August Writing Day 7
It was a dreary Monday in September when Constable Lightspeed came across the rotting corpse that resembled one of those zombies from Michael Jackson's "Thriller," except that it was lying down and not performing the electric slide.
Derek Fisher
Ottawa, ON
“A little early for Halloween,” Lightspeed muttered to himself, “and no one does Jackson anymore; not if they don’t want to be arrested as an accessory.” Lightspeed sighed softly. This looked like it was going to be a messy case. A long messy case. He called it in, requesting backup and a van from the ME. “No rush, “he told Maryann Galaxy, the dispatcher. “This one’s not goin’ anywhere.” Lightspeed, whose first name was Nick (his mother had been a Hammet fan), sighed again and went back to search the corpse. Oblivious to the stench of rotting flesh, Nick carefully ran his hands over the frayed garments. He found a wallet in the back pocket and, pulling it out, found a Haitian drivers license issued to a Citron Troi-Deveraux with an address in Port-au-Prince. Nick pursed his lips in a silent whistle. This thing had just gotten a whole lot messier, and he wondered if he should call Maryann back and ask the ME to hurry just in case this guy did go somewhere. “Someone’s sure got a sick sense of humor,” Nick told the air. Only a truly twisted bocor would make a zombie look like that.
Derek Fisher
Ottawa, ON
“A little early for Halloween,” Lightspeed muttered to himself, “and no one does Jackson anymore; not if they don’t want to be arrested as an accessory.” Lightspeed sighed softly. This looked like it was going to be a messy case. A long messy case. He called it in, requesting backup and a van from the ME. “No rush, “he told Maryann Galaxy, the dispatcher. “This one’s not goin’ anywhere.” Lightspeed, whose first name was Nick (his mother had been a Hammet fan), sighed again and went back to search the corpse. Oblivious to the stench of rotting flesh, Nick carefully ran his hands over the frayed garments. He found a wallet in the back pocket and, pulling it out, found a Haitian drivers license issued to a Citron Troi-Deveraux with an address in Port-au-Prince. Nick pursed his lips in a silent whistle. This thing had just gotten a whole lot messier, and he wondered if he should call Maryann back and ask the ME to hurry just in case this guy did go somewhere. “Someone’s sure got a sick sense of humor,” Nick told the air. Only a truly twisted bocor would make a zombie look like that.