The Goth Chick With the Attitude

Tuesday, January 18-Thursday, January 20
The Chief Inspector walked the courtyard, wishing he had worn something more suited to the Icelandic weather, even something slightly more masculine. But they only played The Rocky Horror Picture Show once a month, and he promised himself when he started work as a homicide detective he wasn’t going to give up his personal life for anything. Still, the nylons weren’t as flattering as his plaid trousers.

An outline in the snow marked where the body had fallen.

Grooves marked where it had been dragged away.

To where, nobody knew.

It was a classic "whodunnitandwhere’ditgoaftertheydunnit."

*

Humdrummus Pretentious. In the native tongue, it’s known as a crimson willow. It was brought to the continent by African immigrants as far back as 200 A.D. The long off-yellow stem gives the bulbous red petals a perch from which to adjaksdfaskdadjksdasa Oh, shit, did I doze while typing that? Well, fuck me, it’s a flower. You can’t expect me to really care about background information on a flower. Where’d the goddamn murder mystery go? Still waiting for a stupid body. Let’s just pretend we went through the unnecessary flower background, it’s important for a red herring later. Shit, wasn’t supposed to say "red herring." But that does make me hungry. Let me grab lunch.

*

Hansel Bergenbjörgenfurd had lost everything that mattered to him. His keys as well. He had to rent a car to take him up to the Forfürgen Estate. Never in all of his career as a down-and-out crime reporter had he ever seen such a palatial mansion. Everyone at the Forfürgen Estate was so rich they could afford to dress every letter on every sign in umlauts. As a young boy in Reykjavik, Bergenbjörgenfurd had dreamed of having multiple-umlaut wealth. But like his once-promising journalistic career, all of Bergenbjörgenfurd’s dreams had died.

Through the umlaut-laden hallway he passed, admiring the pictures of long-dead relatives who might be important later, I’m just saying. The butler, because I should have mentioned there was a butler, led him into the Lunch Hall, which was adjacent to the Breakfast Hall and on the opposite wing from the Brunch Hall, the Dinner Hall, and one floor beneath the Midnight Snack Hall. There waited Erbst Skafaldingyad.

"Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad.

"Please, call me Hansel," Bergenbjörgenfurd insisted.

"I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd," said Erbst Skafaldingyad, smoking a Barginfarg brand cigarette. "Let’s cut to business, Mr. Bergenbjörgenfurd: I wish to hire you."

Bergenbjörgenfurd was stunned, and slightly exhausted. "I don’t work as a reporter anymore. I don’t care how much money you have."

"We have all the money," Skafaldingyad said. "All of the money in Iceland."

"Oh, then I do care."

"We have a murder we wish you to investigate," said Skafaldingyad. "If you are successful, it could restore both your name… and your career. But you will need help. The help of a Goth chick. With an attitude."

*

At home with her laptop computer, Muriel Salamander crunched on Snöktjargon cookies and surfed the internet. She had hacked the bank account of a disreputable corporate slimeball and was transferring all his money to NOW, just for laughs. She was always doing such things of a highly moral nature and questionable legal status. It helped her forget the horrible secret in her past, which is revealed on page 435, if you simply can’t wait to find out later.

She was a girl of modest height, with jet-black hair that she dyed even blacker, shining green eyes that all innocence had left, a killer body, several tattoos on her neck of unicorns and lygers, and a giant nosering.

A knock at the door grabbed her attention. Could that be the cops there again? She mistrusted all cops, and all men. Most cops were men, so she mistrusted them twice as hard.

She cracked the door, then figured she could continue her kung fu later, the guy was still knocking. Opening the door only part way, she saw an older man that she was inexplicably hot for.

Bergenbjörgenfurd was shocked by the appearance of the girl inside the apartment, particularly the gold nose ring she wore. I should mention that while it’s 2011 in much of the world, it’s 1988 in Iceland.

"Muriel Salamander? The Goth Chick With the Attitude?" asked Bergenbjörgenfurd. He held up pictures of an empty, body-shaped gouge in the snow. "I need your help finding a dead man. And then solving that dead man’s murder."

Harvey Potluck and the Canadian Mystery Dollar
Things had come to an abrupt end the previous year for Harvey Potluck, when he failed to complete his third year at Hogwash Military Academy and Magic Technical School when early sales projections failed to help motivate the book's completion. But... (5/21/07)

Space Gods: The New Generation
"Captain's blog, Stardate eleven point six point forty-three point twelve point three-thousand," the captain typed out loud for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. "We have drifted far off course due to our Conn, walking GoBot Mister... (4/30/07)

A Fistful of Tannenbaum, Chapter 18: The Pope War
Editor's Note: In the last prematurely published chapter, time-traveling Fancy Dan Jed Foster stepped up his flirting with the buttonesque-cute Princess Penny. King Arthur, Jed's host for his visit to his century, was not amused, and... (4/23/07)

Shy Statesmen
It was late 2005 when I first met Pacman. He had been brought over for the seemingly innocuous purpose of inventory control in the headquarters of the U.S. Armory, securing paper. Lockheed brand paper. These kinds of shenanigans were hardly out of... (3/26/07)

Floof Goofers
Though these words may appear to be written in modern English, rest assured they have been conveyed via thought concept and visual feedback, therefore appearing in your brain as your own native language. Trust this illusion only so far as it serves... (3/5/07)