“Colonel Mustard”
I saw him do it. With the knife. In the poolhall. An actual
hall of water. No parting yet so similar to the red sea. Where those submerged,
Spanish ears inhaled the facts. Mustard
and his silent wife. Just one extensive paragraph to document the evident
stammers under his moustache. The process of elimination guessing outside the
shelter of his mustard colored Porsche. The maid walked in. Saw Mustard. Espanol
ears with soundless cow tongue. Santeria. Tacitness, her black eyes forever scarred. He left too many Xs on the grid for them to
find. Too many clues.
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