The PEACEFUL PARISH of NEW TOULOUSE, recently voted PLACE MOST LIKELY TO SLIP BACKWARDS THROUGH THE FOAMING WATERS OF TIME by the GREYBEARD MEDDLERS of CALEDON & ENVIRONS, was DISGUSTED & OUTRAGED this FRIDAY PAST by the PERFORMANCE of an ACT OF UNADULTERED EVIL OF A MOST TERMINAL NATURE, viz. A MURDER MOST FOUL in a FOUL HOUSE of ADULTERESSES, PANDERERS, PARTERS of the PERFUMED CURTAIN, and STRUMMERS of FORBIDDEN BANJOS.
The VICTIM, one ALBERT CAPUT, himself NO STRANGER TO THE SORDID BACK ALLEYS of the CRIMINAL MIND, was found dead close to the doorway of the ironically named “House of Butterflies.” Ironically indeed, gentle reader. Not lightly do we utter this word. For there is nothing delicate nor beautiful about that lair of loucheness, that squalid slum of scandal and salaciousness, that monument to the disgraceful depths to which the “fairer sex” might sink. What butterfly dare venture near? Its tiny heart—so gentle! so innocent!—would break in two. There, hard-eyed harpies twitch and ply their abominable trade in the service of the demon Vice, their raddled faces rivaled in vileness only by the raucous screeching of their ghastly voices, their diseased hips tilting and swaying in deplorable attempts to bring the decent man low.
NIKITA WEYMANN—to whom a charitable liar might refer in a moment of enthusiasm as “the proprietress”—displayed a disgraceful lack of any sort of propriety when confronted with her lackadaiscal attitude toward the crime and common decency. Rather, she offered up a slurred tirade of vicious invective (punctuated by cries for gin and a great quantity of flying spittle) and displayed an all-too-telling lack of remorse and a shocking quantity of ankle. A similar lack of civic pride was displayed by her harem of harridans.
As yet, the valiant officers of our parish police have no leads (suitably equipped volunteers are therefore eagerly sought to walk Senor Wuffles, the Police Dog). New Toulouse greets this news with heavy heart but little surprise; for the criminal capacity for misdeeds has expanded like a congressman’s stomach. On the very same day—the very same, dear reader!—as the appalling incident recounted above, a shocking theft occured. A hairy hand reached from the underworld to strike at the beating heart and varicose veins of our community. Jewels delightful, precious, and of incalculable worth were ripped untimely from the box of fragrant Madame Dubois, beloved of this parish and Sieur Dubois. Distraught, she has offered a reward to anyone who might know of the whereabouts of her beloved baubles, for a little bird tweets in our ear that the diabolical cunning of this crime—cunning which oozes like jam from a discarded scone—has thwarted all attempts to solve it.
IT IS SURELY a judgment upon our once-tranquil community that such curious and terrible things are now held to be as commonplace as prayer; it is surely no coincidence that the infliction of this affliction was coterminous with the manifestation of the malefic Maison. This paper will not stand idly by and let a passing pestilence become a permanent pox. This paper stands for something: it stands for PRINCIPLES, it stands for COMMON-SENSE, it stands for VIRTUE, DECENCY, and THE NATIONAL ANTHEM. This paper stands atop the SHOULDERS of GIANTS to view UNIMPEDED the GREAT BRINY OCEAN OF TRUTH within which SWIM THE MIGHTY CETACEANS of MORAL RECTITUDE & UPRIGHT DISCIPLINE; and brushing FLAKES of GIANT DANDRUFF FROM ITS FACE, this paper turns TO YOU and ASKS:
WHO AMONG US WILL RISE TO THE CHALLENGE? WHICH OF YOU, GOOD CITIZENS, WILL SOLVE THE MYSTERY OF THE MURDERED MISCREANT?
~”Scoops” McNulty
Originally published on January 23, 2010.
