the murder mystery of R.S. Brown

Shame is bottom of the story, shame is the abyss of the soul and shame is what Sgt. Vasser’s brain was soaked in the night he was murdered. His body was found naked and bloated, his wife’s to, both beheaded, heads shrunken to the size of a fist and placed back on their bodies stitched with fishing line is how it looked when detective Marvin Inspector arrived at the scene. Over by the wall was the calling card, the calling card of R.S. Brown. R.S. Brown known for leaving behind a pile of pubic hair at every murder he is linked to. He grows his pubic hair for four months then when it is time to shave he does it after he murders someone, usually in a corner. After he shaves his genitals he squats a digestive mass on top of it. There have been 7 murders in which R.S. Brown has been linked to where Marvin Inspector has arrived on the scene. Each time R.S. Brown has left behind droppings that have been vibrant and distinct in color, but never ever brown. The first one almost looked as red as cold blood, but the examination didn’t show any sign of it. He is angered at yet another, his blood boils, his speech is harsh and his actions are rushed. “What does it take to get a regular serial killer to chase?” “Alright guys” he points to some snake-cops, “clean-up this shit, put in the evidence bag and don’t mash it up too much.” The snake-cops looked at each other blankly and Marvin Inspector added, “don’t eat any of it either I know some of it looks tasty.” He grinned. The second murder the shit was orange, then lemon yellow, green, some shades of blue and purple and now it was this indigo color. Marvin Inspector snaps on the examining gloves, takes out Sgt. Vasser’s pocket’s, finds a small leather notebook on it inscribed the letters, “Secret Notebook” inside on the first page was titled, “Rattle-Snake-Bite” and like the other victims they died from poison injected by fangs into their feet which quickly penetrated into the blood-stream. After the title was read Marvin Inspector was interrupted by a rattle and coming at him from under it struck him. He remembers being afraid, but his memory is still blurred as he stands above his body watching the snake-cops scramble to save him and suck the venom from as he dies. He looks on in silent horror, he looks on as afraid as an egg about to hatch, but as curious as a fish someone is about to catch. He looks at me. I read his mind and tell you what happened.

The day was beautiful, light was warm on Stg. Vassar’s skin as momentary cool breezes brushed through the screened in porch where he and his wife drank pink lemonade. After 30 years on the snake-cop force waiting for these retirement days...they had finally arrived.