Surreal Life Orgins Part One: Who Done It?

Chapter 2: A Faithful Demise

True faith comes not without sacrifice.

In the lobby of the motel, dispersed among tiki themed couches and chairs, where nine people.  A cleaning lady, a bellhop, a chef, a motel manager, and five teenagers.

“So, what can you tell me about Mr. Tikarrondé?” Sasha asked the manager.

“Well, ha ess a gud gambla, sa ha ess rich,” said the manager.

A gruff voice spoke out, “Well, I say good riddance.  His set work hours for me where long and did not pay well.

“He was a greedy, good-for-nothin’, son-of-a-“

“Butch!”  the lady whose wrinkles seamed older than the stains on the manager’s teeth got angry at the cook, and was now shouting at him, “Do not talk that way about my husband!”

“Oh quit yer whining, Merrilda,” Butch said to the enraged lady, trying to coax her down, then immediately turned to Sasha and said, “Anyway, he as a racist one too.  He constantly beat Jeremy just cuz he’s a Britt.” Butch pointed to the bellhop. “Poor boy.  Never spoke a word for five years.  Then he said, I remember, he said ‘OK, I’ll get right on that,’ then WHAM! Tikarrondé smacks seventeen-year-old Jeremy across the cheek.  Hit him at least once a day after that for these last two years, and Jeremy never spoke again.”

“Oh hush you,” Merrilda seemed angry, but was choking on tears, “You know that Jeremy did no address my Berney as sir, and he deserved every one of those hits.”

“Hrm.  Did I ever tell you that you and Tikarrondé made the perfect couple?”

After that, no one spoke for a while, not daring to add any more tension to the room, for if they did, the room could have collapsed.

Finally, Sasha stood up and spoke out.

“Well, all of you have a good reason to want Mr. Tikarrondé dead.

“For instance, you, Mr…”

She pointed to the manager, stopping, for she was baffled on the topic of the manager’s name.  No one had bothered to ask.

“Acapella,” said the manager, finally realizing that he was being indirectly probed a question, “Papa Acapella, bu yi woud I?”

“You would kill Mr. Tikarrondé, Papa, because you envy him.  You want his job, his wife, his money, his power, his life.”  Merrilda gave Papa a look between confusion and interest upon hearing ‘his wife’.  “The only thing between you and your dream,” Sasha continued, “Was the fact that Mr. Tikarrondé was still breathing.

“Luckily for you, I do not believe that Mr. Tikarrondé was killed by envy.

“Butch, you obviously wanted Mr. Tikarrondé dead because you simply hated him.  You thought of him as a low-like primate who did not deserve sentience.”

“I knew it!”

“Please sit down, Merrilda.  Allow me to finish.  I do not think it was Butch.”

Butch then scratched his head with the finger considered rude in most societies in the direction of Merrilda as Sasha prolonged forward, “Jeremy, your reason is straightforward.  After all those years of being tormented, you let anger boil up inside of you.  You finally stewed over and decided to rid yourself of the source of your rage.

“But still, I do not believe that anger slayed Mr. Tikarrondé.  No, I believe that the real culprit is greed. 

“Greed.  The feeling of wanting more.  Greed.  The inspiration of Charles Dickens’s Scrooge.  Greed.  The sin that Lucifer, himself, plays upon the most upon the innocent, in order to steal their souls.  Greed.  The motivation for you, Merrilda, to kill your so-called beloved.”

“Why would I kill my Berney?” Merrilda said as she angrily leapt to her feet, seeming ready to fly at and tackle Sasha out of rage, “I loved him!”

“Well, to that, I say nay,” Sasha answered calmly, “I say you really did not love Mr. Tikarrondé, but instead, his riches.

“You simply married him so then you could receive his inherence.  But for that to happen, Mr. Tikarrondé, your “Berney”, would have to die.

 Unfortunately for him, his health fared well, despite how he appeared.  You soon grew impatient waiting for your treasure, so took a knife, and let his phycoerythrin spill everywhere.”

“Oh, this is absurd!” Merrilda proclaimed as she stomped her foot on the floor.  Simultaneously, the scarce lights that were on went out.

“GOG DAME ET!” shouted Papa Acapella, who now sounded like a southern farmer, (still drunk though) “Hol an, theill come bak an soen.”

True to his word, they came on in a few seconds.  Promptly before they accomplished that act, an oddly shaped ball rolled to Jack’s feet.

As the room became illuminated, the radiance displayed that the orb was in fact a shriveled, old head.  The now disembodied head of a cleaning lady.

“OH, SHI-!” shouted Jack, as he and the chair flew backwards with complete and utter alarm, and inadvertently kicked the cranium to the center of the chamber, all in one fell swoop.

Everyone (save Jack, who still lying upon his spine) ogled at either Merrilda’s ethereal head or her lifeblood-stained, summitless body. 

Without warning, Merrilda used her concluding breath to say, “I’m com-ming lo-ve.”

Silence fell over The Three Angry Tikis Motel, save the slender drone of the illuminating bulbs, as the rest of Merrilda’s life force tapped from her.