I completely and utterly failed my first attempt at the "NaNoWrimo." This is my evidence.
That was almost as far as I got. The following is what I am titling, "the lost chapter." After a night of drinking with my friends I sat down at about 4 AM, determined to write through it. I was able to focus only for a short while. This is a result.
And that's it. What was supposed to happen is Doug gets suffocated with a pillow and his wife, Elizabeth mumbles things like shut up, and just stop. But she wasn't the killer, she was just talking in her sleep. Then the funeral brings together all of his crazy relatives and friends. They then play a game like Survivor except with sillier tasks and in the end it comes to a tie. Without having resolved who the killer was, one of the two contestants of the will just says, "I deserve that money! I'm the one who killed him for Ceiling's sake!" Instead of getting in trouble, she gets the money and the story ends abruptly.
I do have a few questions, however.
1) Did anyone laugh? I could not combine murder mystery and comedy very well and I don't know how some of the bits fared.
2) Did anyone catch how Doug's face was described? I was trying to describe the fact that Doug always wears a mask of a vanilla soft serve ice cream cone without giving it away. (It was going to be in the funeral.) The joke being that he never takes off the mask is somehow finally killed by suffocation, yet his face was not exposed. HA-HA-HA
Douglas David Kane sat alone in his Boston office with a revolver in his mouth and his left thumb on the trigger. He grasped the handle of the gun with his right hand, the rest of his left hand resting on top near the chamber. His hands shook like a man with Parkinson’s disease as thoughts dashed about his head. A stale marriage with his gold-digging wife was no longer satisfying. Actually, it never really was but he could no longer pretend. As he applied slow and slight pressure on the trigger the hammer cocked back slowly.
“This is it,” he thought. He had decided to call it quits at the ripe age of sixty-four. Before he could blow his brains out of the back of his skull, he glanced down at his desk. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the pewter picture frame standing up. He paused and looked at the frame. He stared at the curves and corners in the design. He then shifted his eyes towards the glossy photograph underneath the glass. His finger slowly slipped off of the trigger, and eventually the gun fell from his month. He put it on the table and spun it in a circle.
Douglas wiped the tear that had begun dripping down his white, twisted face with his left index finger
He then shifted his head up towards the sky, and asked the Ceiling, “Why did I even think of doing this?”
After collecting his thoughts, Doug began tidying the papers on his desk. He grabbed all the papers in both hands and used the desk as a straight edge. He banged the paper on the table three times. He put them back down.
“No good,” he thought. He grabbed the papers and banged them upon the table four times. Grasping the papers on opposite ends, he slammed them against the table twice more to align them. He put them on the desk.
“No good,” he thought to himself again. He ran his fingers down the longer edges around the corner and down the connecting edge.
“No good,” he told himself once more. Douglas fumbled with the papers for another minute before finally pushing them next to a photo of an ice cream cone on his desk. A picture of vanilla soft serve in a cake cone, buried within the pewter frame.
As Doug closed the door to his office, he shut the door and locked it. He jingled the door. He unlocked the door and then locked it again. After trying to turn the handle unsuccessfully again, he turned around and headed down the stairs towards the ground floor. The stairs wound for twelve floors until they reached the lobby. He walked slowly down the stairs, one step at a time. When he reached the bottom he gave a fake, plastic smile to the security guard and walked through the revolving door. He glanced at the parking lot across the street which he used.
Now any man would reason that five shots of whiskey and three beers is enough to get any man drunk. Zach Thompson is no different. In fact, he drank much more than that and understood that he was slightly inebriated to say the least. After throwing several shots of cheap whiskey down his throat and drinking no less than four Samuel Adams Summer Ales, he stumbled into the parking lot of the bar.
“I’m in no condition to drive,” Zach thought to himself as he started the car. He shrugged as he turned the keys of his 2004 Mazda MX-5 Miata. Zach’s mind spun as he looked at the gauges and panels on his dashboard. He counted twenty three of them, not knowing what any of the six were for. Forgetting to put the car in reverse, the orange needle on the gauges quickly pointed more and more to the right. The car made a large thud, shaking as he drove over the curb onto the road. It looks like Zach was going to be driving home drunk again, despite a previous Driving While under the Influence charge. Thankfully for Douglas, this is not foreshadowing. Zach is not headed anywhere near Douglas’ office.
Doug reached to the bottom of his picket and fished around. He ran his index finger and thumb across the surface of his wallet, searching for the keys hidden beneath. Pinching the first key he came across, he pulled the set of keys from his pocket. Of the six keys on the ring, he slid two around the key ring until he got to the long, silver key with a black rubber grip on it. He thrust the key into his red, 2006 Ferrari and turned the key until it stopped. The whole car was so low that it was almost a hassle for him to get in. He had to put his right foot in first and then bend far forward to get both his body in left foot in. Once he was in however, the soft leather comforted his body.
He sat back in his seat. It was leaning so far back that he could barely see over the dashboard.
As he turned the key to start the car, the radio greeted him, “See I'm a pimp, you mother ****ers better know 'cause when I find out my ***** ain't **** I might let her go. 'Cause a hoe gon’ be a hoe, nigga’ that's in the game. So all you niggas that be taking them out and buying thangs, that's less I got to do plus that ***** fed!” Doug began bobbing his head as he rested his left hand on the top of the steering wheel and his right hand on the shifter. As he glanced out the miniscule rear window, Doug put the car into reverse and slowly backed out onto the street. The pedal kissed the floor of the car as Doug shifted into first. Looking forward, he released the clutch and began driving home.
The car hummed along with Doug’s sixty year old mouth, “Next time you see your hoe your *****'ll have her thighs up on a flick with this dick off inside her. Show you how to ride her. I'll make that ***** wider.” Doug shook his head as the words rolled off his tongue. Doug had an hour drive ahead of him until he reached the eastern-most part of Massachusetts which he called his home.
After fifteen minutes, the dirty, city roads of Boston were left behind. The tires humped the pavement of a narrow, winding road along the edge of the ocean. The waves crashed along the rocky cliffs that the road was built upon, singing a tune influenced only by the tide. Doug always slowed down in this are because the turns were a little sharp. Dull, dirty guard rails lined the side of the road, twisting and winding with the road. They stood as barricades, protecting people from the rocky cliffs below making sweet love to the ocean.
Doug rounded a turn, applying slight pressure to the polished pedal for his brakes. The pedal felt as though it dropped to the floor like an anchor, but the car did not slow down. As he relieved the gas pedal of the weight of his foot, the car slowed down.
“That’s not good,” Douglas told himself. “That’s not good at all.”
The next turn came far too fast. Douglas slammed on the brakes, but they about as effective as the United State’s war on drugs. He completely released the gas in an effort to slow down, but it was too gradual. Doug was headed straight for the guard rail. He cut the wheel to the left harshly. As his car whipped left, two of his alloy wheels jumped off the road, as if to reach for the sky. The bumper of his car scraped the guard rail in the very corner as it turned. Sparks shot at all angles, leaping from the guard rail as if to be with the Ferrari in a pale orange display. The wheels came crashing to the ground, too strong for even the expensive shocks to fully absorb their force. Doug hit his head on the roof of his car and his insides rattled around within him. Every cell in his body shuddered with fright.
His foot attacked the brake pedal with a shaky downward motion. Quickly it drew back with every failed assault. Doug’s knuckles dug into the steering wheel, growing as white as his face. His left knee locked up. Doug’s pupils grew wide. His life flashed before his eyes. The flash showed the time that he first heard the ring of the ice cream man, playing in his first high school football game, and a vivid sex scene with his first girlfriend.
Unfortunately, it was just that: a flash. The story of his life was unrecognizable to him when condensed into picoseconds. Especially the sex scene. Without realizing what he was doing, Doug’s hand jetted for the stick shift as his left foot began working with the clutch. He down shifted as fast as he could while still trying to jam the brakes. From fifth gear to fourth gear: the car slowed about ten miles per hour. From fourth to third gear: the car gave in for another ten miles an hour. The next turn was quickly approaching. As he tried to shift the car once again, his body flew forward. The seatbelt choked at his neck and held his rib cage tighter than a drum. His body felt as though it was going to break apart and render the seatbelt useless. The tires each left trails along the road, marking Doug’s victory in the battle against his car. Doug’s foot remained planted on the brake pedal like a fichus in a ceramic pot. Douglas was breathing very deeply. His lungs clamored for air. Despite all of this, the smile remained on top of his face.
When he felt he had recovered, Douglas shook his white, glossy face and tested the brakes. He propelled the car forward with the slightest amount of gas and pressed the brake. The car stopped safely. Douglas tried it twice more just to be sure. Successfully the car passed its test. He continued on his drive home feeling he had been thoroughly shaken like a baby at the hands of a British nanny.
As Zach approached the eastern sea board, he began to smell the salty ocean mist. The top of his convertible was nestled behind the seat, allowing the fresh air to cool his head. In his mind, Zach thought this would help him wax sober. His long, blonde hair danced in the wind, flowing upward and then downward in an awkward tempo that only nature could understand. The wind smacked upon his face. The fragrant aroma of sea coast came with it; an invasion of the nostrils. Zach’s immediate reaction was to allow his lunch a second chance at life.
Zach closed his eyes to catch his breath. He did not, however, take his foot off of the gas. The car was turning faster than his stomach as it headed for the grass. Surprised, Zach exhaled quickly when the car jolted up and down on the nooks and crannies of the grass off road. A foot was released from the nurturing care of the gas pedal. Zach passed out. Seriously, though, Zach has nothing to do with the tale of Douglas David Kane and the ice cream empire which he had built.
Doug pulled into his driveway. He rolled past the lush green grass, littered with smaller trees. The trees were flowering dogwoods with nice round leaves standing at twenty to twenty-five feet tall. He drove past the orchids, varying in color. Some of the orchids were noticeably neglected. Douglas frowned on the inside every time he passed them. The gardener must have been neglecting his job, but did not have the heart to fire the poor guy.
The gate stood eight feet tall, staring down at him like an ant crawling up its leg. The gate acted tough, with its metal bars twisting as they rose, pointed at the tip. The gate seemed to cross its arms, standing with its left and right doors held steady in position. Doug knew just how to please the gate, though. He opened his arms as if ready to embrace and the gate did the same. Doug looked at the gate as if to stare into its eyes. He imagined sharing a loving moment. Doug then shook his head and pushed the button to open the gate.
Doug rolled around the winding hedge maze that was the driveway. Lush green shrubbery lined the side of the driveway. The grass was supposedly cut twice a week. There were Greek statues between lengths of neatly trimmed shrub. They depicted the men in the early Olympics. Doug’s favorite was the one which portrayed the discus. The artisan had created a portrait of intensity, the face of the man scrunched in a mixture of concentration and physical strain. Oddly, the penis was slightly erect.
Douglas pulled into the garage and parked his car behind the orange Hummer H2. Getting out of the car, he bumped the top of his pointy, hairless head on the roof of the car.
“Oomph,” he murmured.
Doug opened the door that led into the house. A narrow hallway with ugly goldenrod walls ran to the front hall with a slight detour on the right leading to the kitchen. From the kitchen, a shadow was being cast upon the wall. The shadow stretched ten feet, shifting its shape as the person casting it turned towards the hall. As the figure completed its turn, the shape of a hand holding a knife became clear. The knife was held at chest height, projecting forward. The shadowy figure was ready to stab. With each step that Doug took, closer to the shadow he drew. As Doug was steps from the corner, the figure moved quickly.
With the grace of a gazelle, the figure tripped as it stepped forward and the clatter of the knife was heard against the hardwood floor. The shadow shrunk to miniscule proportions. Doug ran around the corner to see the commotion.
“Liz!” he exclaimed.
“Douglas,” Elizabeth quickly yelled, “Help me get up!”
“Oh my,” Doug blurted aloud. An arm extended forward and Elizabeth Marie grabbed on to the hand for support. Intense strain danced upon Doug’s lower back as he pulled his wife onto her feet. She gave him a cold, soft hug and stared past him at the wall.
“What happened?” Doug asked.
“Well,” Elizabeth began, “I was just walking to the door because I heard it open. I wasn’t sure what time you were coming. You didn’t call or anything.”
“When do I ever?” Doug responded.
“You’re a cold, cold man,” Liz replied.
“That’s why I’m in the ice cream business,” Doug cleverly retorted. Doug’s smile was painted on his face as he turned around to go upstairs. He extended his arm to his wife to escort her to bed with him, but she crumpled her face into that look that can be clearly read by everyone as if to say, “Ha, ha, very funny. No sex tonight.” That look was a look which did not matter to Doug since they had not had sex in over a week and a half. He was almost getting used to being able to sleep at night.
“This is it,” he thought. He had decided to call it quits at the ripe age of sixty-four. Before he could blow his brains out of the back of his skull, he glanced down at his desk. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the pewter picture frame standing up. He paused and looked at the frame. He stared at the curves and corners in the design. He then shifted his eyes towards the glossy photograph underneath the glass. His finger slowly slipped off of the trigger, and eventually the gun fell from his month. He put it on the table and spun it in a circle.
Douglas wiped the tear that had begun dripping down his white, twisted face with his left index finger
He then shifted his head up towards the sky, and asked the Ceiling, “Why did I even think of doing this?”
After collecting his thoughts, Doug began tidying the papers on his desk. He grabbed all the papers in both hands and used the desk as a straight edge. He banged the paper on the table three times. He put them back down.
“No good,” he thought. He grabbed the papers and banged them upon the table four times. Grasping the papers on opposite ends, he slammed them against the table twice more to align them. He put them on the desk.
“No good,” he thought to himself again. He ran his fingers down the longer edges around the corner and down the connecting edge.
“No good,” he told himself once more. Douglas fumbled with the papers for another minute before finally pushing them next to a photo of an ice cream cone on his desk. A picture of vanilla soft serve in a cake cone, buried within the pewter frame.
As Doug closed the door to his office, he shut the door and locked it. He jingled the door. He unlocked the door and then locked it again. After trying to turn the handle unsuccessfully again, he turned around and headed down the stairs towards the ground floor. The stairs wound for twelve floors until they reached the lobby. He walked slowly down the stairs, one step at a time. When he reached the bottom he gave a fake, plastic smile to the security guard and walked through the revolving door. He glanced at the parking lot across the street which he used.
Now any man would reason that five shots of whiskey and three beers is enough to get any man drunk. Zach Thompson is no different. In fact, he drank much more than that and understood that he was slightly inebriated to say the least. After throwing several shots of cheap whiskey down his throat and drinking no less than four Samuel Adams Summer Ales, he stumbled into the parking lot of the bar.
“I’m in no condition to drive,” Zach thought to himself as he started the car. He shrugged as he turned the keys of his 2004 Mazda MX-5 Miata. Zach’s mind spun as he looked at the gauges and panels on his dashboard. He counted twenty three of them, not knowing what any of the six were for. Forgetting to put the car in reverse, the orange needle on the gauges quickly pointed more and more to the right. The car made a large thud, shaking as he drove over the curb onto the road. It looks like Zach was going to be driving home drunk again, despite a previous Driving While under the Influence charge. Thankfully for Douglas, this is not foreshadowing. Zach is not headed anywhere near Douglas’ office.
Doug reached to the bottom of his picket and fished around. He ran his index finger and thumb across the surface of his wallet, searching for the keys hidden beneath. Pinching the first key he came across, he pulled the set of keys from his pocket. Of the six keys on the ring, he slid two around the key ring until he got to the long, silver key with a black rubber grip on it. He thrust the key into his red, 2006 Ferrari and turned the key until it stopped. The whole car was so low that it was almost a hassle for him to get in. He had to put his right foot in first and then bend far forward to get both his body in left foot in. Once he was in however, the soft leather comforted his body.
He sat back in his seat. It was leaning so far back that he could barely see over the dashboard.
As he turned the key to start the car, the radio greeted him, “See I'm a pimp, you mother ****ers better know 'cause when I find out my ***** ain't **** I might let her go. 'Cause a hoe gon’ be a hoe, nigga’ that's in the game. So all you niggas that be taking them out and buying thangs, that's less I got to do plus that ***** fed!” Doug began bobbing his head as he rested his left hand on the top of the steering wheel and his right hand on the shifter. As he glanced out the miniscule rear window, Doug put the car into reverse and slowly backed out onto the street. The pedal kissed the floor of the car as Doug shifted into first. Looking forward, he released the clutch and began driving home.
The car hummed along with Doug’s sixty year old mouth, “Next time you see your hoe your *****'ll have her thighs up on a flick with this dick off inside her. Show you how to ride her. I'll make that ***** wider.” Doug shook his head as the words rolled off his tongue. Doug had an hour drive ahead of him until he reached the eastern-most part of Massachusetts which he called his home.
After fifteen minutes, the dirty, city roads of Boston were left behind. The tires humped the pavement of a narrow, winding road along the edge of the ocean. The waves crashed along the rocky cliffs that the road was built upon, singing a tune influenced only by the tide. Doug always slowed down in this are because the turns were a little sharp. Dull, dirty guard rails lined the side of the road, twisting and winding with the road. They stood as barricades, protecting people from the rocky cliffs below making sweet love to the ocean.
Doug rounded a turn, applying slight pressure to the polished pedal for his brakes. The pedal felt as though it dropped to the floor like an anchor, but the car did not slow down. As he relieved the gas pedal of the weight of his foot, the car slowed down.
“That’s not good,” Douglas told himself. “That’s not good at all.”
The next turn came far too fast. Douglas slammed on the brakes, but they about as effective as the United State’s war on drugs. He completely released the gas in an effort to slow down, but it was too gradual. Doug was headed straight for the guard rail. He cut the wheel to the left harshly. As his car whipped left, two of his alloy wheels jumped off the road, as if to reach for the sky. The bumper of his car scraped the guard rail in the very corner as it turned. Sparks shot at all angles, leaping from the guard rail as if to be with the Ferrari in a pale orange display. The wheels came crashing to the ground, too strong for even the expensive shocks to fully absorb their force. Doug hit his head on the roof of his car and his insides rattled around within him. Every cell in his body shuddered with fright.
His foot attacked the brake pedal with a shaky downward motion. Quickly it drew back with every failed assault. Doug’s knuckles dug into the steering wheel, growing as white as his face. His left knee locked up. Doug’s pupils grew wide. His life flashed before his eyes. The flash showed the time that he first heard the ring of the ice cream man, playing in his first high school football game, and a vivid sex scene with his first girlfriend.
Unfortunately, it was just that: a flash. The story of his life was unrecognizable to him when condensed into picoseconds. Especially the sex scene. Without realizing what he was doing, Doug’s hand jetted for the stick shift as his left foot began working with the clutch. He down shifted as fast as he could while still trying to jam the brakes. From fifth gear to fourth gear: the car slowed about ten miles per hour. From fourth to third gear: the car gave in for another ten miles an hour. The next turn was quickly approaching. As he tried to shift the car once again, his body flew forward. The seatbelt choked at his neck and held his rib cage tighter than a drum. His body felt as though it was going to break apart and render the seatbelt useless. The tires each left trails along the road, marking Doug’s victory in the battle against his car. Doug’s foot remained planted on the brake pedal like a fichus in a ceramic pot. Douglas was breathing very deeply. His lungs clamored for air. Despite all of this, the smile remained on top of his face.
When he felt he had recovered, Douglas shook his white, glossy face and tested the brakes. He propelled the car forward with the slightest amount of gas and pressed the brake. The car stopped safely. Douglas tried it twice more just to be sure. Successfully the car passed its test. He continued on his drive home feeling he had been thoroughly shaken like a baby at the hands of a British nanny.
As Zach approached the eastern sea board, he began to smell the salty ocean mist. The top of his convertible was nestled behind the seat, allowing the fresh air to cool his head. In his mind, Zach thought this would help him wax sober. His long, blonde hair danced in the wind, flowing upward and then downward in an awkward tempo that only nature could understand. The wind smacked upon his face. The fragrant aroma of sea coast came with it; an invasion of the nostrils. Zach’s immediate reaction was to allow his lunch a second chance at life.
Zach closed his eyes to catch his breath. He did not, however, take his foot off of the gas. The car was turning faster than his stomach as it headed for the grass. Surprised, Zach exhaled quickly when the car jolted up and down on the nooks and crannies of the grass off road. A foot was released from the nurturing care of the gas pedal. Zach passed out. Seriously, though, Zach has nothing to do with the tale of Douglas David Kane and the ice cream empire which he had built.
Doug pulled into his driveway. He rolled past the lush green grass, littered with smaller trees. The trees were flowering dogwoods with nice round leaves standing at twenty to twenty-five feet tall. He drove past the orchids, varying in color. Some of the orchids were noticeably neglected. Douglas frowned on the inside every time he passed them. The gardener must have been neglecting his job, but did not have the heart to fire the poor guy.
The gate stood eight feet tall, staring down at him like an ant crawling up its leg. The gate acted tough, with its metal bars twisting as they rose, pointed at the tip. The gate seemed to cross its arms, standing with its left and right doors held steady in position. Doug knew just how to please the gate, though. He opened his arms as if ready to embrace and the gate did the same. Doug looked at the gate as if to stare into its eyes. He imagined sharing a loving moment. Doug then shook his head and pushed the button to open the gate.
Doug rolled around the winding hedge maze that was the driveway. Lush green shrubbery lined the side of the driveway. The grass was supposedly cut twice a week. There were Greek statues between lengths of neatly trimmed shrub. They depicted the men in the early Olympics. Doug’s favorite was the one which portrayed the discus. The artisan had created a portrait of intensity, the face of the man scrunched in a mixture of concentration and physical strain. Oddly, the penis was slightly erect.
Douglas pulled into the garage and parked his car behind the orange Hummer H2. Getting out of the car, he bumped the top of his pointy, hairless head on the roof of the car.
“Oomph,” he murmured.
Doug opened the door that led into the house. A narrow hallway with ugly goldenrod walls ran to the front hall with a slight detour on the right leading to the kitchen. From the kitchen, a shadow was being cast upon the wall. The shadow stretched ten feet, shifting its shape as the person casting it turned towards the hall. As the figure completed its turn, the shape of a hand holding a knife became clear. The knife was held at chest height, projecting forward. The shadowy figure was ready to stab. With each step that Doug took, closer to the shadow he drew. As Doug was steps from the corner, the figure moved quickly.
With the grace of a gazelle, the figure tripped as it stepped forward and the clatter of the knife was heard against the hardwood floor. The shadow shrunk to miniscule proportions. Doug ran around the corner to see the commotion.
“Liz!” he exclaimed.
“Douglas,” Elizabeth quickly yelled, “Help me get up!”
“Oh my,” Doug blurted aloud. An arm extended forward and Elizabeth Marie grabbed on to the hand for support. Intense strain danced upon Doug’s lower back as he pulled his wife onto her feet. She gave him a cold, soft hug and stared past him at the wall.
“What happened?” Doug asked.
“Well,” Elizabeth began, “I was just walking to the door because I heard it open. I wasn’t sure what time you were coming. You didn’t call or anything.”
“When do I ever?” Doug responded.
“You’re a cold, cold man,” Liz replied.
“That’s why I’m in the ice cream business,” Doug cleverly retorted. Doug’s smile was painted on his face as he turned around to go upstairs. He extended his arm to his wife to escort her to bed with him, but she crumpled her face into that look that can be clearly read by everyone as if to say, “Ha, ha, very funny. No sex tonight.” That look was a look which did not matter to Doug since they had not had sex in over a week and a half. He was almost getting used to being able to sleep at night.
Douglas had just kicked his shoes off, taken off his shirt and pants when he kneeled beside his bed. He looked up at the Ceiling and folded his fingers. They wove together like an Alabama family tree, crossing each other all willy-nilly.
“Dear father,” Douglas began to recite, “I look to you. You are omnipotent and omniscient. I seek your salvation, oh great Flying Spaghetti Monster. This day hath passed like all days; a constant reminder of your love for humanity and personal affection for myself. Your legacy of creation is great.” Douglas closed his eyes for a moment and shook his hands.
Douglas bent a little further forward and said, “Ramen.” Ramen was the traditional closing to the prayer of any Pastafarian. Douglas looked towards the Ceiling, as if it could give him a clue or any new directions that His will demand he take. When there was no reply, Douglas smoothly slid into his bed and covered himself with the sheets. Elizabeth had already gone to bed before he could preach at all. When Douglas joined in prayer with her group of friends, he felt like an outcast.
Doug had his eyes closed for one hour and thirty five minutes when it happened. Soft hands grasped a pillow. Mr. Kane discovered the distinct taste of down feather moments later. He thrust his arms forwards, as if to grab the assailant which had known better than to stay directly in front of him.
As they took Lucas, the guy who tried to flirt with Douglas, off of pretty much all of the servrers. Although Luke did not have the best driving record, he certainly did get coverer age on property,
After convincing the procucers of the film, we needed to convince everyone that the chair chat was a special item.
“Dear father,” Douglas began to recite, “I look to you. You are omnipotent and omniscient. I seek your salvation, oh great Flying Spaghetti Monster. This day hath passed like all days; a constant reminder of your love for humanity and personal affection for myself. Your legacy of creation is great.” Douglas closed his eyes for a moment and shook his hands.
Douglas bent a little further forward and said, “Ramen.” Ramen was the traditional closing to the prayer of any Pastafarian. Douglas looked towards the Ceiling, as if it could give him a clue or any new directions that His will demand he take. When there was no reply, Douglas smoothly slid into his bed and covered himself with the sheets. Elizabeth had already gone to bed before he could preach at all. When Douglas joined in prayer with her group of friends, he felt like an outcast.
Doug had his eyes closed for one hour and thirty five minutes when it happened. Soft hands grasped a pillow. Mr. Kane discovered the distinct taste of down feather moments later. He thrust his arms forwards, as if to grab the assailant which had known better than to stay directly in front of him.
As they took Lucas, the guy who tried to flirt with Douglas, off of pretty much all of the servrers. Although Luke did not have the best driving record, he certainly did get coverer age on property,
After convincing the procucers of the film, we needed to convince everyone that the chair chat was a special item.
And that's it. What was supposed to happen is Doug gets suffocated with a pillow and his wife, Elizabeth mumbles things like shut up, and just stop. But she wasn't the killer, she was just talking in her sleep. Then the funeral brings together all of his crazy relatives and friends. They then play a game like Survivor except with sillier tasks and in the end it comes to a tie. Without having resolved who the killer was, one of the two contestants of the will just says, "I deserve that money! I'm the one who killed him for Ceiling's sake!" Instead of getting in trouble, she gets the money and the story ends abruptly.
I do have a few questions, however.
1) Did anyone laugh? I could not combine murder mystery and comedy very well and I don't know how some of the bits fared.
2) Did anyone catch how Doug's face was described? I was trying to describe the fact that Doug always wears a mask of a vanilla soft serve ice cream cone without giving it away. (It was going to be in the funeral.) The joke being that he never takes off the mask is somehow finally killed by suffocation, yet his face was not exposed. HA-HA-HA
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