Murder in the Toolshed
by Albert Daddyton 

The cold and rainy, miserable, in a non-judgmental way, London weather was in full effect. At 612 Putter Street, Lord Marbles Pissweather sat quietly in his drawing room, away from the nastiness outside, sawing eloquently on his instrument. Not at all a euphemism, he really had an instrument.

It was at this time I, his loyal assistant Cap’n Trails, called upon his abode. The sound of nipple-exciting music filled the abode. Doffing my hat, I leaned into the drawing room and nodded a greeting to Lord Pissweather.

“I say, Pissweather, good show with that violin.”

He put it aside in disappointment, picking up his clever affectation, a Chinese fingertrap. “Yes, quite excellent violin playing, if I may say so myself,” agreed Pissweather. “Unfortunately, I was attempting to play the fiddle. ‘Shortenin’ Bread.’ Damn this infernal instrument! How I can play the violin at master concerto level and sound like a mental defect playing the fiddle confounds my exceptional logic.”

“I wish we had more time to continue this conversation, Pissweather…”

“Really? I had grown quite tired of it already.”

“But I’m afraid we have a case to investigate. The Lady Mohoward sexily requests your presence at her estate. I’m afraid there’s been—ooo, dreadful to say this outloudly—a murder in the toolshed!”

“How titular,” grumbled Pissweather. “Still, I presume we should be moving along right away. The lady awaits.”

The Mohoward estate was full of lush greenage and primoweed, adorned foremost with a 3,010-room mansion with ornate pre-Caligula Roman architecture. Pissweather and I made our way to the front door via horse-drawn cart. The horse was homosexual.

“Odd, do you not think—how many rooms do you estimate are in this mansion, Trails?”

“3,010, according to Lady Mohoward, and my narration,” I responded.

“3,011—nobody ever counts the guest room,” informed Pissweather. “My point, however, is, of all these rooms, why murder someone in the toolshed?”

“Indeed, Pissweather,” I kissed up. “It seems to implicate the gardener, Mr. Gardner.”

“Yes, if you’re easily taken in by deception,” said Pissweather, removing his stuck fingers from the Chinese fingertrap. “Damn! Consider this, however: Several of these larger gardens contain the unique African vegetation Plottus Convenienus. It’s a rare plant that actually eats blood and evidence. If you were the gardener—”

“Mr. Gardner.”

“Correct—would you not be well aware of the evidence-eating properties of the very plants you brought to the estate?”

“Egad, I’m a dimwit! What exactly are you all but explicitly stating, Pissweather?”

“Simplicity, Trails,” smirked Pissweather. “The murder was most likely not committed by the gardener—”

“Mr. Gardner.”

“Correct—Not committed by him, but by someone who wanted to frame Mr. Gardner, and cover up their crime. One of the estate’s more prominent residents.”

“Shitcrackers, Pissweather!” I exclaimed.

For more of this great story, buy Albert Daddyton’s
Murder in the Toolshed Timefuck
Being plugged into the timeline creates an unusual distortion affect we call time fucking. What it means, scientifically speaking, is that a being’s experience of time as a linear creation is destroyed and time afterward becomes moments lived randomly, in one or two minute spans so as to be less confusing to mentally challenged readers, much like pieces of a puzzle being picked up arbitrarily instead of in order of which piece they’re connected to.

The Bitcher in the City (Part 2)
What a big fat fake. A useless tool that ought to have his head popped by God’s very own fingers. I got to feeling a little nauseous in the stupid club so I went outside. By the time I was at the door I heard Mervin yelling that I looked familiar again, but I didn’t want to talk to him no more.

So Cold Blooded
Their first victim was Mary Ann “Carrot-Top” Cooper, a striking brunette cashier at a local burlesque house. Cooper had stayed late on June 5, 1963, taking inventory on the tassles, and was abducted from the parking lot out back by Knotts and Wilpott.

The Shoeshine Exemption
You had two kinds of people in the joint: The guys who took what life dealt them and the ones who didn’t. I was one of those guys who took what life dealt them. It was a pair of eights, a five, a four, and a two. Almost like it could be a decent hand, but not quite, enh, you know? I’m not complaining.