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You ask Angelo to tell you more about the Mafia angle. He smiles. “It’s real simple, kid. The Mob helped get Kennedy elected. They stole the West Virginia primary for him, then delivered him the votes of a bunch of corpses to put him over the top in Illinois. Then the CIA got the Mob involved in their plans to kill Castro. Am I wrong, Joab?” Joab lets a deep, frustrated sigh. “No, but—” Angelo keeps talking. “So how did JFK reward them for their help? He made his brother Robert the Attorney General, and they both declared war on organized crime! The Kennedys even deported New Orleans Mafia boss Carlos Marcello. Feds kidnapped him, and dumped him right on a beach in Guatemala in ‘61!” “But what does Oswald have to do with this?” you reply, baffled. “Sergeant Fanucci said he was a Communist.” “Fanucci?”, he says, exasperated, “He’s just another Mob-connected cop in Dallas, kid! And Oswald? His uncle ‘Dutz’ was a bookie for Marcello. Oswald grew up in New Orleans, and was pals with a psycho named David Ferrie, one of Marcello’s lackeys. It was Ferrie who flew Marcello back to the US. And from what I hear, they talked about the JFK hit all the way back, and how to pin it on Oswald.”  Joab can take no more. “Oswald is an intelligence agent, Angelo! In deep cover!” Angelo nods in agreement, exclaiming, “Exactly! You think the CIA is going to let that come out, Joab? Course not. They gotta keep up the ruse. If the American people found out Kennedy’s suspected assassin was a CIA asset, it’d be the end of the Agency. He’s the perfect Mafia patsy!” “But wouldn’t the FBI—” you start to ask. “FBI won’t touch the Mob, kid!” he laughs. “They got pics of J. Edgar doing the dirty with another man!” Zowie! It sounds like the Mafia had a great motive to kill JFK, and maybe even the means to blackmail the CIA and FBI into a cover-up, but still, it all seems so circumstantial! “I don’t know, Angelo,” you reply hesitantly. “We can’t build a case on sexual blackmail, unsavory relatives, and hearsay about Mafia payback. We need evidence!” “Course you do,” he says. “That’s why you gotta get to Ferrie, kid.” He hands you a mugshot of Ferrie— a menacing looking guy with painted-on eyebrows and an obvious wig— then continues. “This is him, kid. Get a confession from him, this whole charade crashes down! He was just in a courtroom in New Orleans with Marcello himself. My sources say he’s on his way to the Alamont Hotel in Houston right now. We put you on a bus, you’re there in three hours!” Hmmm. It still seems like a long shot. But then again, the Mafia is notoriously brutal, secretive, and vindictive. Maybe they did have a hand in this? You’d have to track down this David Ferrie character to find out! You turn to Agent Joab and ask, “You were an intelligence agent, right? Do you really think one of your guys could’ve killed the President of the United States?” Agent Joab takes a deep breath, his eyes tearing up shamefully. “I don’t think, son. I know.” “When I joined the Special Intelligence Group, I was a bright-eyed boy not much older than you,” he continues. “I believed America was the land of the free and home of the brave, and I’d be danged if I was going to let a bunch of godless Russian KGB agents crack the secret code of the whale songs before we did.” “But it wasn’t long before I learned that other intelligence work was a far dirtier business than I signed up for. I’d been reassigned to report to Kermit Roosevelt, Jr., who headed up a CIA program called ‘Operation Ajax.’ Our assignment? Overthrow Mohammed Mosaddegh—the Prime Minister of Iran—and stop Iran from nationalizing their oil industry. We paid thugs—gangsters, killers, even Nazis—to stage riots and murder civilians, and replaced a democratically elected leader with a despotic puppet, the Shah of Iran, all to guarantee America a slice of the Iranian oil revenues!” A single tear rolls from his dark eyes down his cheek. He puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. “I resigned that very day, and made a promise to myself. I’d never sit idly by and watch my own brothers in the spy game overthrow a government. Not in Chile. Not in Vietnam. And certainly not in the United States of America.” He waves the police reports you retrieved from evidence control, then smiles. “Son, with these reports, we can call a press conference tomorrow and prove that Oswald couldn’t have acted alone.” He taps his temple, then continues, “I know exactly how the CIA pulled this off—and more importantly, I know why.” Vivalzi finally breaks her silence, “It’s proof that others were involved—but it’s not enough, Joab! Plus, you defected from the CIA—you’ve got skeletons in your closet. They’ll paint you as a rogue agent with Communist ties, or worse!” Agent Joab nods, then turns to you soberly. “I’m willing to have my character assassinated, Vivalzi, if that’s what it takes to get the media’s attention. It’s a small price to pay to crack this case open. I’m willing to name names—and when I do, it’ll be impossible for them to pin it on Oswald alone.” Dr. Vivalzi’s face suddenly brightens. She turns to you with a beatific smile. “Wait a minute! You’re the police chief’s son—you’ve solved countless crimes! And America loves boy detectives! You could lead the conference! You could tell them that you saw evidence destruction underway, and you stopped it—and demand the evidence be opened to the public! You don’t have any secrets to hide, right?” “Well,” you reply, “I may have slipped Slugs O’Toole a bar of chocolate laxatives once, to solve The Case of the Antique Ring. But I just knew he swallowed that ring! And that afternoon in the school bathroom, I got the proof!” Everyone in the room bursts into sudden guffaws. “Son,” Agent Joab chuckles, “If that’s the worst they’ve got on you, you’ll be A-OK. So make the choice—if you want me to lead this press conference, I’m happy to do it. But if you’d rather take point, feel free. Either way, the truth comes out. This was a conspiracy. And when we prove it, America will demand the evidence—all of it—be released.” What a choice! You’ve no doubt that Agent Joab knows details you’d never know about government overthrows and spycraft. But on the other hand, Vivalzi’s right. America loves kid detectives, and if you choose to break the story, you just might go down in history as one of the greats! So, what'll it be?
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Apr 28, 2015 23:51
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Gonna have to take the Mob angle. Press conference smacks of a media circus that ruins any chance of actually making headway in investigating what happened later and... well, we can do the aliens later maybe?
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Apr 29, 2015 00:13
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If we lead the press conference we can bump our fee up from 25 cents a day plus expenses.
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Apr 29, 2015 00:14
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Alright to be honest I'm only not voting for aliens because a 'realistic' aka boring take would be so disappointing. I mean maybe they won't do that but 
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Apr 29, 2015 00:19
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I can't tell if this book is satire or not. I'm starting to go for Satire. Press Conference!
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Apr 29, 2015 02:28
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Stallion Cabana posted:I can't tell if this book is satire or not. I'm starting to go for Satire. It is from Lose Your Own Adventure, a parody of Choose Your Own Adventure
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Apr 29, 2015 02:32
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ThatPazuzu posted:It is from Lose Your Own Adventure, a parody of Choose Your Own Adventure Changing my vote to aliens.
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Apr 29, 2015 02:33
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ThatPazuzu posted:It is from Lose Your Own Adventure, a parody of Choose Your Own Adventure Gotcha.
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Apr 29, 2015 02:34
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“Agent Joab,” you reply, “I’d hate to see our chance to crack this case open be spoiled by any skeletons you have in the closet. Maybe it’s better if I lead the proceedings?” Joab nods respectfully, then replies, “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, we’ll start to expose the real truth.” Dr. Vivalzi lets out a delighted whoop, then gives you a congratulatory peck on the cheek, saying, “Break a leg!” That afternoon, Vivalzi works the phones, calling every reporter in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, excitedly telling them, “Tomorrow morning at 9:00, The Altair Society will break news of incredible developments in the assassination investigation!” You even take a moment to call your rival, Jenni Mudd. Her mother answers the phone and informs you she’s in Dealey Plaza, investigating the assassination herself. You reply, “Tell her not to bother. Tomorrow morning, I’m cracking the case wide open!” The next morning, it’s showtime! You arrive at the conference, wearing your best turtleneck, your hair feathered to perfection. Dozens of reporters have arrived and are barking out questions at you. Jenni Mudd sits on the front row, looking strangely smug. But you’ll knock that know-it-all smile off her face soon enough! You walk to the podium, raising your hands for silence. “Gentlemen, as the son of the Chief of Police of Dallas, I’ve grown up around policework, investigations, and solving difficult crimes,” you begin, then chuckle, “I guess you could say—it’s in my blood.” Your eyes drift briefly to Jenni. She smiles innocently back, as she hands a folder to the man next to her. Strange! But you continue, undeterred, “When I heard the news that President Kennedy had been shot, I knew I had to do whatever I could to help my dad solve the crime. But the shooting of a president is a far cry from The Case of the Slippery Salamander. And I knew if I was going to investigate it, it might call for some unorthodox methods.” You shoot a look at Jenni, then add, “And when I saw signs that key evidence was being stolen right from under our noses by the FBI, I knew I had no choice but to act!”  Many in the crowd is gasp in surprise—but the man next to Jenni stares in disgusted shock at a photo he pulled from Jenni’s folder. Then his eyes drift up to you, full of murderous intent. Why? Your eyes dart back to Jenni, yet she responds with only a sweet smile and a wink, as she passes the folder down the row. One by one, the men pull a photo from the folder, and pass it down, their faces all morphing from curiosity to mixes of confusion, disgust, and even hatred. Anxiety begins to grip you as you continue, “Uh, where was I? Oh yeah. Um. So, when I saw that evidence was being stolen, I knew I had to do something, even if it meant being, well, a little unorthodox!” “Unorthodox is right, you litle pickle smoker!” someone shouts from the crowd. Pickle smoker? Who would try to smoke a pickle? They’re wet—they’d never light! “Queer!” someone yells from the gallery. What’s happening? Whatever Jenni’s been passing around the room is turning the whole crowd against you! And you haven’t even told them about the police reports of target practice in Dealey Plaza yet! Desperate to regain control, you raise your voice, “Please, please! Let me finish! I’ve discovered evidence about the Kennedy assassination that points to conspiracy!” “Shut up!” someone calls from the back of the room, “Get that turdburglar outta here!” ‘Turdburglar?’ What does that even mean? Your keen detective mind races to break down the etymology. ‘Turd: a piece of excrement.’ ‘Burglar: one who breaks into someone else’s...’ Oh, no! They think you’re a homosexual! But why? Jenni sees your abject confusion, then turns around the photo in her lap. It’s a picture of you, examining the entrance wound on Billy’s buttock out by the Packard place! She must’ve taken it in hiding! Now she’s using it to smear you! “Wait, no!” you cry out, “You don’t understand! That picture! I was examining an entrance wound!” The crowd bursts into laughter, and one man shouts in reply, “That you gave him, ya rump ranger!”  The crowd explodes with laughter and boos! You’ve lost complete control of the press conference! Everyone begins dispersing, uninterested in hearing what you’ve discovered! In less than a minute, the room is empty, save for one reporter, a gentlemen with a goatee and a bright, friendly smile. He approaches you, and shakes your hand. “Are you a reporter?” you ask weakly, “Do you want to hear what we’ve learned?” He shakes his head, handing you a business card. He replies, “I’m just in the art department at the paper. My name is Sal. Call me.” Just then, two policemen storm the room and quickly cuff you. One of them recognizes you, and shakes his head sadly, saying, “So the chief’s own son is a pillow biter, huh?” The other cop replies, “That haircut. What a giveaway.” They read you your rights as they arrest you. For evidence tampering and crimes against nature. ------------ The next day, The Dallas Morning News reports the incident in a sea of assassination stories that pin the blame exclusively on Lee Harvey Oswald. The headline reads, “Local Deviant ‘Completely Obsessed’ with Kennedy Assassination, Rumps.” A photo of your utterly bewildered face, no doubt taken by Jenni during the conference, accompanies the story. Drat! Jenni’s completely destroyed you! You knew her dad worked for the FBI—but now you realize she did, too! You never should’ve invited her. YOU FAILED TO FIND WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY...  There must be somewhere you went wrong. But what should you have done differently? corn in the bible fucked around with this message at 02:50 on Apr 29, 2015 |
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Apr 29, 2015 02:45
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Maybe we should check with the Mob instead. So I'm guessing this book is basically pretty heavily railroaded, right?
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Apr 29, 2015 02:50
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It's aliens, Scully.
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Apr 29, 2015 03:05
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What happens if "Joab" does the conference?
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Apr 29, 2015 08:39
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Kill Jeni
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Apr 29, 2015 08:45
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Ignatius M. Meen posted:It's aliens, Scully.
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Apr 29, 2015 09:07
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The professor’s theory sounds crazy, but what if he’s right? Is it possible President Kennedy was assassinated because he was about to tell the American people about secret alien treaties and aliens living at Area 51? It doesn’t make much sense, but neither do those new “push-button” telephones you’ve been reading about—who knows what other weird, futuristic technologies the government has access to? You decide you’d better check it out for yourself. “I’ll do it, Professor,” you reply, “if you can get me to Nevada, that is.” He pulls a plane ticket from his jacket pocket, saying, “I was planning to go there myself this very day. But I’m old and weak, and my eyes are failing me. You go for me.” He drives you the short distance to Love Field, and wishes you luck as he hands you an envelope full of cash, “For cabs and such. Remember, the secrets are in Hangar 13. Ignore the rest!” The flight to Las Vegas is nearly eight hours long, and you spend it mostly staring at the strange photo of the alien Dr. Coppens gave to you. You arrive that night, and find a hotel near the airport. You awake the next morning, ready for action, and are happy to see a cab conveniently parked in front of the hotel. “Where to, bub?” the cabbie asks. “Area 51,” you reply casually, “Hangar 13.” He eyes you suspiciously for a moment, then replies, “You don’t look much like the sort I take up there.” You hand him a small fortune—at least $20—and he smiles. “Next stop, Hangar 13!” Two hours later, he’s dropping you off on a dusty road in the middle of the Nevada desert. Once you rub the sand from your eyes, you can make out a series of large, light-colored structures in the distance. The biggest looks like a airplane hangar, with a small office building attached. ------------ As you hike towards the complex, you’re surprised to see it’s unguarded. There’s a small sign in front, faded by the sun, that reads, “Hangar 13—OFFICIAL VISITORS ONLY —TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT AND FINED.” Yikes! You skirt around the massive building, looking for an entrance. You spy a few small ground floor windows with open blinds. You peer into one. There’s two men seated at a long table watching a TV in the corner. You see maps tacked up on the walls. Wait, what’s that one? Houston Street, Commerce Street, Record Street. Zowie! You recognize the scene! It’s Dealey Plaza! On the television, Walter Cronkite reports the latest news. But you can’t quite hear what he saying. One of the men, dressed in a military uniform, loudly barks, “Yeah, well, serves the bastard right for saying we’d put a man on the moon in ten years!” The other looks more like a scientist, and replies with a smile, “Oh, we’ll put a man on the moon, sir. You can watch us do it on live TV. I just hope there’s not an army of little green men waiting there for us.” They both laugh heartily at their strange, private joke and leave the room. You’re a little shaken. What could this mean?! You decide it’s now or never—you’ve got to get in Hangar 13! You continue your furtive sneaking around the building, and come to a giant metal door. A sign on it reads, “DO NOT ENTER.” This must be it! Suddenly, you hear footsteps. You peek around the corner, and see two armed guards. Drat! They’ve got 12-gauge shotguns, and are heading right toward you! You have time to run and hide behind that huge rock a few yards away, or you can take your chances inside the building. If it’s unlocked, that is. You stumble into the hangar, fully expecting to see a flying saucer. But instead, you see a figure in a spacesuit. He’s attached to wires, being lifted in the air as he bounds around a barren landscape of powder and rock. Slowly, it dawns on you ... It’s some kind of fake lunar surface! Area 51 isn’t hiding aliens and spaceships, it’s a gigantic movie set! NASA’s rehearsing for a fake moon landing! Is that why Kennedy died? Because he asked NASA to do the impossible–putting a man on the moon in less than a decade? Suddenly, the “astronaut” produces a gun! Oh, no! A million more questions flood through your brain! Followed by a bullet. YOU FAILED TO FIND WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY... 
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Apr 29, 2015 14:22
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That was totally worth it. Time to check out the Mob.
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Apr 29, 2015 14:29
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Ignatius M. Meen posted:That was totally worth it.
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Apr 29, 2015 15:47
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You decide to investigate the Mafia connection. It’s a long shot, but then again, so was your crack case against Slugs O’Toole in The Mystery of The Atomic Wedgie! “All right, Angelo, I’ll look into this David Ferrie character,” you reply. “But first, I need to call my dad and let him know I’m leaving town.” You use the Altair Society’s sole phone to call your dad. “Hey, Dad,” you say when he answers, “it’s me.” “Who?” he replies, confused. “Me,” you answer, annoyed, “your child.” After a moment of silence, he asks hesitantly, “Katie?” Ugh! What a nimrod! “It’s your son, Dad!” you say in exasperation. “Listen, I’m going to Houston to investigate a lead. It’s a long shot, but my sources say this guy knew Oswald, and may have even framed him for the shooting. His name is David Ferrie.” “Ferrie?” he replies. “Is this about the library card?” “Library card?” you ask. “What library card, Dad?” “The ... one we found ... in the wallet?” he answers hesitantly. “Of the guy what shot the ... President?” YOWSERS! You gasp, “Wait! You found a library card for David Ferrie in Lee Harvey Oswald’s wallet, Dad?” But before he can answer, the phone goes dead! Then you realize: Dr. Vivalzi just hung it up! “You can’t tell him about this!” she says fearfully. “Half the police force is mobbed up! They’ll give Ferrie the drop!” Wow! It sounds like maybe Angelo’s lead was hotter than you knew! David Ferrie and Oswald clearly still know each other—and perhaps intimately. You wouldn’t trust just anyone with your library card, right? They might check out books without returning them on time—or worse! ------------ You turn to Angelo, now excited. “It sounds like we may be on to something, Angelo! I’m ready to go after him!” “This is madness!” Professor Coppens moans. Dr. Vivalzi agrees, saying, “Angelo, he’s just a boy—” “I may be just a boy,” you reply confidently, “but I know a thing or two about solving crimes. I can do this!” Angelo claps your shoulder, “Attaboy, kid! But listen—David Ferrie’s no daisy. He’s a cold-blooded psychopath. If I were you, I’d go in disguise, wearing a wire. We just need his confession on tape, not a citizen’s arrest, and—” Dr. Vivalzi jumps up in protest. “No, Angelo! It’s too dangerous!” Then she turns to Joab. “Send him with a spy kit, Joab—let him try to bug Ferrie from a safe distance!” Agent Joab brings a hand to his chin. He looks almost wistful. Then he looks at you and says, “It’s your choice, Detective. I wasn’t much older than you when I donned my first disguise. It can be exciting—but make no mistake, you’ll be putting yourself in real danger. If you’d rather not risk it, well, I’ve got a trunk full of spy gear. It’d be nice for it to get used on a noble mission for a change.” Everyone turns to you, awaiting your answer. What a dilemma! You’ve never donned a disguise to solve a mystery before, but then again, you’ve never investigated a murder, unless you count The Case of the Exsanguinated Hamster! Something tells you that if Ferrie gets the drop on you, you’ll have worse things than atomic wedgies to worry about. Maybe you should play it safer, and go as a spy instead? What do you want to do?
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Apr 29, 2015 19:59
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Play it straight. We're a plucky teenage, fergawdsake.
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Apr 29, 2015 21:01
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We are a master of disguise. 
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Apr 29, 2015 21:23
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A disguise cannot possibly go hilariously wrong.
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Apr 29, 2015 22:19
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Slaan posted:We are a master of disguise.
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Apr 29, 2015 22:49
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Ignatius M. Meen posted:A disguise cannot possibly go hilariously wrong.
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Apr 30, 2015 22:56
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“All right,” you reply. “I’ll go in disguise. But as who?” Angelo breaks into a huge smile, laughing. “Why, as a Mafia delivery boy, of course!” “A delivery boy?” you ask in shock. “Delivering what?” He picks up the files you filched from Evidence Control, “Police reports of shooters engaged in target practice in Dealey Plaza. Trust you me, Ferrie’s gonna want these!” Joab’s eyes light up. “I’ve got to admit, Angelo—that’s brilliant. While you and Vivalzi get him in disguise, I’ll take photos of these reports for Altair records. I still think this assassination has CIA fingerprints all over it, but Ferrie, well, he’s in bed with the Mob, the CIA, and worse. And a Mafia delivery boy with incriminating reports may be just the key we need to get him to talk.” An hour later, with your hair dyed black, a Grundig TK40 tape deck taped to your stomach, and a Mafia delivery-boy outfit that looks as Italian as spaghetti and meatballs, you’re ready to board a bus to Houston and crack this case wide open! Angelo sizes you up with a smile, “Well, you sure look like a Mafia delivery boy. But how’s your Italian accent?” Without skipping a beat, you begin gesticulating wildly with your hands as you half-shout, “My name-ah is-ah Mario! Now-ah that’s-ah spicy meat-ah-ball-ah!” “That’s super, Mario,” he says, “My own mother would think you were from the old country. Let’s get you on a bus!”  It’s a dark and stormy night, and the bus ride to Houston seems to take forever. The prospect of going undercover to penetrate the Mob has you trembling with excitement—or is it terror? Clever disguises, false identities and hidden tape decks are tools that BIG TIME detectives use every day—and now, it looks like you’re one of them! Eat that, Jenni Mudd! you muse to yourself. To help pass the time, you slip into the bathroom of the giant Scenicruiser bus to record a few mic tests with the painfully heavy tape deck hidden under your shirt. “A-hello-ah!” you say, speaking towards your chest. “My name-ah is-a Mario! And I’m-a gonna stomp-ah you goombahs and a-solve-ah this-a murder-ah! Here we gooo!” You play it back. It’s crystal clear! But the Grundig weighs thirty pounds, and the batteries burn hot when you’re using it. So you decide to give it a rest, return to your seat and devise a plan for fooling David Ferrie into a confession. ------------ Sometime after midnight, with the storm still raging, the bus pulls into the beautiful art deco Greyhound bus depot in Houston. You sprint through heavy sheets of rain towards the entrance. Lightning bolts flash, freezing a million drops of water around you in midair. You get soaked! Luckily, a cab waits under the covered cab stand. The grizzled cabbie barely glances at you in the mirror, drawling in bored annoyance, “So where we goin’?” “To-ah the Alamont-ah hotel-ah,” you reply. “And step-ah on it-ah! I gotta hot-ah delivery-ah for-ah a wiseguy-ah! And he don’t like-ah to be kep-ah-ta waiting-ah, capisce?” He capisces, all right! In a matter of seconds, his taxi is flying at the speed of sound through the torrential Houston rains. You’re there in minutes. You leap out of the car and race once again through the rain, this time into the warm, dry respite of the Alamont Hotel lobby. A dark-haired beauty at the front desk smiles as you enter, “Wow—you really got soaked out there, sir!” “Mamma mia!” you reply, in your utterly authentic Italian accent. “It’sa tempest-ah outta there-ah!” She hands you a clean towel from behind the desk, then asks brightly, “Do you have a reservation, sir?” “Ah, no-ah!” you reply, totally cool. “I have-ah a special delivery-ah, for a mister-ah David Ferrie-ah.” She checks her reservation book, then frowns. “I’m sorry—it looks like Mr. Ferrie hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to wait for him here in the lobby?” Then she smiles, tucking a loose strand of her thick, black Italian hair behind her ear. “Or you could wait with me in the bar? I’m going on break—I’d love some company.” Wow—she’s really cute! And even a thickie like your dad could figure out she’s flirting with you! But what to do? You have time to kill—why not pass it with a beautiful girl? Well?
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May 1, 2015 04:33
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Lets-a do it-a!
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May 1, 2015 06:32
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The answer is always Go To The Bar
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May 1, 2015 11:34
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We are a teenager. Of course we're going with the hot lady to the bar!
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May 1, 2015 12:00
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Sure, if your name is Peach. 
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May 1, 2015 14:23
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Go to the bar, hot ladies never turn out to be bad ideas!
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May 1, 2015 14:25
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To the bar! Hopefully our new co-conspirators provided us with a fake.
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May 1, 2015 14:26
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 If I’m going to have to wait around until Ferrie shows up, you tell yourself, why not do it with a beautiful girl? You offer her a mischevious wink and reply, “You make-ah it sound-ah so good-ah! I don’t-ah suppose a little drink-ah would-ah hurt-ah none-ah. Let’s-ah go, principessa!” She offers a devilish smile back. “Let’s!” A minute later, you’re sitting on a worn, red leather barstool beside Texas’ answer to Sophia Loren! She raises a manicured finger to flag the burly, olive-skinned bartender. “Mitch,” she says, “two Hurricane Carlas, pronto.” He eyes you skeptically, then says, “I’m not sure your little friend here could handle it, Francesca.” He turns to you. “What say I whip you up something a little more your style? Shirley Temple, rocks?” He lets out a bullying cackle. “Oh, Mitch, lay off.” Francesca says. “I’m sure he’s more than man enough for a little drink.” She turns and looks at you expectantly, placing a hand on your knee. Her blue-green eyes sparkle like the Mediterranean Sea, beckoning you to dive into them. Zowie! What a dilemma! You’ve never had an alcoholic beverage in your life, and aren’t sure you should start while in the middle of a super-secret spy mission. But then again, if you order the Shirley Temple, you’ll look like a wimp! Mitch the bartender shrugs and whips up two Hurricane Carlas on the spot, serving you both a red-orange concoction in a surprisingly small glass. He garnishes yours with a pink paper umbrella in an obvious insult to your masculinity. Eager to disabuse them both of any notions of your wimpiness, you throw back the minuscule drink as if it were a cup of milk. To your surprise, it tastes sweet and tropical, like there was hardly alcohol in it at all! Maybe there’s not? “Ahhhhh,” you sigh happily, “how-ah refreshing-ah!” And that’s when Hurricane Carla hits you with the full force of the nightmarish storm that devastated the Texas coast only two years ago! The room is spinning madly! You feel as if you just got off the world’s fastest Tilt-a-Whirl! You grip the bar to hold yourself in place, only to discover you’ve already lost your balance and are tumbling backwards off the stool and onto the dirty red berber carpet of the hotel bar. The full weight of the Grundig smashes into your belly, causing you to scream out in agony, “Oh, my stomach!” In your inebriated confusion, you forgot to maintain your super authentic Italian accent! The gorgeous hotel clerk is suddenly at your side on the floor—feeling the bulging spy apparatus hiding underneath your shirt. She turns to Mitch the bartender, spitting out some unknowable command in Italian. Then Mitch pulls out a snubnosed .38 and levels it right between your eyes, replying, “It’s-ah my pleasure-ah!” It occurs to you that maybe the reason the carpets are red is so they won’t show blood. Good guess. YOU FAILED TO FIND WHO KILLED JOHN F KENNEDY...
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May 1, 2015 18:02
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Let's not fall for the lady this time (all else equal in the Mob line).
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May 1, 2015 18:24
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Let's go all the way back and help the cops with the regular investigation.
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May 1, 2015 18:27
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But... but!quote:A minute later, you’re sitting on a worn, red leather barstool beside Texas’ answer to Sophia Loren!  Fine, let's not accept the invitation from the smoking hot lady
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May 1, 2015 18:33
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Back to the front desk this time refusing her invitation.
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May 1, 2015 18:56
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You reply, “I’m-a so sorry-ah, some other time-ah, eh?” She sighs, disappointed, and heads off to the bar alone. You plant yourself on a long, blue twill couch in the lobby, your eyes watching the hotel entrance like a hawk. The storm rages unabated outside, thunderbolts booming from nearby lightning strikes every minute or two. Occasionally, suspicious-looking figures in shiny pinstripes push through the revolving door. But hours pass, and still no sign of Ferrie. You’re beginning to nod off, exhausted from this seemingly never-ending day, when a frightening-looking fellow with huge, painted-on black eyebrows pushes fast through the revolving door. His red wig is soaked and crooked. It looks like a guinea pig died on his head! He’s followed by two handsome younger fellows, both with suitcases. They head straight to the front desk, and in less than a minute, the desk clerk is handing them a key. You decide to tail them from a distance as they head up the stairs. By the time you’re on the second floor, Ferrie and his crew are already heading into their room. You can hear the chain-lock being set from here. You approach the door, pausing only to lift your shirt and hit the RECORD button. The batteries warm quickly— it’s on! Through the door, a muffled exchange is underway. You raise a hand and rap twice, and in five seconds, you’re standing face to terrifying face with the target. “Mr. Ferrie-ah,” you reply, “I’m-a here to see you-ah.” “Who are you?!” he roars, with breath that smells like bourbon and cigarettes. “What do you want?!” It’s only now you notice he has a .38 Special tucked in the front of his pants, with his right hand resting on it! You can say you're his friend, or say you're here for a delivery from Fanucci.
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May 2, 2015 15:45
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Special delivery!
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May 2, 2015 15:48
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I'm-ah the delivery boy, that is-ah why you-ah don't-ah recognize-ah mia!
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May 2, 2015 16:00
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Ignatius M. Meen posted:I'm-ah the delivery boy, that is-ah why you-ah don't-ah recognize-ah mia! Exactly-a.
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May 2, 2015 17:52
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| # ? May 6, 2024 16:14 |
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I always trust the delivery boy and so should you
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May 2, 2015 18:00
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