Chapter One: Guybrush...WITH DEATH

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"What do you guys think?" asked Zayn. He waited for the other boys to make their judgements.

Boys whom, in a similar fashion to a group of bizzarely T-shirt-clad Ancient Greeks, were sprawled out on the fancy leather couch, passing around a bowl of grapes freshly picked from Niall's garden.

"You look fabulous!" exclaimed Liam, looking up from his copy of Slaughterhouse Five. "Honestly man, I have no idea how you manage to squeeze into those sweatshirts with all that hair gel."

"Hello," said Harry from his perch in the kitchen. "If I can do it, so can he."

"Yes, Harry, do go on about yourself. How is it that you get your socks to smell like lavender every morning?" Zayn put his hands on his narrow hips, though he was only half-joking. Harry's socks were delicious.

Harry gasped. "I can't tell you that. You know that, Zayn- it's my own personal secret!" He paused.  "No offense or anything, mate."

"Fine. Just tell me how I look in this."

Harry examined him. "Why, Lavender Brown would be flattered to know you've been hitting up her Instagram for ideas."

"Gumdrops! Lavender Brown has an Instagram?!" exclaimed Niall from inside the toilet.

"Niall, stop eavesdropping on other people from inside the toilet. We've been over this before," said Zayn to the bathroom door.

"Sorry," replied the bathroom door.

"Harry," said Zayn, returning to the topic at hand. "You don't honestly think I look like Lavender Brown. Right?"

"I dunno, you always looked better as a woman," muttered Louis between a mouthful of grapes. "Damn, these things are delicious."

Zayn muttered something inaudible and stomped out of the room.

"What's with him?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, he just got mad for no reason," said Liam. "You don't suppose he's got, er, a period, now does he?"

"Oh, Liam!" cried Niall from inside the bathroom. "Just because someone is a little moody doesn't mean they're on their period."

"You do realize that he is a man, and therefore biologically incapable of getting a period?" said Louis.

"Guys, shut up! I'm eating!" Harry exclaimed, rummaging through the bag of Bugles he'd discovered peeking out from behind a box of matches in the pantry.

"Well, yes, but symbolically, the connotation I'm recieving from Zayn's sudden and inexplicable mood swing can be categorized as ironic because of your offhanded comment cleverly comparing his masculine-to-feminine ratio."

"Huh. Good point."

"Hey, guys, I'm leaving," said Niall, popping up from behind his perch near the doorway. "I'm going to get a Starbuck."

"He's so damn Irish," muttered Liam as Niall sauntered happily out of the room. Meanwhile, Harry squealed in terror because he dropped his second banana. Louis rushed to his aid to console him.
Ignoring this, Liam turned on the news. He was met with a terrible sight.

"...third high-profile victim in six months," said the newscaster, a blond woman buried in heavy shades of blue eyeshadow and well-applied lip gloss. "Police from all over the United Kingdom and parts of France are scrambling to string together details. We're told that the alleged list of suspects stretches from nearly twenty-seven to fifty. When pursued for additional information, both Scotland Yard and London police declined to comment."

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