A Grisly Crime Scene
I had seen many disgusting things in my time, but this, by far, took the cake.
As I passed by the police officer guarding the door, the first thing I smelled was the blood. My
hand immediately covered my mouth and nose as I tried not to wretch.
Then I saw the bodies.
Or rather, what's left of them.
Toilet paper lined the floor, as if the murderer didn't want to cause a stain on the carpeting. The
first thought that came to my mind was that perhaps Mr. Whipple got pissed off because
someone squeezed the Charmin one too many times.
The once white cottony-soft-for-sensitive-bottoms tissue was soaked red. I walked over to the
crime scene photographer taking a picture of a severed head. A piece of toilet paper was wrapped
tightly around the stub of what was once the girl's neck, as if the psycho who'd done it had tried
to use the two-hundred-times-thicker, quilted sheets in an attempt to murder her.
Of course, it was the broken bottle shoved into her face that probably did her in.
"There's another head in the toilet bowl," the photographer commented as he put a ruler beside
the girl's head. "Wearing a Spiderman mask."
"That'll cause a clog," I muttered. A macabre sense of humor was the only thing that gets me
through the job these days.
"Hey, Jack, over here," one of the other detective's called to me.
I walked over to him and he gestured to the floor. Two non-chopped, fully-naked bodies were
lying entwined together. I could tell they're dead, but I had to ask anyway. "They dead?"
"Yeah, good riddance," the detective sneered.
"So, Jack, what do you think happened?" the jerk asked.
I couldn't help but look at the two men as I tried to wrap my mind around the puzzle of what
happened at the house. One was dark and almost angelic-looking, and he seemed to be cradling
the other man. An instant picture of their relationship formed in my mind. The bigger one was
the protector, the dominator, the 'man,' as it were. The other man -- a bleached blond -- was
leaner and more rough-around-the-edges, and I could see that he was the troublemaker, the risk-taker, the 'child' of the two.
The picture they painted would have been more erotic if they hadn't been covered in blood.
I looked away from the bodies and notice words scrawled across the wall, also in blood. Happy
Birthday, Giles, it read.
"The murderer did this on purpose to get to this 'Giles' person," I surmised.
"He's the owner of this house," the detective said.
I raised my eyes higher and saw one of those false chandeliers, the kind that plug in. A pair of
pigeons were going at it right there, making the light swing crazily. "The way the bodies are
chopped up indicates the murderer was enjoying himself. This is probably not his first kill."
I turned and started walking back across the room to where a hand was staked to the wall. The
light pink nail polish and silver rings on slim, feminine fingers made my stomach twist. This was
definitely the work of a sick individual.
My eyes swept around the room as I turned back to face the other detective. "Ron, down!" I
shouted as I drew my gun.
The two men that had been entwined together on the floor had risen behind Ron, their faces
twisted into my worst nightmares. Before I get a shot off, Ron's head was snapped and he fell to
I fired once, twice, but they kept coming right at me. The photographer made a dash for the door
and got tangled up with the officers trying to come in. I kept firing until my weapon was
knocked out of my hand.
Just before the darkness closed over me, the last thing I saw was a penis floating in the punch