I’m still a little buried with work crap but it’s starting
to slow down.  Here’s the next in the
series of “inspirational”
posts. Because I like things a
little kooky… a story for you, inspired by KC.    

          – wg

 

My name’s Little, Rickon Little. I’m a detective.

I’ve been in the business a long time and this was a first…
a case so foul it turned my stomach and put me off fried chicken forever.

I walked into the hotel room and surveyed the chaos. It was ugly. Uglier than a passle of hookers
snorting coke in the harsh glare of day. You know the scene… they haven’t gone
home yet to change and their bruises were showing. No one wants to see that.

Three men and two women were sprawled dead in various parts
of the room. One was even bare-assed as
he reached towards one of several laptops, the hand of another victim a foot
behind him and clutching a pair of pants.  Buckets of KFC and bottles of Two Buck Chuck
were scattered amidst the furniture like a drumstick-eating Tasmanian devil had
gone berserk. I can tell you one thing…
blood and eleven secret spices don’t mix.

Several police officers were busy getting sick in the
bathroom.  I tapped the one remaining
patrol man on the shoulder. He turned a
white face towards me but otherwise appeared steady.

“You got IDs yet?”

“Almost sir, we know that all of the victims were in town
for an academic convention and we’re cross referencing the attendee list
now. One of the other guests knew the
guy in this room but he couldn’t ID the other professors. Apparently, they all came up a few hours ago
to do research. The chief is thinking
this is a ritual killing, probably surprised them in the room and…” The
officer’s voice cracked, “Whoever did this is one sick fuck! My god, we’ve got to catch this guy and put
him away! Look at this place…!”

His tone started getting hysterical so I gave him a good
slap. Plus, I just find slapping someone
around helps me get the gears going when I’m working a case. Not that it was absolutely necessary now, but
that hit felt sweeter than mangoes.

The police officer had just told me all I needed to
know.

“There won’t be anybody to throw the book at, Officer. Or rather, the encyclopedia.”

“W-what?”

“I can tell you exactly what happened. There was no outside murderer. These scholars killed each other! See the grease-smeared skin, the wings
completely devoid of meat to expose the musculature, the blue lips? I’d guess that at least two of these victims were
forcibly choked to death by chicken bones.  The rest probably died from blood-loss. You know the breast-plate makes a good
slashing weapon in a pinch.  Most likely
an academic discussion of the chicken’s evolution got out of hand.”

“I don’t see…”

“Oh, don’t you? Well,
let me paint you a picture. All the computers have browsers open to
Wikipedia. And not just to random
search pages… these people were entering in articles!  It’s well-known that academics are notoriously
competitive. Usually it’s not an issue,
secluded as they are in tiny college offices mustier than 3-day old NBA
jockstraps.  But here at the convention,
these scholars were finally face to face.  Oh, it probably started out friendly… birds of
a feather sharing ideas, someone innocently suggests research over dinner… but it
doesn’t take much for old jealousies to surface, disparate theories to create
tension, arguments to erupt!  Add a
little alcohol and the Internet and you’ve got a recipe for deep-fried disaster.
Obviously, these people were disputing
the merits of one of the Wikipedia articles. My guess is one of the scholars went to edit the encyclopedia and all
hell broke loose.”

“Are you fucking nuts? Sir?”

“Collaboration has a dark side.  Darker and smellier than the hole eggs come out
of.  These professors learned that
tonight.”  I turned towards the door,
feeling the satisfaction of a job well-done.  “Tell the chief, ‘your welcome’ and my report
will be on his desk by morning… 

I’m going for burgers.”