OOC: Formattin' in the morn.




Verbatim* from the journal of Darcy Ellis:


*Embellishments have been made.


In the year of 2021, I took my degree of associate specialist from the University of Delaware and proceeded to a strange, experimental operation that would prove to be one of the most fascinating decisions of my time on this Earth. Forced by the peculiar circumstances of my sister's medical conditions, I accepted a job as the psychological observer of a specimen dubbed “The Chameleon.” Despite my initial beliefs of this project being one of artificial intelligence, I found the reptile to be far more natural than I anticipated. Underneath the mask was a hurt, confused man named Ned Kaye, who had chosen professional wrestling as his trade. In the brief time that I first knew Mr. Kaye, I was astounded by his ability to operate almost mechanically due to the analytical nature of his view of the world. When given the opportunity to part ways following the termination of The Chameleon project, we chose to keep in touch and he hired me on a sort of personal assistant/therapist. Most mornings of our interactions were rather simple, but one day, whilst we had been staying at his Aunt & Uncle's residence in Texas, our somewhat droll interactions were interrupted by a resounding thump against the door.


It was the morning of the 28th of October that the sharp knock reverberated in the household, shaking us from our morning cobwebs. I still recall Ned strewn across the couch, an ice pack resting upon his head to ease the stinging of a recent match he had endured. His face scowled as he each heavy rap picked at his brain like an ice axe against his freezing skull. He motioned for me to address it as I was enjoying a bowl of cereal at the table, but before he'd lifted a hand, I was already halfway to the door. Opening it, I was greeted by a distressed, thin, pale man wearing a shirt that had a stylized drawing of himself adorning the front of it. Around his neck was a pile of assorted chains, differing in size, finish, and metal, jingling softly as his face turned to confusion.


“Oh dear, you've got to be pulling my ass and providing it a swift kick,” the strange man muttered, staring at me as if I was some species of creature he had never quite laid eyes upon. His gaze shifted to the house and furnishings behind me, desperate to find something, perhaps someone else there! He called out past me, his manner unkempt and disorderly.


“Ms.J? Sam? Y-you really must be present, this is an emergency!” He shouted as the volume of his cry seemed to travel primarily into my right ear. I had half a mind to slam the door on the fellow for the sheer disruptive conduct he so easily embodied, yet my prepared and hasty dismissal met the groaning of Ned rising to his feet to get a look at the visitor, no longer obstructed by the couch.


“My aunt and uncle are out of town, man. You're going to be hard pressed to find them if you really need them so badly. Sorry,” Ned shifted the cold, frozen pack to his strained neck after completing the apology, doing his best to empathize with the strange man, though struggling due to his sore body.


“Yeah, what he said,” I articulated added, shifting my face slightly to taunt him with a slight curve of my lips.


“Drat! Buffoonery!” He yelled, deeply frustrated as he turned away from the front entrance for a moment before turning back to face us, “You know, I could even dub it chicanery; this injustice!”


Almost reluctantly, I saw Mr. Kaye's eyes float over to meet my own. I could already begin to see that mind of his leap at the chance to assist someone with the power of his deductive reasoning. More importantly, it was a gentle gaze that held in it a desire to do good on behalf of someone else, regardless of how bizarre the situation initially seemed. Ned sighed, almost trying to resist the call of his better nature before conceding to its tight grasp on his heart.


“...Perhaps we may be able to assist you, Mr...?”


“Oh, my most sincere of apologies! In the midst of this chaos, I have failed to properly identify myself. People call me Busta Mitts. I am a wordsmith from the isles of England.”


I glanced at my compatriot, making a minor motion with my head to try and signal to him that a small piece of translation would be much appreciated. Ned's continuation started deliberately slow, as if to assist in my ability to follow along.


“Mr. Mitts, then. I know we're not too familiar with British rappers, let alone ones who seemed to just show up in Texas, but we'd be more than happy to help in any way we can. What's the issue?”


--------


A short, fifteen minute or so hike across Kaye's extended family's property found us arriving at the Mitts Manor: an abode immaculate in outward appearance, particularly for such a strange man as “Busta.” Much of the exterior of the home seemed to shine, clearly recently built. It wasn't the largest home I had ever seen, but it was far removed from the tiny apartments I had spent much of my life within. Mr. Mitts swung the door open for us, clearly very prideful of his living space, noting little details about the price of having it built and the many quirks of the house's rushed construction, even informing us of the tour he provided Ned's aunt and uncle when he moved in roughly two months prior.


“So, you're saying something happened last night?” Ned asked, ignoring many of the wordsmith's long-winded descriptions of his home.


“Indeed,” Busta replied, his curtness a welcome change of pace, given the known alternative. I kept my mouth mostly shut, content not to potentially get him started on yet another irreverent non-sequitur that would clutter my mind further. Ned however, focused his approach further, seeming dead set on cutting the fat from this matter as swiftly as possible.


“Would you care to give us a brief overview of the situation? It might help us get into the correct mindset about things.”


“Certainly, certainly,” Mr. Mitts responded, doing his best to recount the information while taking us through his home, clearly heading towards a particular destination within, “I suppose it all starts with my departure to a bit of a messy fine dining restaurant called Armando's. I hadn't the chance to have some truly fine cuisine until I visited that place a few weeks ago and I tell you that they have some of the most lovely finger food I've ever had the pleasure of tasting. However, I had to leave my home to my personal chef, who was finishing up a few preparations for today's breakfast, my maid who was meant to clean my study thoroughly and my personal assistant, who I had asked to stay a little late and work out my finances following the construction of this rather intricate manor. Yet, when I returned, I discovered that a beloved family heirloom had been destroyed, no doubt by one of the inhabitants of this very house last night!”


Before we could ask about the specifics of the item, he lead us to a somewhat out of the way closet and carefully pushed the door open, revealing a pair of rather ghastly looking, yet immaculately bejeweled gloves. Covered from wrist to fingertip in a subtly glittery substance and precious gems. Unfortunately, another decoration adorned the gloves, stretching across both in a horrific manner. Gashes. Cuts that were no accident, all messily slashing up and down the abused hand-wear sat behind a glass dome, their newfound scars on display for all to see.


“These don't look too cheap. I hope you had them insured, Mr. Mitts,” Ned stated rather plainly.


“I am lucky to say that I had, though no amount of money can replace the spot they hold in my family and in my soul, Mr. Kaye. I ask you to make quick of this mystery. I am certain that it cannot be too complex.”


“Of course not. Where do you currently have our suspects held up?”


“They have been asked to stay in the rumpus room until this matter has been cleared proper,” Busta replied, looking over Kaye's shoulders slightly as my friend took a studying glance at the gloves. Ned cleared his throat a little, adjusting the ice pack against his neck once more.


“I think it would do us all better if you made sure our suspects are staying put, Mr. Mitts. We wouldn't want the guilty party to slip away while we're investigating,” Ned politely “suggested,” giving the man far more patience than I ever would have considered.


“Of course, of course! Please shout if you require but a thing my friends!” Busta did his best to sound accommodating, but it was clear that he would have preferred a closer eye on matters if Ned hadn't pushed back on it. That said, he slunk away, somewhat crestfallen by the lack of inclusion, though I personally felt no sympathy for the man.


“Good riddance,” I uttered under my breath, watching Ned inspect the gloves carefully, making mental notes of the matter as he soothed his body with the slowly melting ice pack. He silently pointed towards a small stain, lifting the glass case off of the stand as I stood somewhat uncertain of the action. “Maybe we shouldn't go touching every little thing a dude this loaded owns, Ned.”


“Well, it's not like these are about to make him much money any time soon,” he rebutted, taking note of a small stain near the fingertips and giving the gloves a whiff, before handing them to me, expecting for me to do the same.


“Y'know, you could just explain. I would really prefer that to sniffing Weirdo McGee's hands.”


“It's not the hand scent that's important here. It's the stain. It's a savory sort of smell. Like a sauce of some kind.”


“Then it must be the chef! Egads, Ned, you tore through that like it was nothing.”


Ned smirked, shaking his head somewhat before giving my shoulder a soft pat, “Not so hastily, Ms. Ellis. Let's not make leaps in logic where steps are more than appropriate.”


As he replaced the gloves, he swiped a hand down his clothes, wiping the glittery substance off of his shirt somewhat. And with that, we began to head towards Busta's study. Entering the room, we found it mostly spotless, holding only a few bookshelves and a desk with a locked cabinet underneath and various sticky notes with pathetic rhymes for Mitts' upcoming mixtape that would prove to be the worst thing I ever listened to on repeat for days. However, where I had found an empty, recently cleaned room, Ned had found a revealing piece of this puzzle. He lowered himself to the floor, looked under the bookshelves, reaching for an easily hideable object and managing to find it. He hummed slightly as he lifted up the trophy: a pair of scissors that shined in a peculiar way, glittering a tad as they were held up to the light. Ned called out to Busta and the suspects, who entered the room swiftly.


“I believe I have found your weapon in this case, Mr. Mitts,” Ned stated, handing them to Busta who pulled out the key ring holding his car keys and a few house keys to lock them safely back into his desk.


“Why thank you so much, Mr. Kaye! Does this mean you have solved this perplexing mystery!?”


“I have,” Ned said confidently. The room awaited his analysis with bated breath.


“Someone did it,” he said. There was a shocked silence.


“That's it?” The maid merely verbally asked what all our expressions had already had.


“Yes, that's it. There is literally no reason to get this worked up over this incident and dwell on it for so long. I mean, seriously. And I know this is rich coming from me because I get in my own head, but spending the better part of a night or week or two months worrying about something so easily overcome is fucking absurd. Like, move on with your life. It doesn't take a genius to know that wallowing about in a huff because you lost something doesn't make you cool, it just makes you obsessive. Let's be real here people.”


“Well, that's a pretty big copout, Ned,” I replied, the room booing Ned alongside me as he got progressively more frustrated.


“Alright, you want a real answer?”


“Yes!' We cried in unison!”


He shot out a puff of annoyed air before he spoke, “It was Mitts. He was the only one who had a key to where the scissors are kept, he obviously had little love for the gloves due to where he kept them, he had a notable financial incentive due to insurance, there was food from the restaurant he went to on them as well. There you go! Big fucking whoop!”


“Whoa!” I shouted, taken utterly aback by his reasoning skills, “how were you able to solve all of this so quickly?”


“Because who the hell knows who Busta Mitts is here? Sure, he might be hot shit elsewhere, but is anybody really going to buy into a conspiracy against him when he just fucking got here? Of course he's involved in it in some capacity. It's not rocket science. He barely did anything before this incident to begin with, so it's not like he has some enemies over here. It's just common sense, people.”


He shook his head, shoving the now mostly water pack against the side of his face as he walked towards the exit to The Mitts Manor, calling for me.


“Come, Darcy. Let's go watch Bones or something. I could use a break from mysteries for a few years.”


--------


Darcy stared at the short piece of manuscript, completely dumbfounded. Sat across from her was a professional ghost writer, smugly smiling with a cigar in his maw that he removed for a moment to inquire a burning question on his mind.


“So... what do you think?! Pretty great, huh?”


Darcy just sort of confusedly shook her head as the man's smile faded.


“No... no, this doesn't read like it was written by me at all, honestly. Like, what the heck is all this descriptive purple prose? “Egads?” I sound like I'm writing the lamest college essay ever. Did you even read the stuff from my real journal?”


“Well, yeah, but I thought this would be spicier, give it more flavor!”


“More flavor is salt and pepper! You basically through out my steak recipe and gave me chicken, dude!”


“Look, look. If you're that unhappy with it, I can give it another go. Try and-”


“I paid you money for this. You're fired.”


The man hesitated for a moment before looking down, placing a head to his forehead and sighing.


“...God, my husband's gonna kill me.”

"You can't run from yourself."