When last we spoke, dear reader, I was unsure if I was going to be alive to write this entry. I am pleased to announce that I am not in fact dead. Actually, I survived the murder mystery party on Halloween. However, as if by some strange coincidence, the party was frought with … murder.
The place: a speakeasy in Chicago. The time: 1920. I walked in to a “house” and gave the password to let them know I was allowed in. I Rhett Bumbler (I didn’t choose the name) and my fiancée in the game Rebecca Ravioli (because I dig skirts with food-related names), who is my girlfriend in real life, were not all we appeared to be. I was a horrible gambler, which was not a hard act for me, but that was only my cover. In truth, I was a hitman sent by the New York families to find out why their share was so small. When I found the source, my job, presumably, was to hit it, because you see, killing’s my game.
Suddenly, a shot rang out and one of the guests, Big Jim Ravioli, head of the Chicago Boyardee family, I assume, fell dead. It was a classic case of which mobster or whore in the room killed the guy. Rhett didn’t care about the murder, he just cared about the cash. So he lost intentionally at poker and probed the guests for information.
I got nowhere.
Hidden in the house were some weapons cards, which we could use to kill someone if we wanted to. All the while there was a police inspector asking questions–too many questions if you ask me.
During my interrogations, I found out that I was not actually engaged to Rebecca Ravioli, I was seeing another dame there, the sister of the speakeasy owner. If I had a dime for every time I’ve said that.
I kept asking questions, I had some bathtub rum and root beer. I had some food–because speakeasies always had great spreads. This one happened to have cookies, brownies, nuts, a veggie tray, pizza, and–ravioli. It was a clue.
I came to find out the books at this joint weren’t square, even though it was opening night. In fact, two books were kept. Just as I figured out the owner of the speakeasy was up to something, somebody “killed him with an ice pick,” which is a euphemism for us mobsters that in plain English means killed him with an ice pick.”
The trail went cold. Or did it?
I questioned the wife of the speakeasy owner, she wouldn’t talk. I bribed her and still got nothing. Without a weapon, I thought about just strangling her, but decided that was probably against the rules.
When the night was over, the killer was revealed. It was none other than Rebecca Ravioli. She killed Big Jim for the inheritance, and probably out of anger for an alliterative name. The killer had been right under my nose the whole time. Dames.
On the drive home I wished I had a weapon card, in case she decided to eliminate me as well. Now she’s out there somewhere, at large. All I can do is hope she doesn’t come for me again.
At least I got to wear a fedora.