Hi, All. It’s Friday, and this week I did not write my fridge memo ahead of time (shame on me for procrastinating). I can’t help it. I just wasn’t inspired. I was going to do a poem called Laments of a Dirty Fridge, or something like that. For most of the week, I’ve been feeling a little emo, as far as Prentice and emo goes, and I was originally going to do something dark and whiney to fit my sullen mood, induced by nearsightedness and a sudden feeling of career despair.
I dunno if it was the two Diet Cokes I drank or the fact that I got to converse with people for more than five minutes today, but I have been in a fabulous mood, totally killing the drab poem idea. I still wanted to do something dark for Halloween though, so I decided I would do a three-part murder mystery, refrigerator themed of course. Here is chapter one:
Icebox Murder Mystery: Orange you glad I didn’t slay banana?
It was a stormy, October evening in the Astral Brands break room, after hours. It was a Thursday, and a quiet one at that, not a single employee working late. The silence of the empty office was broken by a blood curdling shriek inside the refrigerator, as thunder crashed in tandem. A cream cheese Danish kicked the icebox door open to shed light on the situation. All the leftovers at the icy crime scene; Tiki Take-out, Sammy Sandwich, Soda Pop Perez, Yolanda Yogurt, Tuna Casserole Pete, and Detective Danny Danish, gathered around to find one of their own murdered. Poor Beatrix Banana, stabbed with a spork on the top shelf, had just moved into the neighborhood that morning. The smell of bruised banana began to fill the room.
“What happened?” Tiki gasped in horror. Detective Danish looked over the victim with worry behind his stern gaze. “I dunno, Miss Take-out,” he replied, “But it looks like this banana just got split.” The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves until Yolanda Yogurt stuttered, ”P-p-perhaps it was the receptionist? I hear she has a way of making our kind ‘disappear!’” Detective Danish propped his chin on his fist as he pondered. “Let’s ask Madame Baking Soda,” he decided. She knows more about this fridge than all of us combined.” Sammy Sandwich nodded, “Great idea, Danny. If anybody knows whodunit, she will.” The petrified provisions all agreed and made their way to the shelf below.
Madame Baking Soda was still asleep when the detective called to her, white, odor-easing dust fluttering into the air with every unladylike snore. The old broad awoke with a start as the detective apologized and caught her up on all the details of Beatrix Banana’s death. Soda Pop Perez butted in. “Do you think the receptionist had anything to do with this?” Madame Baking Soda shook her head. “No. That was definitely not her doing.” She then insisted Tuna Casserole Pete light her baking soda cigarette and took a long drag before continuing. “She never leaves her dirty work in the icebox.” She blew a cloud of smoke into Pete and Detective Danny’s faces. “Besides,” she added. “The gal only strikes at 5:15 on Fridays.” Everybody was hoping this was an open and shut case, the receptionist, and the unwanted and unexpected answer sparked a chorus of ramblings, until Detective Danny Danish slammed his fist on the railing encasing Madame Baking Soda.
“Well then,” he stated matter-of-factly, as he snatched the cigarette from the woman’s lips and extinguished it on the ground. “It looks like some food has gone bad around here, and I have a mystery to solve before 5:15 on Friday!”
Then I told the e-mail readers that they had to tune-in next week for the second epic episode of Icebox Murder Mystery. At least I now don’t have to come-up with a new idea for two weeks. I just have to finish this short story, and I’m looking forward to it. Hopefully, I can get Joie Brown to illustrate for me.