Surreal Life Orgins Part One: Who Done It?

Chapter 3: Simmering Death

The communication of the dead sinner is tongued with fire far beyond the comprehension of the holy man.

Silence. Nothing but shear, unreserved silence stocked the lobby.

The primary suspect of primary's demise was laid in the core of the room, body less.

Dead.

Sasha could not believe it. After her deductive reasoning, after all that time weighing odds and ends, after tying every, single, little frayed end together, she was still wrong.

The assassin had not just slaughtered a motel owner and a cleaning lady, but also Sasha's feeling of self-worth.

"Well," said Samson, breaking the vexing stillness, "I guess that the logical thing to do is to look for evidence. Let's split up."

"But, what if the killer is to find far away from others, and then add us to his body count?" asked Heads.

"Good point," Samson said, rapidly reconsidering the situation, "OK! I've got it. We split up into pairs. Me and Papa, Heads and Jeremy, Butch and Joni, Jack and Sasha. Keep keen vision on your partner, for if he or she is the hatchet man they will not be able to sneak up and execute you or anyone else as effortlessly.

Shortly after the groups departed each other, Heads became slightly fearful of Jeremy and his muteness.

Unpredictably, the vocal sound of a timid, young, British chap spoke out, "You know, I am less afraid for my safety now that Madam and Sir are now departed."

Heads nearly shot through a portrait of a volcano. "GAH! Jeremy, I thought you did not talk!" he squawked.

"I am sorry sir, I will be soundless from now on," mumbled Jeremy.

"No, please don't shut up. Whatever you say will help us in this circumstance."

"OK, sir ..."

"Oh, and don't call me sir, Heads, all my friends do."

"What do you think," Jack said, holding up a rubber chicken, (in which he always carried around) "could this be a clue?"

"I don't know, and I don't care." Sasha said sternly, trying to entomb what was idiosyncratically, the suffer of anguish.

"Hey," Jack said tranquilly, as he put his "crisis" poultry in to his track suit, "I was just trying to make you feel better. You must be really down-in-the-dumps about this whole Sherlock thing."

"It's more than just a "Sherlock thing"!" Sasha shouted. Then, taking a tour through another route, her face altered to become masked in a surge of tears, "I was wrong! I spent all that time and effort to be wrong!"

"Everyone makes mistakes, Sasha. It is what makes us human. Honestly, look at me. I have made more mistakes than any man, woman, or child on Earth, and I turned out fine. And you will too, as long as you don't let this one, diminutive mistake devour you whole."

Sasha seemed to calm down after this, implying that she was getting a hold of herself.

"But, I was so certain that Merrilda killed Mr. Tikarrondé," Sasha said, still wiping off tears, "All the signs pointed to her."

"Keep this in mind, Sasha, signs can be manipulated."

"I can't believe we're lookin' for clues about who killed that vile witch and her fleabag of a husband," Butch complained, as he rummaged through random items in a deteriorating antechamber.