Wednesday, December 5, 2012
It's a Wonderful MURDER
Christmas is on its way, and you know what that means? If you guessed that murder is afoot, you win a prize. So just let me know where I can mail your yule log. (I hope your mailbox is flame retardant.)
I just realized it's been two long years since "The Baby Jesus vs. the Santanator," a tale that my mother called "definitely sacrilegious" and the New York Times said nothing about as they are still unaware of it. It's time for a new Christmas story for 2012. So, put out some metal cookies for the Santanator and hug your Joseph Gordon-Levitt sex pillow tight and let's get this Christmas season started with...
It's a Wonderful MURDER
"Look at this picture. Do you recognize this man? His name is George Bailey, and he's wanted in five states. If you'll watch this black and white footage of George Bailey as a child on the enclosed video cassette, you'll see that even early in his life, he was a dangerous individual. Watch closely the part where he tries to drown his brother. Taken out of context with the sound off, it's extremely chilling. So chilling it might make you deaf in one ear and want to shake the dust of this crummy little town off your feet and see the world. Therefore, I'm depending on you, Detective Clarence, to go out there and apprehend this dangerous criminal. Godspeed." --Police Chief Joseph
Detective Clarence rolled up the unnecessarily jolly WANTED scroll he had received from the chief of police that morning (along with his homicide department Secret Santa pick) and buttoned his coat against the cold early-December wind. "Christmas is a time for sharing," the detective mumbled aloud as he took a swig from his flask. "I'll be sharing these bracelets with this George Bailey come Christmas." He was, of course, referring to the police lingo for handcuffs and certainly not a diamond tennis bracelet, which would make a perfect gift for the woman you love so that she can tell all of her best friends that you went to Kay Jewelers.
The latest of George Bailey's victims had just been freshly-delivered to the city morgue. Cause of death was still unknown, but there were lasso marks around the victim's throat. Detective Clarence hopped into his car, which was an unmarked police car and definitely not a Lexus wrapped in a big red bow, but that gives me ideas for Christmas presents for the woman you love if she's not into tennis bracelets. He sped to the city morgue to investigate.
"The vic is pretty messed up," said the coroner, pulling back the sheet to reveal an extremely jolly (but extremely dead) face. "We haven't found anyone to identify the body yet, but we suspect it to be the suspect's Uncle Billy. And sorry about my speech impediment. I pronounce 'suspect' and 'suspect' exactly the same way."
Detective Clarence pulled a photo from the case file he carried with him. "It's Uncle Billy all right. AKA, the Forgetter. He's a world famous jewel thief. But he's not actually wanted by the authorities because he always leaves the loot behind. See the strings on all his fingers?"
The coroner nodded. "Why do you think Bailey killed him?"
Clarence snorted. "For no other reason than being a sicko. And that Uncle Billy owed him $8,000 he lost gambling at Big Chief Potter's Gambling Emporium and Reservation."
"Wow, what a racist name that place has," the coroner commented, sure to express that he had absolutely nothing to do with the naming of that establishment and blames the author.
The detective nodded silently. He was looking closely at the corpse. "I just don't understand why this Bailey likes to decorate his victims like Christmas trees, meticulously checking every bulb to make sure that none of them need to be replaced and wrapping them in tinsel." Then, he got an idea. He carried the Christmas light cord to an outlet and plugged the corpse in. A bell went off in Clarence's head as the lights revealed that they were arranged like angel's wings. It was the killer's calling card.
"I'm gonna need to call in the big guns on this one," Detective Clarence said. He was, of course, referring to metaphorical guns and not actual guns, which make great gifts for the woman you love, if she's a professional sharpshooter and definitely not into tennis bracelets or expensive, unnecessarily gift-wrapped cars.
To be continued...