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Raymond Coy in:
The Message Spelt ‘Murder!’
By
Danny Djeljosevic
For Allison House. Happy Birthday, and thanks for choosing “crime” as the genre you want, thereby keeping me from recycling one of my old stories and forcing me to write something incredibly new. I apologize if it betrays your expectations or totally sucks. Or both. I meant well, at least.
“It was the butler,” Raymond Coy yawned, staring down at the affluent corpse lying on the expensive scarlet carpet, soaked in blood, drool, and Chianti. Despite knowing the answer had something to do with old kings and monarchs, he still bothered to wonder why the rich always had such a fascination with the color red. Don’t they know the hoi polloi have done away with the brown and grey soiled rags and are currently free to wear any color they choose, be it red, crimson, or ruby?
Around Raymond stood several police officers and grim looking fellows he assumed to be hardened detectives who were the types to throw their badges down on the table and solve cases on their own. All seemed astounded by his presence, as his reputation preceded him so much that it had already taken a taxi to the crime scene before he received a phone call that his services were needed.
He looked up from the corpse to the policemen, all wide-eyed like children waiting for the detective to say something ingeniously clever so they can tell their corpulent children that Raymond Coy said something brilliant to them last night.
“Can I go now?”
*
Outside he looked up at the stars in the sky as he pulled a cigarette from his trench coat, which, considering its color, one would probably assume, from a distance, was the sidewalk coming to life and eating a poor bystander. Raymond slickly pulled one of his accidentally-purchased menthols out of his coat in such a way that he would have followed with a “Ta-da” if he had an audience in front of him. He didn’t.
Raymond Coy sighed and continued down the sidewalk, along the poorly-constructed gates that surrounded the rich dead man’s modestly large brownstone. Clearly he was a penny-pincher. The sidewalk appeared wet to him, despite the remarkable fact that it hadn’t rained all week. He made a note to himself to clean his shoes once he got home, a note which onto the end he tacked on “Eww.”
*
Upon opening the door to his apartment, Raymond quickly slid off his trench coat and put it atop a bare coat rack, revealing a grungy, sweat-stained T-shirt and blue jeans with a mustard stain that he never managed to get out, forcing him to wonder if he’s ever washed them to begin with. Feeling the moist armpit area of his T-shirt, once again he wondered why, for such a brilliant detective, he never remembered to not wear a heavy coat in the middle of summer.
Plopping down in his La-Z-Boy recliner, he wondered why he had to waste his time and actually make the effort to leave his apartment and go down to a crime scene. Just have some newbie get on the phone and describe the crime scene to him. That’s all he needed. The fact that it’s always the butler helped him a bit, too.
Instead, he was drenched as he casually watched an incredibly dull documentary on railroad construction, beer in hand. At least he would be drunk soon.
He scoffed. What am I thinking? Drinking alone… that’s just depressing, he thought, as he opened his sixth can and his eyelids suddenly became a scrawny teen trying to lift 100-pound weights to impress a girl he had no chance of getting, outside of 1980s teen comedies. What followed was a lot more interesting than the debunking of a rumor regarding the relationship between the respective widths of railroad tracks and Roman chariots.
*
Raymond Coy woke up relieved that the dreadfully boring documentary had been replaced by what appeared to be some sort of artistic interpretation of an acid trip, performed on Public Television by grown men in big plush suits. This was the first thing he noticed. The second thing was the corpse on his floor.
The television show had been a pleasant revelation. The dead body, however, had been a painful one, considering he tripped over it in a post-sleep induced stupor. He cursed and immediately stood up, prepared to scream at a nearby stool for tripping him, when he saw the body, lying face down in a bloody puddle as if he had fallen asleep in his Corn Flakes. Raymond would have been happier if it had just been the stool.
He examined the corpse as it lay. The poor man had either been shot or stabbed in the chest, considering the placement of the puddle in relation to the body. In the puddle, he saw his own reflection. My, did he need to shave.
Upon lifting up the corpse by the shoulder to take a look at its face, he coiled back in surprise, dropping the corpse’s face back into the puddle with a splash. The face was exactly the same as his! He regained his composure and lifted up the body once more, examining the chest. There was a knife sticking into it. He dropped him one again, creating another splash. He had in fact been stabbed. Raymond took pity on his look-alike until further inspection revealed traces of beer both on the floor and on his shoe, which, along with the beer can that fell to the floor when he stumbled into dreamland, led him to deduce that he had slipped on the puddle of beer and accidentally stabbed himself. Idiot.
This was a first for him: a case that may potentially be a challenge. Never mind the fact that somehow a dead body that looks strikingly like him has been left on his apartment floor or the fact that he’s a suspect in the murder of himself. A challenge! Something more interesting than dead rich men or living rich men who think their wives are cheating on them!
Something utterly befuddling.
*
When the Police arrived, they were as confused as Raymond predicted.
“I don’t get it,” said one of the officers as the continuously looked down at the corpse, then back up at Raymond. “Why does he look just like you?”
“I don’t quite know yet, Officer Kowalcek, but I’m going to find out,” Raymond announced in what vaguely sounded like a British accent, with all the flair of a hammy Elizabethan stage actor. This was the way he typically acted when he came across a case that interested him, having formerly done it for every case in his early days as a detective until he got incredibly bored with the mundane cases he had been getting all the time.
This act was so convincing that the police completely forgot that this had occurred in Raymond’s own house, thereby making him a suspect. Raymond had this effect on people. As a young man, he managed to get his History teacher, Mr. Rakes, fired after Raymond took a swing at him in a fit of rage after a comment about his unconventional hairstyle, which was deemed by the Principal and fellow administrators to be quite conventional.
In all the excitement of there being a dead man on his floor, Raymond had completely forgotten to check the ID of his “twin,” a mistake he quickly rectified by pulling the former man’s wallet out of his seemingly comfortable pants. Inspection of the wallet revealed the dead man to be not only Chandler P. Simeone, but also Francis Welch, Norman Rudolph Wagner, and Valentino Guadalajarez, among a slew of other identities. This annoyed Raymond to no end. He may love a challenge, but fake IDs did nothing but consume his precious time as he had to investigate each one. It was a tedium he could do without.
The officers, watched Raymond work, once again, like children, only this time listening to a rather gripping story laden with rhyming couplets about fictional nonsense creatures with names like “Hoobert.” Watching Raymond work was like a stage show, and they were supporting characters, albeit the Shakespearian bumbling nurses and groundskeepers that the groundlings found so easy to relate to.
Raymond showed them the alternate IDs. “So which one is fake?” one of the officers asked.
“My dear Officer Dooney, it is incredibly possible that all of these IDs are real,” Raymond revealed, eliciting a gasp in unison from the policemen, as if Hoobert were in danger of losing the big race.
“I just investigate,” exclaimed Raymond as he ran towards his bedroom.
“Why are you going to that way?” another policeman asked.
“To shave.”
*
Raymond Coy cleaned himself up very well. His unkempt appearance would suffice for the usual cases, but not this one. The special ones, meaning the cases that require actual effort, always call for him to look his best. And his best he indeed looked. His perpetually mustard-stained jeans and sweaty t-shirt were traded for a shirt as white as fresh snow, with pants and a tie, both as black as his shoes, which was very black.
On his way out the door, he grabbed his trench coat. No self-respecting detective would be complete without his trademark trench coat, which, after a brief sniff, he swore he would take to the drycleaners after he was done with the case.
*
Francis Welch. Valentino Guadalajarez. Simon Friendly. Kent Woljewicz. Charles Pitcher. Chandler P. Simeone. Mickey Harris. Norman Rudolph Wagner. Each name led Raymond Coy to another gravestone. Every man sharing his likeness had been murdered, one by one, it seems, all in different manners. Gun shots. Stabbings. Bad falls. Defenestration. Even falling pianos. To Raymond, it felt like the amount of grieving wives, children, lovers, and mistresses was endless. What was not endless was the amount of bachelors in the group: Raymond was the only one not married or dedicated to a life partner. This did not sit well with him.
As he stood at the grave of Norman Rudolph Wagner, Raymond made an addendum to his list. Once he figures out the case, he must:
1. pay a visit to the drycleaners
and
2. find a girlfriend,
not necessarily in that order. Love does not wait for a clean coat, after all.
*
They must all be dead. I’m the last one.
As he lay in Norman Rudolph Wagner’s bed next to Mrs. Wagner, a supple young blonde who had given up an actual education for complete and utter financial stability and moderate to above average sex, he could think of nothing but his own possibly imminent death.
I can’t die. I’m Raymond Coy, dammit. The greatest detective since Arthur Conan Doyle tossed Sherlock Holmes down a waterfall.
Mrs. Wagner rustled next to him, prompting a completely unrelated train of thought.
This probably makes me a bastard. It’s almost like incest, isn’t it…?
*
Raymond left early that morning, before Mrs. Wagner could wake up and begin her daily routine, which began with weeping, and, coincidentally, continued and ended with weeping.
Sitting in coach on a flight from a substandard airline, Raymond was lost in thought, which helped him to ignore the crying babies and old women who refuse to shut up for fear of the plane crashing and not having said all the things they wanted to say.
He began connecting the dots, putting together the pieces, and other such clichés one would use instead of simply saying “trying to figure things out.” The fact that people that look exactly like him had been murdered elicited a shocking revelation to him. He could be next!
As a result, Raymond Coy spent the remainder of his flight in the lavatory.
*
Raymond spent the rest of the week in agony, knowing that his time would be next and that he would probably never be able to see it coming. He hadn’t been this nervous since his first camping trip as a youth, positive that a bear would come and hold his family hostage in exchange for arms and individually wrapped snack cakes. It never happened. Regardless, Raymond avoided the woods, just to be sure.
What Raymond could not avoid was his own death, especially considering he had no say over it. He could barely leave the house anymore for fear of snipers, walk-by stabbings, and pigeons. The damn things were everywhere in this city.
Suddenly, Raymond Coy snapped. He could not allow himself to lose this battle with his silent killer. His ego simply wouldn’t allow it. He must foil his would-be murderer’s plans by any means possible, which, to Raymond, meant that he was going to do the most extreme thing he could think of that will attract the most attention. And attract it did.
As he took the jump, he couldn’t get himself to blame anyone but the sub par airline he flew back home on, as their pointlessly pricey first class seats would have easily kept him from realizing his fate. Then, his inevitable death would have been more peaceful and less messy.
Splat.
The End?
Yes. Yes it is.
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Oh my fuck... stuff written by JQ has more replies than this.
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devil-lovin' Bat-Man 15000+ posts
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It means they all think it sucks, Disco.
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Fuckers. What do they know? They spend their time writing about superheroes.
COMICS ARE FOR KIDS.
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Doog the MIGHTY 10000+ posts
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no, I think its just that more of the people on Robs board prefer super hero homoerotica based on themselves than anything else.
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It was a cacophonic mix of humour, murder, and insanity.
It was a bit weird form that perspective.
Interesting self-destructive twist which I kind of liked.
You need to polish your narrative. Words like "plopping" shuld be reserved for dialogue.
Not your best effort, Disco. You've written much better.
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Yeah. It was a gift (and a crappy one at that, though she seemed to enjoy it), so time was not on my side. At least it was entertaining
What do you mean when you say it was weird from that perspective?
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Quote:
Disco Steve said:
Raymond Coy in:
The Message Spelt ‘Murder!’
By
Danny Djeljosevic
For Allison House. Happy Birthday, and thanks for choosing “crime” as the genre you want, thereby keeping me from recycling one of my old stories and forcing me to write something incredibly new. I apologize if it betrays your expectations or totally sucks. Or both. I meant well, at least.
“It was the butler,” Raymond Coy yawned, staring down at the affluent corpse lying on the expensive scarlet carpet, soaked in blood, drool, and Chianti. Despite knowing the answer had something to do with old kings and monarchs, he still bothered to wonder why the rich always had such a fascination with the color red. Don’t they know the hoi polloi have done away with the brown and grey soiled rags and are currently free to wear any color they choose, be it red, crimson, or ruby?
Around Raymond stood several police officers and grim looking fellows he assumed to be hardened detectives who were the types to throw their badges down on the table and solve cases on their own. All seemed astounded by his presence, as his reputation preceded him so much that it had already taken a taxi to the crime scene before he received a phone call that his services were needed.
He looked up from the corpse to the policemen, all wide-eyed like children waiting for the detective to say something ingeniously clever so they can tell their corpulent children that Raymond Coy said something brilliant to them last night.
“Can I go now?”
*
Outside he looked up at the stars in the sky as he pulled a cigarette from his trench coat, which, considering its color, one would probably assume, from a distance, was the sidewalk coming to life and eating a poor bystander. Raymond slickly pulled one of his accidentally-purchased menthols out of his coat in such a way that he would have followed with a “Ta-da” if he had an audience in front of him. He didn’t.
Raymond Coy sighed and continued down the sidewalk, along the poorly-constructed gates that surrounded the rich dead man’s modestly large brownstone. Clearly he was a penny-pincher. The sidewalk appeared wet to him, despite the remarkable fact that it hadn’t rained all week. He made a note to himself to clean his shoes once he got home, a note which onto the end he tacked on “Eww.”
*
Upon opening the door to his apartment, Raymond quickly slid off his trench coat and put it atop a bare coat rack, revealing a grungy, sweat-stained T-shirt and blue jeans with a mustard stain that he never managed to get out, forcing him to wonder if he’s ever washed them to begin with. Feeling the moist armpit area of his T-shirt, once again he wondered why, for such a brilliant detective, he never remembered to not wear a heavy coat in the middle of summer.
Plopping down in his La-Z-Boy recliner, he wondered why he had to waste his time and actually make the effort to leave his apartment and go down to a crime scene. Just have some newbie get on the phone and describe the crime scene to him. That’s all he needed. The fact that it’s always the butler helped him a bit, too.
Instead, he was drenched as he casually watched an incredibly dull documentary on railroad construction, beer in hand. At least he would be drunk soon.
He scoffed. What am I thinking? Drinking alone… that’s just depressing, he thought, as he opened his sixth can and his eyelids suddenly became a scrawny teen trying to lift 100-pound weights to impress a girl he had no chance of getting, outside of 1980s teen comedies. What followed was a lot more interesting than the debunking of a rumor regarding the relationship between the respective widths of railroad tracks and Roman chariots.
*
Raymond Coy woke up relieved that the dreadfully boring documentary had been replaced by what appeared to be some sort of artistic interpretation of an acid trip, performed on Public Television by grown men in big plush suits. This was the first thing he noticed. The second thing was the corpse on his floor.
The television show had been a pleasant revelation. The dead body, however, had been a painful one, considering he tripped over it in a post-sleep induced stupor. He cursed and immediately stood up, prepared to scream at a nearby stool for tripping him, when he saw the body, lying face down in a bloody puddle as if he had fallen asleep in his Corn Flakes. Raymond would have been happier if it had just been the stool.
He examined the corpse as it lay. The poor man had either been shot or stabbed in the chest, considering the placement of the puddle in relation to the body. In the puddle, he saw his own reflection. My, did he need to shave.
Upon lifting up the corpse by the shoulder to take a look at its face, he coiled back in surprise, dropping the corpse’s face back into the puddle with a splash. The face was exactly the same as his! He regained his composure and lifted up the body once more, examining the chest. There was a knife sticking into it. He dropped him one again, creating another splash. He had in fact been stabbed. Raymond took pity on his look-alike until further inspection revealed traces of beer both on the floor and on his shoe, which, along with the beer can that fell to the floor when he stumbled into dreamland, led him to deduce that he had slipped on the puddle of beer and accidentally stabbed himself. Idiot.
This was a first for him: a case that may potentially be a challenge. Never mind the fact that somehow a dead body that looks strikingly like him has been left on his apartment floor or the fact that he’s a suspect in the murder of himself. A challenge! Something more interesting than dead rich men or living rich men who think their wives are cheating on them!
Something utterly befuddling.
*
When the Police arrived, they were as confused as Raymond predicted.
“I don’t get it,” said one of the officers as the continuously looked down at the corpse, then back up at Raymond. “Why does he look just like you?”
“I don’t quite know yet, Officer Kowalcek, but I’m going to find out,” Raymond announced in what vaguely sounded like a British accent, with all the flair of a hammy Elizabethan stage actor. This was the way he typically acted when he came across a case that interested him, having formerly done it for every case in his early days as a detective until he got incredibly bored with the mundane cases he had been getting all the time.
This act was so convincing that the police completely forgot that this had occurred in Raymond’s own house, thereby making him a suspect. Raymond had this effect on people. As a young man, he managed to get his History teacher, Mr. Rakes, fired after Raymond took a swing at him in a fit of rage after a comment about his unconventional hairstyle, which was deemed by the Principal and fellow administrators to be quite conventional.
In all the excitement of there being a dead man on his floor, Raymond had completely forgotten to check the ID of his “twin,” a mistake he quickly rectified by pulling the former man’s wallet out of his seemingly comfortable pants. Inspection of the wallet revealed the dead man to be not only Chandler P. Simeone, but also Francis Welch, Norman Rudolph Wagner, and Valentino Guadalajarez, among a slew of other identities. This annoyed Raymond to no end. He may love a challenge, but fake IDs did nothing but consume his precious time as he had to investigate each one. It was a tedium he could do without.
The officers, watched Raymond work, once again, like children, only this time listening to a rather gripping story laden with rhyming couplets about fictional nonsense creatures with names like “Hoobert.” Watching Raymond work was like a stage show, and they were supporting characters, albeit the Shakespearian bumbling nurses and groundskeepers that the groundlings found so easy to relate to.
Raymond showed them the alternate IDs. “So which one is fake?” one of the officers asked.
“My dear Officer Dooney, it is incredibly possible that all of these IDs are real,” Raymond revealed, eliciting a gasp in unison from the policemen, as if Hoobert were in danger of losing the big race.
“I just investigate,” exclaimed Raymond as he ran towards his bedroom.
“Why are you going to that way?” another policeman asked.
“To shave.”
*
Raymond Coy cleaned himself up very well. His unkempt appearance would suffice for the usual cases, but not this one. The special ones, meaning the cases that require actual effort, always call for him to look his best. And his best he indeed looked. His perpetually mustard-stained jeans and sweaty t-shirt were traded for a shirt as white as fresh snow, with pants and a tie, both as black as his shoes, which was very black.
On his way out the door, he grabbed his trench coat. No self-respecting detective would be complete without his trademark trench coat, which, after a brief sniff, he swore he would take to the drycleaners after he was done with the case.
*
Francis Welch. Valentino Guadalajarez. Simon Friendly. Kent Woljewicz. Charles Pitcher. Chandler P. Simeone. Mickey Harris. Norman Rudolph Wagner. Each name led Raymond Coy to another gravestone. Every man sharing his likeness had been murdered, one by one, it seems, all in different manners. Gun shots. Stabbings. Bad falls. Defenestration. Even falling pianos. To Raymond, it felt like the amount of grieving wives, children, lovers, and mistresses was endless. What was not endless was the amount of bachelors in the group: Raymond was the only one not married or dedicated to a life partner. This did not sit well with him.
As he stood at the grave of Norman Rudolph Wagner, Raymond made an addendum to his list. Once he figures out the case, he must:
1. pay a visit to the drycleaners
and
2. find a girlfriend,
not necessarily in that order. Love does not wait for a clean coat, after all.
*
They must all be dead. I’m the last one.
As he lay in Norman Rudolph Wagner’s bed next to Mrs. Wagner, a supple young blonde who had given up an actual education for complete and utter financial stability and moderate to above average sex, he could think of nothing but his own possibly imminent death.
I can’t die. I’m Raymond Coy, dammit. The greatest detective since Arthur Conan Doyle tossed Sherlock Holmes down a waterfall.
Mrs. Wagner rustled next to him, prompting a completely unrelated train of thought.
This probably makes me a bastard. It’s almost like incest, isn’t it…?
*
Raymond left early that morning, before Mrs. Wagner could wake up and begin her daily routine, which began with weeping, and, coincidentally, continued and ended with weeping.
Sitting in coach on a flight from a substandard airline, Raymond was lost in thought, which helped him to ignore the crying babies and old women who refuse to shut up for fear of the plane crashing and not having said all the things they wanted to say.
He began connecting the dots, putting together the pieces, and other such clichés one would use instead of simply saying “trying to figure things out.” The fact that people that look exactly like him had been murdered elicited a shocking revelation to him. He could be next!
As a result, Raymond Coy spent the remainder of his flight in the lavatory.
*
Raymond spent the rest of the week in agony, knowing that his time would be next and that he would probably never be able to see it coming. He hadn’t been this nervous since his first camping trip as a youth, positive that a bear would come and hold his family hostage in exchange for arms and individually wrapped snack cakes. It never happened. Regardless, Raymond avoided the woods, just to be sure.
What Raymond could not avoid was his own death, especially considering he had no say over it. He could barely leave the house anymore for fear of snipers, walk-by stabbings, and pigeons. The damn things were everywhere in this city.
Suddenly, Raymond Coy snapped. He could not allow himself to lose this battle with his silent killer. His ego simply wouldn’t allow it. He must foil his would-be murderer’s plans by any means possible, which, to Raymond, meant that he was going to do the most extreme thing he could think of that will attract the most attention. And attract it did.
As he took the jump, he couldn’t get himself to blame anyone but the sub par airline he flew back home on, as their pointlessly pricey first class seats would have easily kept him from realizing his fate. Then, his inevitable death would have been more peaceful and less messy.
Splat.
The End?
Yes. Yes it is.
You have time for this rubbish, but you can't find the time for my epic adventures?
Bitch.
Originally posted by Rob Kamphausen:
whoa...
its year man!
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Quote:
Disco Steve said:
Yeah. It was a gift (and a crappy one at that, though she seemed to enjoy it), so time was not on my side. At least it was entertaining
What do you mean when you say it was weird from that perspective?
You don't normally get humour in murder mysteries. Aside from the quaint granny humour in "Murder, she wrote" with Angela Landsbury.
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Heh. Or those bits in Law and Order where the hardened detective makes a semi-pun based on the murder scene.
"What do we have here?"
"Clown, 33 years of age, multiple stab wounds."
"Looks like he's had his last laugh..."
Actually, the Cable TV series "Monk" is a pretty humorous detective show, now that I think about it.
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Quote:
Dave said:
You don't normally get humour in murder mysteries. Aside from the quaint granny humour in "Murder, she wrote" with Angela Landsbury.
Never heard of Dark Comedy I guess.
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Quote:
Dave said:
You don't normally get humour in murder mysteries. Aside from the quaint granny humour in "Murder, she wrote" with Angela Landsbury.
Oh, Dave, but you do. Disco mentioned Monk; but you also have shows like Columbo, Magnum P.I., The Rockford Files, and other TV shows and movies involving murder mysteries that include a good bit of humor, generally at the main character's expense.
whomod said: I generally don't like it when people decide to play by the rules against people who don't play by the rules. It tends to put you immediately at a disadvantage and IMO is a sign of true weakness. This is true both in politics and on the internet." Our Friendly Neighborhood Ray-man said: "no, the doctor's right. besides, he has seniority."
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The Time Trust sleepy User 10000+ posts Sun Oct 12 2008 11:12 PM Reading a post
Forum: Writer's Block
Thread: The Message Spelt "Murder!"
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