generous individual I am. You'd probably have kept the throat lozenges for yourself, even if your throat was well-lubricated, you cretin!
JEFF: Liar!!!
RUPERT: Prove it!
JEFF: Is it not true that cows have udders?
RUPERT: It is.
JEFF: And is it not true that the moon is not made of cheese except in scientifically questionable cartoons? And is it also not true that pugs and Boston terriers are very silly looking dogs but that everybody should nevertheless own one of each?
RUPERT: I will neither confirm nor deny either of those!
JEFF: And, Rupert Munch, isn't it true that if you're typing the word "monkey" on a standard keyboard but your hands are in the wrong spot, you'll type ",pmlru"?
RUPERT: Enough!
JEFF: Where's Gleefully Macabre Tales, you jerk?
RUPERT: Which Gleefully Macabre Tales do you mean? The one with the story "Mr. Sensitive," about which [dis]Orderly Reviews said "This story is gross, funny, scary, and just plain disturbing. Jeff Strand is brilliant and he should be locked away."?
JEFF: That's the one.
RUPERT: And also the stories "Werewolf Porno" and "Sex Potion #147," which The Horror Fiction Review called "bust-your-gut funny--Strand isn't only off his rocker here, he's out of his freakin' mind!"
JEFF: Yes! Yes!
RUPERT: And also the collection that features obscure and demented tales like "Special Features," "Them Old West Mutations," and "Roasting Weenies by Hellfire"?
JEFF: So...you know the book of which I speak! Now where is it?
RUPERT: Dunno.
JEFF: You scum-slurping monkey-boinker! What were you doing outdoors on that fateful night when you were distracted? Contemplating the Pythagorean Theorem? Studying the process of removing a spleen? Planting gooseberries? Calculating gratuities?
RUPERT: I was mowing my awesome lawn, which measures approximately eighty feet by seventy-five feet and features six kinds of grass.
JEFF: Oh, really? And you expect me to believe that somebody with your luxurious lifestyle mows his own lawn? Ha! Tell it to your future cellmate, punk!
RUPERT: The riding lawnmower is fun. And I like to pretend that I'm racing in NASCAR. Don't judge me.
JEFF: Uh-huh. And I'm supposed to believe that you were mowing your lawn........at night???
RUPERT: Yes. It's too hot during the day and I have superb artificial outdoor lighting.
JEFF: Oh. Well, I guess that part of your story is understandable. But where's Gleefully Macabre Tales?
RUPERT: Why don't you ask somebody who's guilty, rather than focusing your attention on somebody who's innocent?
JEFF: I am. YOU are guilty...and there's a hole in your story big enough to drive a NASCAR pace car through!
Do YOU know the hole in Rupert's story big enough to drive a NASCAR pace car through? If so, send your answer to GleefullyMacabre@gmail.com before 10:00 PM Eastern Time on Thursday, September 20th.
My next "client" was Rupert Munch. Though his restaurant, Naught But Enchiladas, had made him a wealthy man, he was a frustrated writer who screamed in primal rage with every word I typed. At least I assumed he did. Maybe he didn't. Either way, he was jealous. I knocked upon the door of his large, two-story home.
JEFF: Hello, Rupert.
RUPERT: YOU! I mean, hello, Jeff. Stopping by to accuse me of being a member of Mumblecrust, are you?
JEFF: I certainly am. So cough up my book before I open up a can of punch-you-in-the-face.
RUPERT: Ha! You can't prove an innocent man guilty, you fool. At the time of your kidnapping--which I read about on your blog, this isn't a clue to my guilt--I was distracted with other matters.
JEFF: Is that so?
RUPERT: Indeed. At the exact moment of your capture, I was probably glancing over my shoulder at my neighbor, whose strained voice as he spoke to his plants indicated the presence of a sore throat, and I just happened to have some throat lozenges in my pocket. That's the kind of generous individual I am. You'd probably have kept the throat lozenges for yourself, even if your throat was well-lubricated, you cretin!
JEFF: Liar!!!
RUPERT: Prove it!
JEFF: Is it not true that cows have udders?
RUPERT: It is.
JEFF: And is it not true that the moon is not made of cheese except in scientifically questionable cartoons? And is it also not true that pugs and Boston terriers are very silly looking dogs but that everybody should nevertheless own one of each?
RUPERT: I will neither confirm nor deny either of those!
JEFF: And, Rupert Munch, isn't it true that if you're typing the word "monkey" on a standard keyboard but your hands are in the wrong spot, you'll type ",pmlru"?
RUPERT: Enough!
JEFF: Where's Gleefully Macabre Tales, you jerk?
RUPERT: Which Gleefully Macabre Tales do you mean? The one with the story "Mr. Sensitive," about which [dis]Orderly Reviews said "This story is gross, funny, scary, and just plain disturbing. Jeff Strand is brilliant and he should be locked away."?
JEFF: That's the one.
RUPERT: And also the stories "Werewolf Porno" and "Sex Potion #147," which The Horror Fiction Review called "bust-your-gut funny--Strand isn't only off his rocker here, he's out of his freakin' mind!"
JEFF: Yes! Yes!
RUPERT: And also the collection that features obscure and demented tales like "Special Features," "Them Old West Mutations," and "Roasting Weenies by Hellfire"?
JEFF: So...you know the book of which I speak! Now where is it?
RUPERT: Dunno.
JEFF: You scum-slurping monkey-boinker! What were you doing outdoors on that fateful night when you were distracted? Contemplating the Pythagorean Theorem? Studying the process of removing a spleen? Planting gooseberries? Calculating gratuities?
RUPERT: I was mowing my awesome lawn, which measures approximately eighty feet by seventy-five feet and features six kinds of grass.
JEFF: Oh, really? And you expect me to believe that somebody with your luxurious lifestyle mows his own lawn? Ha! Tell it to your future cellmate, punk!
RUPERT: The riding lawnmower is fun. And I like to pretend that I'm racing in NASCAR. Don't judge me.
JEFF: Uh-huh. And I'm supposed to believe that you were mowing your lawn........at night???
RUPERT: Yes. It's too hot during the day and I have superb artificial outdoor lighting.
JEFF: Oh. Well, I guess that part of your story is understandable. But where's Gleefully Macabre Tales?
RUPERT: Why don't you ask somebody who's guilty, rather than focusing your attention on somebody who's innocent?
JEFF: I am. YOU are guilty...and there's a hole in your story big enough to drive a NASCAR pace car through!
Do YOU know the hole in Rupert's story big enough to drive a NASCAR pace car through? If so, send your answer to GleefullyMacabre@gmail.com before 10:00 PM Eastern Time on Thursday, September 20th.
posted by Jeff Strand at 6:45 PM
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