MURDER IN A LARGE METROPOLITAN CITY NEAR THE RED LIGHT DISTRICT BY THE RIVER NEXT TO STARBUCKS: A NOVEL BY THE ABSOLUTELY GREAT AND TERRIFIC J. J. WORDYIt was cold in the city. It was December which is a cold month, at least in the northern hemisphere, though it depends on the distance from the equator. There was a noise and a shot; in fact, they were simultaneous, though they came after a flash of light because light travels much faster than sound. The bullet hit a yuppie who had just finished an overpriced cappucino, and he was killed instantly. Well, not instantly as in a half second later, but maybe a few minutes while his blood oozed, well, squirted really, and he had time to write something on his shirt, at least on the part that wasn't bloody, which was difficult to find, but he managed and wrote something. At least that's what it looked like to Sergeant Roy Roberts.
"Man, this is icky" he said to Lieutenant Rogers, who was there on the scene with him, I mean that's quite obvious from the context; he wouldn't say it over the phone to some stranger, though he could have called Rogers, but by saying "this is icky" there is an obvious assumption that they are both there looking at the bloody dead guy.
"Yeah, it's pretty yucky," replied the hard-nosed street smart Rogers who wore Gucci loafers.
They wondered who could have done this. There was no apparent reason for it, no one saw it, no one heard it. Sergeant Roberts wondered about a motive. Lieutenant Rogers wondered whether Roberts wore boxers or briefs.
Six days passed. The cappucino dude was buried. His name really isn't important, I mean what's in a name anyway. Lots of people have the same goddamn names, first and last. Does it really do justice to our individualities? But then finally there was a break in the case. A scruffy old dude walked into the station and confessed the whole thing. Now they knew they were onto something big.
"So you say, Mr. Nuttencracker, that you shot the yuppie because he looked like your Aunt Edna?" Sergeant Roberts said, beginning his brilliant scheme to make him confess to what he confessed to.
"He was an alien. I hate aliens. I hate everybody," Nuttencracker said.
"That doesn't mean that you wouldn't shoot anyone. No, wait, that's a double negative. That does mean that you would shoot anyone. No, that doesn't sound right. That DOESN'T mean that you WOULD shoot anyone."
"I did it, dammit, I signed the damn confession."
"Maybe you just think you did it. Where were you that night?"
"I was out waiting for him to come out of Starbucks so I could shoot him."
"A likely story! We know for a fact that you were out of town, nowhere near Starbucks!"
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!!"
"Admit it Nuttencracker, you're innocent!"
"No! I'm guilty, you've got to believe me!!"
After the grueling hell they were putting him through, they gave up for the night. They both went home, that is, to their own homes, they don't live together, because that's where you usually go at night. That's where the TV is. Even if they did live together, that wouldn't mean that they were gay or anything. Laurel and Hardy lived together and no one thought they were gay. But in those days sex was illegal anyway. They both watched the reruns of the Bush-Gore debate and fell asleep immediately.
The next day they were told that Nuttencracker would be going to trial soon, and they did a great job getting a confession. They also were informed of what the cappucino dude wrote on his shirt.... "latte sucks." They began to work on another case -- directing traffic on Centre St.
Mr. J.P. Nuttencracker was found mentally deranged and was ordered to undergo grueling therapy with a psychotic psychiatrist in the State Institute of Mental Hygiene and Urban Development.