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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Detective · #2190404
A detective is out to find the culprit in these here crimes.
“Inspector Donohue,” said Lord Brandt. “So pleased that you could finally grace us with your presence.”

“Why, who is this?” said The Black Dragon. “What's going on here? Something I should know about?”

Unchained, undented. The power of detection imminent. Infinite. Diligently, and deftly he left the confines of murderer's row and made his way, slowly but surely, down the avenue. Making calls as he pleased. These old halls have become greased.

“Her?” said Lord Brandt.

“Yes, her,” said The Black Dragon. “I'm pointing at her right now, am I not? Yes, her, her, her. Right over there.”

“She's my grandmother,” said Lord Brandt.

“Your grandmother?” said Lord Brandt. “Why, isn't that the most perfect alibi I've ever heard?”

“Probably,” said Lord Brandt.

The skills of detection skip a generation, but not this time. The Black Dragon was on the case, without a moment to lose. He was completely and utterly in line for a promotion of epic proportions. All he had to do was solve this case without...

“Tell me, Mr. Brandt,” said The Black Dragon. “Do you and your 'grandmother' ever go skiing on weekends?”

“Skiing sire?” said Lord Brandt.

“Yes, skiing,” said The Black Dragon. “In Monaco.”

This night was special. Across the land, the people were scared. The Scarlet Killer was on the loose, and there was no one, in their right mind, who could match wits with such a dastardly foe. The police, the fire department, the water department, the entertainment district-everyone tried to catch him, but to no avail.

“Sire, I'm afraid that they don't ski in Monaco. It's much too hot,” said Lord Brandt. “Shall I presume you mean Naples?”

“So you say, that it is too hot to ski in Monaco?” said The Black Dragon.

“Yes, sire,” said Lord Brandt. “Much too hot.”

“How convenient...” said The Black Dragon. “Where is James Butterfingers.”

“James Butler?” said Lord Brandt.

“Yes, that's precisely what I mean,” said The Black Dragon. “Will you lead me to him? Or will I have to lift this entire building with a fine-toothed comb?”
“Why here he is,” said Lord Brandt. “He's coming in right now.”

Just then, through the door, walked the handsome, deboinaire James Butler. His fancy hat was matched only by his fancy trench coat. His shoes were hard and shiny, yet flexible and durable. He carried a hefty metal briefcase in his left hand.

“Why hello,” said Butler.

“Ah, Mr. Butler,” said The Black Dragon. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No, I'm sorry,” said Butler. “My watch just died.”

“Or so you say, said The Black Dragon,” said the Black Dragon.

James Butler nonchalantly removed his coat and hat and placed them on the holder. It was eight o'clock in the evening and everyone was already tense. It would be hard to fall asleep this night. No one could guess what the great inspector would do next.

“Who are you, exactly?” said Butler.


“I'm...Sir Philip Donohue,” said The Black Dragon. “High-ranking detective: murder division.”

“You're Phil Donohue?” said Butler.

“Yes, I am,” said The Black Dragon.

“I have a question for you,” said Butler.

“You may proceed.” said The Black Dragon.

“Whatever happened to that lady, you know the one,” said Butler. “She was a stay-at-home mom who wanted to go hang gliding?”

“She was murdered.” said The Black Dragon. “Now, I want you to listen to me very quickly. I can promise you immunity: not from prosecution, but from my negative judgments.”

“If I what?” said Butler.

“Why if you confess, of course,” said The Black Dragon.

“Confess to what, exactly?” said Butler.

“Why, the Red Scarlet Murders of course,” said The Black Dragon.

“Red Scarlet?” said Butler. “That's two states to the west. Now are you gonna tell me what this is all about, or do I have to call my lawyer?”
“Wait,” said The Black Dragon. “No need to get lawyers involved.”

“Well, now. Can you prove that I'm in some way involved in these senseless acts of violence?” said Butler.

“I'm certain that I can,” said The Black Dragon. “Your hat.”

“What about my hat?” said Butler.

“A Timbuktu hat,” said The Black Dragon. “Sells on Ebay for 15 cents.”

“I paid thirty-five dollars for this hat,” said Butler.

“And your coat,” said The Black Dragon. “When you walked in I spotted you wiping a clear liquid off of your coat. Which was probably the tears of your victims, and-”

“It was raining outside,” Butler.

“Well,” said The Black Dragon. “Whatever has happened in your life, I'm sure that DNA evidence will be proof enough.”

“Do I have a choice?” said Butler.

“Well, you can always confess,” said The Black Dragon. “Then, you can relax. Three meals a day; and a paper bag, for your throwup. Seventeen years minimum. No need to adjust your eyes to the sunlight, because where you're going, there is no sunshine. What is that sound?”

“Why, it's Mozart,” said Butler.

“Who is that? Your accomplice?” said The Black Dragon.

“Mozart is sunshine.” said Butler.

“You'll have neither where you're going,” said The Black Dragon.

“Can I ask you one question?” said Butler. “Before I confess, of course.”

“Sure, what is it?” said The Black Dragon.

“Who is that outside my window?” said Butler.

Just then, the lights went down. No one could see a thing. The seconds blew by as Inspector Philip Donohue attempted to make his catch. He was so close to solving these murders that he could taste it.

“Show yourself, fiendish imp!”

There was a row all around. Nobody could see in front of their face. Something was wrong and out of place. They continued their affair. As time went on, the room got louder and louder. The Black Dragon ever prouder that he was finally going to fight his foe. This was the thing that he had been waiting for for months and months. Suddenly, the lights came back on.

"Mister Butler," said Lord Brandt. "He's dead."

"Case closed."

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