The Case of the Suspect Story

by David E. Freeman

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out.

The aspiring Author was found, slumped over his typewriter, his cooling blood turning the ribbon a dark red and dripping onto the paper as he expired.

"Too dark," observed the cliche-ridden Detective.

"And why does the rest of the text flow around the blood spot like a weird box? What's going on?" queried the Reporter, "We are being kept in the dark about something."

Then, without warning, the old Felcher Mansion was plunged deep into total, utter, absolute, and impenetrably inky, pitchblack, darkness.

After the the wet sounds of repeated stabbing and gasps of a garroting or two that were punctuated by the bright flashes of several guns being emptied in a small room there was complete and unbroken silence except for the prolonged gagging of the buxom French Maid choking on the poison she had inadvertently drank and the creak of the Elderly Retainer swinging from the end of his rope.

"It's quiet," declared the Author, authoritatively.

"Yeah. Too quiet," replied the Detective, with the uncanny perception of a sleuth at the pinnacle of his profession of pursuit of the truth, no matter how ugly, no matter what unsavory dives and sordid dens of iniquity nor what kind of lowlife characters he would be compelled to consort with on a daily basis, in spite of every obstacle the crime lords and crooked politicos of the dirty city could throw in his path, braving all odds, taking on all comers with his two fists^_

"Has anyone got any more bullets?" cried out one of the corpses, "I'm all out, and I can't take much more of this."

"Here, use my Gat," came the desperate whisper, from an Equisite Corpse in the corner, "put them out of our misery."

"Thanks, here goes ...," as the brutal sound of a drum roll played on a Tommy Gun filled the angry night.

Would the horror never end?

 It was a gray and dreay morning. The surviors of that awful night staggered out, blinking in the harsh sunlight.

"Boy, I wish the Hack writing this crap would get things straight," complained Tom the Diligent Newsboy.

The Hooker with a Heart of Gold retorted, "What d'ye'want, dramatic continuity? That'll cost yer an extra sawbuck!"

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