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This is amazing. Also, we're-a delivering-a package.
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May 3, 2015 13:28
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You put on your best Mafia tough-guy face and glare back, replying with a menacing whisper, “My name-ah is Mario. And you, Mr. Ferrie-ah, need-ah to show a little-ah more-ah respect-ah for our friend-ah Mr. Fanucci-ah.” His eyes go wide with surprise, and he pulls you into the hotel room. He turns to his two younger accomplices and tells them, “Al, Melvin—give us a minute, all right?” Without a word, the two leave the room. It’s only you and Ferrie now. He pulls the gun from his pants and lays it on a dirty tabletop nearby. “Sorry, sorry, just a little jumpy, that’s all. Crazy day,” he says, taking a breath. “So what do you got for me?” You open your briefcase and pull out the police reports. “Special delivery-ah,” you reply, “from-ah your friends in-ah the Dallas-ah Police-ah Department. I mean, Department-ah.” He takes the reports from you with lightning speed and starts reading them. But then, the suspicion returns to his face. “Why would I care about some, some kooks play-shooting in Dealey Plaza? I got nothing to do with that madness up there— they caught the guy, right? That Castro-lover? I’m down here to look at a skating rink, that’s all!” Then you drop the bomb. “Mr. Ferrie-ah. We found-ah your library card in Mr. Oswald’s wallet-ah. So, I am thinking, you maybe should-ah drop-ah the pretense-ah. We are, ah, ‘ow you say—on-ah the same-ah team-ah, no?” David Ferrie’s eyes go wide with panic—the color drains from his face. He’s shaking with outright terror. “No, no, no! That’s—oh! Hell! Lee, you stupid son of a bitch!” he stammers, now clearly desperate. “You, you gotta help me get that card! You gotta!” You nod sympathetically, “Yes-ah, we are-ah working on that right-ah now. We can’t-ah have Mr. Oswald tied to the man-ah who was-ah only hours ago sitting beside Mr. Marcello in a courtroom-ah, no?” David Ferrie lets out a horrified wail. His defenses are finally down—now it’s time to get your confession and go! “Mr. Ferrie-ah, we are-ah gonna make-ah this go away,” you reply gently, “but you didn’t-ah make it easy-ah.” Ferrie nods, sweat pouring down his head, “I know, I know—that card! How could I be so stupid?!” “In-ah the Old Country,” you say, “when-ah we frame a patsy for a killing-ah, as you did-ah Mr. Oswald, we make-ah sure we cover our tracks-ah. Not-ah leave a road-map in his-ah pocket that leads right-ah back-ah to Mr. Marcello-ah.” Ferrie breaks into tears, “I know, I know—I thought I’d covered everything!” Then, just as fast, the anger returns. “But our guys on the force were s’posed to pop Lee in the theater!? What the hell happened there?” Wow! They’d even planned to have mobbed-up cops kill Oswald! You’re getting great stuff on tape! “He will be-ah taken care of, soon-ah,” you bluff. “Yeah, yeah— I know,” he says, “Jack’s on it.” Yikes! So the Mob’s already got a hitman assigned? You’ll have to call your dad and warn him Oswald is in danger! You’ve got all you need on tape—time to get out! “Mr. Ferrie-ah, don’t worry,” you say, in the voice of an old, dear friend. “We are-ah gonna fix this-ah. Nobody is-ah gonna know-ah that Mr. Kennedy was-ah killed by-ah the Mafia. But next time, try-ah not-ah to be-ah so sloppy-ah, eh? More-ah headaches for all of us-ah— who needs it, eh?” Ferrie closes his eyes and lets out a relieved sigh. “You’re right, Mario. You’re right. Next time. No mistakes.” You turn to go. Suddenly, Ferrie races forward and embraces you in obvious gratitude! You hear a click—then the telltale sound of a tape rewinding. He recoils from you in sudden horror! Then his hands dart out to feel your stomach. Your own voice booms loudly from your gut, “My name-ah is-a Mario! And I’ma gonna stomp-ah you goombahs and a-solve-ah this-a murder-ah! Here we gooo!” Ferrie staggers back in horror— then grabs his .38! Mamma mia! Looks like it’s game over for you, Mario!  Maybe if you had done things differently, it would have worked out. But what?
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May 3, 2015 16:47
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Help the police with the investigation
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May 3, 2015 16:57
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Yeah, we gotta play it by the book with the cops.
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May 3, 2015 17:01
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We are not a Secret Agent, but a Teenage Detective. Let's help the cops.
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May 4, 2015 00:09
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“I want to talk to the suspect, Dad,” you declare, not missing a beat. “Political assassins almost always brag about their crimes. So why doesn’t this Oswald?” “He’s not bragging because he’s not guilty! He’s been framed!” Dr. Vivalzi exclaims as she storms out of the room. Fanucci shakes his head. “Poor Vivalzi. Always with the conspiracies. Come on, kid, let’s go see Oswald.” He again leads you through the swarms of reporters and cops, every so often clapping a policeman on the shoulder or hailing a familiar newsman. He seems to know everyone! As you reach the door to the interrogation room, a balding, stocky fellow approaches Fanucci. They shake hands in a peculiar, ritualized fashion—then Fanucci turns to you. “Okay, kid, looks like he’s talkin’ to FBI Agent Hosty now,” Fanucci says. “Once they’re done, you can take a shot at him,” he chuckles, then winks, “so to speak.” He leads you into the dark room. Seated at a small wooden table is a wiry, intense-looking fellow sporting a rumpled t-shirt and a black eye. Standing next to him is a tall man with slicked-back black hair. A few homicide detectives, in their trademark white cowboy hats, keep a respectful distance from the interrogation. So, too, do a handful of grim-faced Secret Service men. Oswald glares at the tall, nervous man nearest him, then says, “You have been at my home two or three times now, Agent Hosty, talking to my wife. I don’t appreciate your coming when I was not there.” As if that wasn’t strange enough, he adds, after a tactical pause, “And you never responded to my request, Agent. To the note I left for you at your FBI office last week.” The color drains from Hosty’s face as Oswald breaks into a smirk. Detectives in the room shoot uncomfortable glances to Fanucci, who offers a tiny, pathetic shrug in response. The silence is deafening.*  Your young detective’s mind reels in shock! What could this possibly mean? The Dallas FBI was already in repeated contact with the wife of the suspected assassin of President Kennedy? How could that be? And could it really be true—that Lee Harvey Oswald hand-delivered a note to the FBI just days before the assassination? And if so, what on earth did it say? You’re eager to ask questions—but now, you’re not even sure who should be interrogated first! Do you want to ask Hosty about the note, or simply ask Oswald outright if he killed John F Kennedy? *AGENT HOSTY - It’s true. Oswald really did have contact with the Dallas FBI prior to Kennedy’s shooting, and made mention of the note he’d left for James Hosty days prior during an interrogation which included Hosty. Hoover was furious about it, worrying that this might suggest Oswald was an FBI informant. Many believe he actually was. corn in the bible fucked around with this message at 22:47 on May 4, 2015 |
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May 4, 2015 22:06
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Hm. I think we'll get more out of Oswald; Hosty will either have a cover story ready or just deny everything anyway but Oswald's tongue looks just a bit more loose about stray details.
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May 4, 2015 22:24
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Oswald
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May 4, 2015 22:29
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Forgot to add in the footnote, which this book inexplicably does have.
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May 4, 2015 22:48
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Oswald seems like he'd be more than happy to talk. Like Ignatius said, Hosty's just going to deny anything we ask him.
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May 5, 2015 04:25
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I wanna ask about the note. Also, this thread owns, the book owns.
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May 5, 2015 10:30
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You turn to Lee Harvey Oswald and ask, “Did you kill the President?” “No,” he replies, “I’ve not been charged with that. In fact, nobody has said that to me yet. I did not do it—I didn’t shoot anyone. I’m still waiting for someone to come forward to give me legal assistance.” “Wait a minute,” you say to Oswald in surprise. “You don’t even have a lawyer yet?” He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. You turn to Sergeant Fanucci. “We can’t interrogate a suspect who has been denied legal representation. That’s a Constitutional right.” Oswald chimes in again, his irritation obvious, “As I’ve said, I’d like to be represented by Mr. John Abt with the ACLU. I don’t know him personally, but—”* “But if he’s good enough to represent the Communist Party of the USA, he’s good enough for you, right?” Fanucci says, to a chorus of bitter chuckles. Suddenly, the door opens. Oswald is led out of the room, surrounded by several officers. As he enters the hallway, reporters start barking out questions. “What’s going on?” you ask Fanucci. “It’s time for his lineup—with a witness who saw him shoot our guy J.D. Tippit. Don’t worry, kid, this won’t take long,” he replies, leading you out of the room. Sergeant Fanucci leads you to a dark room in the basement with a large, one-way screen set up in the far wall. A few cops are here, gathered around a TV set, watching the news. But one younger officer stands nearby, talking with a dark-haired, terrified-looking middle-aged woman who must surely be the witness. Ugh—she reeks of ammonia! The officer addresses her gently, “Just to confirm, Mrs. Markham. You’re on the record as describing the man who shot Officer Tippit as being short, stocky, and bushy-haired—with a ruddy complexion, correct?” “Yes, that’s right, yes!” she says, bursting into tears.  On the other side of the screen, a door opens. A line of four men enter the room. The first, third, and last man in the line are each clean-cut and well-dressed. But Oswald, in the second position, is a dishevelled wreck. He sports a fresh shiner over an eye, abrasions on his face, and a wrinkled white t-shirt. He’s even cuffed to the men on either side!  Mrs. Markham, shaking violently, is unable to speak. The young officer places a gentle arm over her shoulder and says, “It’s OK. They can’t see you. Just tell me if you recognize the man that you saw shoot Officer Tippit.” She stares at the line-up for several seconds, then shakes her head, crying even harder. Sergeant Fanucci looks over towards the television set and breaks into his strange smile, “Well, well. Looky there ...” On the TV, news footage shows the rumpled suspect being led through the halls by police. Mrs. Marhkam watches and listens as the suspect is identified. Then she turns and through teary eyes points unsteadily at Suspect #2. The young officer writes in his clipboard. “Let the record show that Mrs. Helen Markham has identified one Lee Harvey Oswald as the shooter of Officer Tippit,” he says. You can’t believe what’s happening! This is an obvious farce—they might as well have hung a sign over his neck reading “THE KILLER”!‡ Will you complain about Fanucci leading the witness, or say nothing? *JOHN ABT - Officers present for Oswald’s many interrogations did not record them, but did summarize some details in notes. He reportedly said, “I want that attorney in New York, Mr. Abt. I don’t know him personally but I know about a case that he handled some years ago, where he represented the people who had violated the Smith Act...” Abt spent most of his career as chief counsel for the American Communist Party. ‡THE FIRST LINE-UP - Helen Markham was a key witness to the Tippit shooting, but proved profoundly unstable, producing erratic and contradictory descriptions of the suspect, and often bursting into hysteria. She was sedated with ammonia to calm her nerves. Despite the fact that Oswald was handcuffed between two suited officers, and sported bruises on his face from a recent scuffle, Markham still had difficulty identifying him as the person she saw shoot Officer Tippit.
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May 5, 2015 21:35
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I feel like at the end of this I'm going to become one of those  conspiracy nuts.Say nothing
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May 5, 2015 22:00
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There's nothing to gain from complaining besides sticking out as a nuisance and possible troublemaker. Zip it.
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May 6, 2015 08:04
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This whole line-up looks like a clear-cut case of witness tampering. But something tells you to stay quiet about it. Oswald, however, can’t help but protest. “You know what you’re doing—you’re trying to railroad me,” he says angrily. “You’re doing me an injustice by putting me out here dressed different than these other men. This isn’t fair!” The men cuffed on either side of him begin dragging him towards the exit. They’re obviously plainclothes cops! “I know my rights. Why can’t I speak to a lawyer?” he complains as he’s led out of the basement. The whole scene is too much for the witness. Helen Markham breaks into another round of hysterical crying. This time, it’s Fanucci who comforts her. “It’s all right. You did good,” Fanucci tells her gently. “You won’t have to see him again. I promise.” “Oh yes she will,” you say, to no one in particular. “When she takes the witness stand in Oswald’s trial.” Fanucci shoots you a strange look, then smiles. “Oh, right. Sure.” She again bursts into tears, and he escorts her out of the room. The rest of the cops clear out, too, leaving you alone with your thoughts. But then it suddenly hits you. The murder of President Kennedy will be the highest-profile trial in American history. If the Dallas police are tampering with witnesses and denying Oswald his basic right to an attorney, they’re running the risks of jail time and even a possible mistrial! But maybe they don’t plan to let this ever go to trial? the keen detective’s voice in your head muses. After all, Vivalzi said Oswald wasn’t even guilty—he was being framed. Which would explain a lot. But if it’s true that Oswald is just an innocent man being framed, he may be in danger of more than staged line-ups! You rush upstairs to your dad’s office. ------------ Your father is staring blankly into space when you rush into his office. His lips are moving silently. “Dad!” you blurt out. “I have reason to believe Oswald’s life may be in danger!” Your father startles to life. “Who’s Oswald?” Argh! “The suspect!” you reply. “Lee Harvey Oswald? The guy accused of killing President Kennedy?” A voice from behind asks, “Why would you say that?” You turn to see Fanucci, standing in the doorway, wearing that strange smile of his. You try to stay cool. “Well, Sergeant,” you say, “there’s a lot of angry people out there, right? They want blood. What if one of them decides to kill Oswald right out in the halls?” “You got a good point, kid,” he replies. “I’ll make sure we have extra cops around him while he’s in the station. We’d hate for something to happen to him.” Then he puts an arm over your shoulder and gives you a painfully strong squeeze. “Meanwhile,” he says to your father, “Looks like we’ve got our man, Chief. We probably oughta let your son here head home? Take care of Mom and that lovely sister?” Your father surfaces from his idiotic stupor long enough to agree, saying, “Oh. Yes. Right. Tell your mother we’ve, uh, you know... got our man.” It’s really obvious now that Fanucci wants you out of the way. Now you’re even more worried that Oswald’s life might be in danger! But without your dad’s blessing, you won’t be welcome at the station. What should you do? Bike home and ask Mom for advice Get a ride from Dad Go ahead and quit the case like Fanucci suggested
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May 7, 2015 18:35
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No option to sneak around the station means Oswald isn't long for this world. Let's see if Mom has any ideas on how to deal with corrupt cops!
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May 7, 2015 18:51
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Moooooooom
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May 7, 2015 18:58
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You exit the police station to see the purple haze of dusk. You hop on your bike and pedal the dark miles home. Your mother greets you at the door with teary eyes and a long, loving hug. She’s waited up for you, and has a warm dinner and hot chocolate set out. “Son, what did you learn today?” she asks quickly. “Your father’s been incoherent, as usual. The TV reports are peculiar, to say the least. But I know you must know more by now. What really happened, son?” “Mom, you won’t believe what’s going on up there!” you reply. You then recount the day’s events in crisp detail: the FBI note, the rigged line-up, along with every other suspicious detail you can recall. She listens intently, piecing it together as you go. When you’ve finished, she surprises you with some facts of her own. “I think you’re on to something, son,” she says. “I spoke with Jenni Mudd’s mom, Linda, earlier today. She said Jenni spent the day in Dealey Plaza—” “Oh man! Jenni’s on the case, too?” you cry, annoyed. “Yes,” she says, “She interviewed dozens of witnesses at the crime scene. Linda said she’s even planning to write a book about it! Most witnesses said they heard shots come from behind the Plaza fence. Some even saw gun smoke.” “Unbelievable!” you blurt out, “But if there were shooters behind the fence, why are they pinning it all on Oswald?” “Tonight on TV, he said he was just a patsy. But if that’s true, then he really is in danger, son,” your mother says, squeezing your hand. “Tomorrow morning, I want you to go back up there and keep investigating this.” “But Sergeant Fanucci said I was off the case!” you say. “I’ll get you back on it, don’t you worry,” she replies. You look at her skeptically. “But how, Mom?” “You forget. I sleep with the Chief of Police.” “Oh, Mom! Eewwwwwwwwwwww.” She laughs heartily for the first time today. After the day you’ve had, you can’t imagine a lovelier sound.  Exhausted by the events of the day, you collapse on your bed, eager for a reprieve from all your stresses. Yet sleep proves no escape at all, as your dreams that night are haunted by visions of murder and intrigue. You’re riding in the Presidential limousine, waving to throngs of enthusiastic fans on a sunny Dallas day. Your lovely wife, Jenni Mudd (!), sits beside you in the car, wearing a pink Chanel suit and matching pillbox hat—and she’s holding a bouquet of black roses. As the limo turns from Houston onto Elm, it passes in front of the School Book Depository. You see Oswald standing in the doorway, watching you pass. His expression, unlike everyone else in the crowd, is one of pure terror. He’s calling out to you, but you can’t hear him over the din of the crowd. As you drive slowly towards the grassy knoll, you see a black silhouette behind the fence. He’s wearing a Jughead paper crown. It’s your archenemy, Slugs O’Toole! He’s pointing his pellet gun at you! Suddenly, everyone in the crowd pulls out rifles and handguns and begins firing at you in unison! ------------ You awake the next morning soaked in a cold sweat. Wait a minute—that’s not sweat! Oh, no! You wet the bed for the first time in years! It’s almost as if your subconscious mind is warning you to drop the case—or else. Just as you begin to collect your thoughts, your mother enters your room with the good news. “You’re back on the case, son!” she beams. “Your father had a change of heart and decided perhaps there’s more to this crime than meets the eye!” With a kiss on your cheek, she leaves you to your thoughts. And your pee-stained sheets. Will you run straight to the police station, or stick around and change your sheets?
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May 8, 2015 17:26
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We should change our sheets so we still have some dignity, and also so we stay on our mom's good side. It's not like Oswald would be less dead if we got up there earlier.
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May 8, 2015 17:33
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Change those sheets. What good is solving the case if we are eternally shamed in the process?
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May 8, 2015 17:34
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Change the sheets We can't leave a single weakness for our enemies to exploit. Also they smell really bad
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May 8, 2015 17:38
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Change the sheets. Not like anything is going to happen to Oswald. 
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May 8, 2015 20:25
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sniper4625 posted:Change those sheets.
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May 9, 2015 15:31
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The fact that this is a choice at all shows how amazing this book is.
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May 10, 2015 12:02
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You decide you should probably go ahead and change your pee-stained sheets before you leave. After all, you don’t want your mom to find think you’ve started wetting the bed again like a baby! You begin pulling off the wet, yellow sheets and crumpling them into a ball. But before you can finish the job, you hear the door creaking open behind you! “Just a second, Mom!” you say, as you scrunch up the sheets tightly. Ugh! You really soaked them good! “Hey, Turtleneck!” a voice from behind says. Drat! It’s Jenni Mudd! Your longtime rival in detective work! And she’s in your bedroom! You try to turn as nonchalantly as possible as she continues talking. She says with a bright smile, “Your mom said I could ... come up ... and...” Her eyes narrow as she examines the ball of bed dressing in your hands. She raises a curious eyebrow, then asks, “So, what are you doing?” You can see the wheels turning in her keen detective mind! Double-drat! You’ll have to think fast! You’re not sure, but you think she might have caught a glimpse of the yellow stains on your sheets. Or did she? What will you say to her? “Oh, nothing. I’m about to go back up to the station and solve the crime” “Ugh. I’m doing the laundry. My dog peed on my bed again”
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May 10, 2015 16:21
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May 10, 2015 16:26
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I bet we don't have a dog, but it's the best excuse we have. Dumb dog peed on my bed!
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May 10, 2015 16:31
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May 10, 2015 16:35
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No need to be so nonchalant, dude. Gather the rest of your dirty clothes to reinforce the laundry story, and only blame the dog if she brings up the stain. It'll be multitasking and any conversation you have with her will be shortened.
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May 10, 2015 16:50
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Jenni Mudd is too smart to believe our lies. I'm going to the station
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May 10, 2015 20:49
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“Oh, nothing,” you reply with a casual shrug. “My dog Muffin, she sleeps on my bed sometimes. And last night, I guess she decided to relieve herself, too.” Jenni laughs, and offers a commiserating nod. “Yeah, our dog J. Edgar just goes wherever he wants, too.” You laugh back as you unobtrusively drop the sheets into your dirty clothes bin. “You named your dog after the Director of the FBI?” She replies, “Yeah. My dad says they both poop wherever they want and let other people clean up after!” She bought it! Maybe she’s not as smart as you thought! You let out a big laugh, intrigued by the implications. Maybe Lee Harvey Oswald’s note to the FBI is yet another mess Hoover expects other people to clean up? Jenni then shrugs and says, “Well, why don’t I wait for you downstairs? But hurry up, OK? You won’t believe what I learned at Dealey yesterday. I was telling my dad about it; he said I could write a book! He knows people in publishing, and they love kid detective stories! Imagine!” She then gives you a smug smile and slips back out. A book deal? Oh, no! If she gets one of those, she’ll never let you hear the end of it! You finish getting ready, and are about to head downstairs when you remember the dirty clothes bin. Gotta keep the ruse up, you think, as you grab the dirty laundry bin. When you make it back downstairs, you find your mother and Jenni talking on the couch in the living room. Jenni notices you and smiles. You nod quietly back, heading straight to the laundry room to get rid of the incriminating evidence. ------------ “Son, come in here!” your mom shouts. “Jenni found some amazing clues in Dealey Plaza yesterday!” “Sure, Mom, just let me drop this laundry in the wash!” you call back as you beeline to the washer and dryer. You pull open the clothes washer and dump in your sheets. Whew! Case closed! You wash your hands in the kitchen sink, and head back to the living room. Your mom shoots you a grateful smile. “So nice to have a little help on the laundry for a change!” Uh-oh, she’s at risk of blowing your cover! Thinking fast, you shrug, “Well, Mom, I think Muffin did a little bit of business on my bed last night.” Your mom’s expression becomes quizzical. “Really? That’s strange, she’s been—” “So, Jenni!” you quickly interrupt. “Tell me about these clues you picked up.” Jenni’s eyes narrow as she keys off your anxiety. “Sure. But do you mind if I meet Muffin first? I do love dogs so.” “Oh, of course, Jenni!” replies your mom. She turns and calls out in a clear, musical voice, “MUFF-in! Here, girl!” You hear the telltale jingle of her aluminum collar tags as she rushes into the room and right up on your mother’s lap. All five heaping pounds of her. Jenni sidles up to her, scratching under her chin. “Oh, I love chihuahuas!” she exclaims. “You’re so tiny!” Eager to shift her attentions back to her favorite subject, you ask, “So, Jenni. What’s this I hear about a book deal?” She stands up and says, “Yes, it’s very exciting!” Then she remembers something. “Oh, can you hold that thought? I’ve got something I want to show you both.” Whew. Close call! She excuses herself and leaves the room. Your mom smiles at you warmly. “I know you’re not her biggest fan, but I think she’s a real doll! If you two got together, you might give birth to the next Sherlock Holmes!” “Ewww!” you reply, to her guffaws. ------------ After a minute or so, Jenni returns to the living room. And to your absolute horror, she’s got your balled-up bedsheets in her hand! OH, NO! “Jenni!” your mom says sharply. “What on earth are you doing with my son’s sheets?” Jenni looks back at her apologetically. “I’m really sorry about this, ma’am, it’s just that ... when he told me upstairs that his dog wet his bed, I didn’t give it a second thought. But then I met Muffin—cute little Muffin—and wondered, ‘Could such a tiny dog really do THIS?’” She opens the sheets—to reveal the gigantic pee stains that cover it from end nearly to end! Your Mother gasps, horrified. “Son! Did you really try to frame sweet Muffin for one of your own misdeeds?” This is worse than your nightmare! At least you DIED in that one! “I’m sorry, Mom!” you reply in humiliation. “I had a nightmare—about JFK! All these disturbing clues! I must’ve wet the bed! And then Jenni came in and I panicked!” As your mother glares at you, Jenni shoots you the smuggest look possible. Then she asks you, in an annoyingly sweet voice, “I know it’s not really my place, but do you really think you should be investigating a murder, when you’re so willing to frame innocents for crimes they didn’t commit?” Your mother nods resolutely, and replies, “She’s absolutely right, son! If you can’t be trusted with little things, then how can you be trusted with giant ones?” And with that, you’re off the case—AND grounded for a month! This couldn’t possibly have turned out worse! As you ruminate, humiliated, about this undignified end over the coming days, your keen detective mind can’t help but wonder if YOU were another mess Hoover wanted cleaned up, and Jenni was the one doing the job for him!  After a few days, you reluctantly decide to call Jenni up and ask what her investigation unearthed. To your surprise, her father, the FBI agent, answers the call. When he hears it’s you on the line, he erupts in hearty laughter, then calls out, “Jennifer, call for you.” In the distance, you hear her ask, “Who is it, Dad?” “Betsy Wetsy!” he says, with an even heartier laugh. After a few seconds, she picks up the phone. “Hey, Turtleneck,” she says. “Sorry about that.” You try to sound casual, ignoring the slight, and ask, “So, my mom took me off the case. But you’re still on it, right? Have you learned anything? I’m dying to know.” “Actually,” she replies, “my dad took me off it, too. Said it was pretty open and shut. Oswald did it. Alone.” You want to argue—about the rigged lineup, the prior contact between Oswald and FBI Agent Hosty—but you know it’s hopeless. You appeal to her ego, instead. “But what about your book deal?” you ask. “With your keen detective mind, I figured you’d crack this wide open, and become America’s most famous child sleuth.” She laughs, then says, “Funny you should mention it. I still have the book deal. I pitched them on a series, though. A clever schoolgirl detective. Her wisecracking FBI dad. With all the cases I’ve solved, I figured, the books would just write themselves, right? I’ll send you a copy, Turtleneck.” ------------ A few months later, you get a copy in the mail. As does everyone in your class at school. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her Annie Grimes series becomes a blockbuster hit, too—selling millions of copies to kids across America and earning Jenni fortune and fame. Ugh! But it earns you a little something, too. Thanks to her immortalization of your botched puppy frame-up job in her debut book Annie Grimes and the Case of the Framed Chihuahua, you become almost as famous as Jenni Mudd and her thinly-veiled proxy, Annie Grimes. For she’s incorporated a thinly veiled proxy of YOU into the books—as the hapless, bumbling, would-be rival to Annie Grimes. The son of an incompetent Chief of Police, a boy both incompetent AND incontinent. For the rest of your life, your friends no longer call you “Turtleneck.” They call you “Betsy Wetsy.” And you live a long, long time.  GAME OVER
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May 12, 2015 19:10
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Jeni Mudd is rude as heck, that's what.
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May 12, 2015 19:14
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Kill Jeni
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May 12, 2015 19:19
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Is there a path through this game that doesn't lead to us getting decisively owned? And why is our mom so fancy?
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May 12, 2015 19:22
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Jeni why you gotta be such a dick about everything come on
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May 12, 2015 19:39
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sniper4625 posted:Jeni Mudd is rude as heck, that's what. honestly, the main character is such a, heh, wet blanket, that i don't blame her
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May 12, 2015 20:11
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Your urine-soaked sheets can wait—there’s a crime to solve! You change clothes, then bike straight back to the police station. But to your dismay, the FBI has taken over! They’re putting all the evidence on a plane and shipping it to DC. Even worse, they seem even more eager to pin all the blame on Oswald than the Dallas cops were! You try to interest them in witness reports of shooters behind the Plaza fence and witness tampering. But nobody cares. “Stay out of the way,” one grim-faced fed tells you, “or we’ll arrest you for interfering in a federal investigation.” Defeated, you retire to your father’s office. As you sit down, dejected, you noticed a handwritten note on his desk. Chief: We got two calls last night you should be aware of. One to Sheriff McCoy (2:15 am), the other to Lieutenant Grammer (3:00 am). Both times the (same?) caller said Oswald dies in the basement tomorrow during the move to county jail—unless we change things up. You may want extra protection. Alveeta* It’s just as you feared! You have no idea who killed JFK, but it’s obvious Oswald is being set up to take all the blame, even for things he couldn’t possibly have done. Suddenly, the door opens! It’s your father—and he looks as relieved as you do worried. But before you can tell him of the death threats, his phone rings. He picks it up. “Hello? Oh, hey, honey,” he says, then his eyes bulge. “What? Are you serious? Well, yes, of course, dear...” He puts down the phone and looks at you, mystified. “That was your mother,” he says, looking stupefied. “She wants you off the case, and home. Now. Apparently, somebody peed in your bed last night? But who would do that? Ugh, another mystery to solve! When does it end?” What an idiot! You don’t know what’s worse, your shame at wetting the bed, or being the spawn of the world’s dumbest detective. But either way, your off the case. And you’re in big trouble. Urine big trouble, indeed! GAME OVER *DEATH THREATS - Both the Dallas Police and FBI offices received death threats the night before Oswald’s transfer. Lieutenant Billy Grammer reported receiving an anonymous call he later realized was from Jack Ruby, stating, “You’re going to have to make some other plans or we’re going to kill Oswald right there in the basement.”
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May 15, 2015 17:00
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let's try talking to Jeni without the dog excuse
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May 15, 2015 17:11
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Alternately:corn in the bible posted: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. We never tried to make friends with the nice mobster.
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May 15, 2015 21:26
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| # ? May 6, 2024 15:01 |
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PleasingFungus posted:Alternately: do this
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May 15, 2015 21:39
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