Writing Exercises [Nouvelle]

The polished shoes of slaytective Agatte Poiret reflected not only the purple blood lying on the floor, but the crime scene as well as soon as she stood next to the corpse of a young female troll, novice eyes following every mark with an odd mix of fascination and cold-blooded inquiry.

"Iunn be thinkin' yo' boss likes yo', babe." The thick accent of her burgundy blooded second-in-command made a way through her ears, catching her attention. "This aint no cappin' case fo' fuckin' rooks like yo' n' I."

"Oh don't be silly." Agatte answered, refusing to acknowledge the black crush her boss had on her. That would be most inelegant. "This case is far from difficult, my dear Suchet. As always, you are looking, but not observing."

"Yeah no shiz, cuz I can't dawg. I be blind!" Answered the assistant with a wide toothy grin.

"Let me describe the scene for you then. Mrs. Juggalo Ass here has a large kitchen knife impaling her throat on the middle of her bed. The doors and windows were all locked from the inside by the time me and her fellow juggalos arrived, and her neighbors have testified that she was alone at the moment of the crime. So far, there are no prints on the alleged murder weapon."

"Were you talking to me?" Asked a confused and annoyed juggalo, making Agatte silently turn the color of a tropical sea.

"Nej. I was just merely talking to myself, my apologies."

"Well then keep it lower."

"Yes. Sorry." Fuck, having an imaginary assistant could be a pain in the ass. Suchet laughed.

"I told ya' dawg. I told ya' we should've used telepathic buzziness before yo' ass decided to pull a full act. Anyway, if tha door was locked, dat means whoever capped diz bitch was up in tha' room wit her' n' fled their buzzed ass all the way up in a lame-ass chimney or whatev's. Like any other borin' locked room mystery. Case closed, letta curtain drop like it's hot, everyone else go the fuck home."

"Not quite." Murmured Agatte. Yes, what Suchet said was... mostly right, but something was amiss. There were no chimneys. No forced doors. A dusty window which keys had been lost sweeps ago, the owner being too lazy to make a copy. No one saw no one come in or out. And the wound... the wound didn't quite match the knife. "Her murderer is still here. And they still have the murder weapon with them."

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AUthOr nOtEs.

wrItIng SUchEt In SUch-A-st--ylE. Is A nIcE And rIch cOntrAst bUt qUItE thE tAsk. I hAvE tO gO tO thE lIbrAry And gEt mOrE rEfErEncEs. And nOw thAt I thInk Of It. I shOUld AlsO cOnsUlt sOmE bOOks On slAm pOEtry.

And AgAttE's spEEch Is tOO blAnd fOr A prOtAgOnIst. Oh whO Am I kIddIng shE Is fUckIng bOrIng And I Am gOIng tO fAll AslEEp If I hAvE tO wrItE AnOthEr OnE Of hEr stUpId dIAlOgs. I Am gOIng tO gIvE hEr A bIt Of A spIcE. mOrE rEAdIng rEfErEncEs It wOUld sEEm!

pfff As If. I knOw I wIll jUst gO And End Up rEAdIng AnythIng I cAn pUt my hAnds OntO. I Am nOt gOIng tO edIt thIs nOw. mAybE lAtEr. Or nEvEr.