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CONTEST: 'A Day in the Life.....'

ms helen
ms helen

Hello, fellow Gumshoes!

Have you ever wondered what the Morgue Assistant really does with all those cadavers? Maybe you've wondered why Preston spends all his time in the bar?

We'd like to know what really goes on during the day-to-day life of some of our most well-known townies - and this is where YOU, my fellow gumshoes, come in.

We want you to write a story about a day in the life of a Townie. You may pick ONE of the following:

Pawn Broker
Beat Cop
Bartender
Reporter
Morgue Assistant
Tobacconeer

This contest is open to everyone, whether subscribed or unsubscribed.

THE RULES

Stories must be written in either first or third person.

Stories must not be longer than 1 forum post.

One Story per detective, and you may NOT use alt detectives to submit more.

Spelling and Grammar ARE important. Remember, Spell Check is your friend!

No Plagiarism, we expect your story to be completely your own work.

Please, remember the game is set in the 1950's, so no cell phones, personal computers/laptops, etc.

Also remember this is a detective game, so some form of mystery in the story will net you extra points.

The Judges: Anikka, Develin, Fletchi, and Ms. Helen. In the event of a tie our beloved Squirrel will have the deciding vote.

THE PRIZES:
1st Prize: 3 month sub + special item
2nd prize: 2 month sub + special item
3rd prize: 1 month sub + special item

Plus, anyone who posts a worthy entry (ie, NOT: i iz entering cuz i wanna win) will get a special little something too.

DEADLINE:
31st October 2010 (23:59 or 11:59 PM Server time)

Please post below if you have any questions. Please post your entry into this thread.

Good luck, all!

Replies
Belami
Belami

Reply deleted by Moderator.

Belami
Belami

Reply deleted by Moderator.

Belami
Belami

My name is Ron and I run the best and only pawn shop in this area. My business is successful, maybe because I keep myself to myself. I know how to keep a secret and I'm nobody's friend. My customers don't even know my last name. I'm just Ron.

But boy, do I know a lot about everybody else. Too much, you could say. You don't usually see people at their best at a pawn shop, and this place is no different. They come in, worried and talkative, and spill their sorry stories. So you get the middle-aged guy who can't make a house payment and comes in dragging an old drum set, the widow who lost her job and holds out her trembling hand to show her wedding ring, the laid-off mechanic with his greasy tool set that he's so proud of, or else some lonesome fool with an addiction and a runny nose, pulling his lawnmower in. I'll take most anything I can sell and I don't ask a lot of questions.

Today was no different. Some cute little number came in with a blue and white polka dot dress and a small handgun with a mother-of-pearl handle, suitable for a lady's pocketbook. I thought I saw the slightest bit of blood on it, but I didn't let on. It was a beaut and as I said, I don't ask a lot of questions. I'm gonna keep it in my backroom, the one with all the oddities these local folks bring in. There's things back there I never take out to the front. I just like to hang onto them. There's a woman's sapphire pendant that belonged to someone who is, God bless her, no longer with us. Her husband came in all upset and sold it to me for a song. Later, I read about it in the papers, that she was murdered and he had left town. The police are asking for information, as usual, but I never call them. I'm hanging on to that pendant. Yeah, this is the job for someone who likes collecting things. Sometimes I hold them and I wonder. I know that if these objects could talk, they'd have their stories to tell. And they'd tell me, only me. But they can't talk, and I won't. I'm just Ron, and I know how to keep a secret.

fam007
fam007

Ron, that's my name.. I don't prefer to reveal my last name, why? Because no one cares. I'm a loner and that's okay because I don't trust any being; they're all worthless.. To many, I'm a freak, to me many are freaks..
My neighbors at work, Tabitha and Rose.. nice people loved and respected even though their merchandise is pricey. A single woman in need of money like me has to over-price her items; my neighbors do it too. But when I do it, it's a crime.. My name and business gets slandered. I provide them the best possible goods and what do I get in return? "$45000 is too much for a trench!"... They browse around see what they like and when it's out of their budgets, they freak out and label my shop "stingy, full of over-priced stuff"! But that's okay... I've been listening to these cruel comments for over three years now and I'm accustomed to this... why? Because once a salesperson, always a salesperson!
Even though I strongly wish to, I can't quit this lame job I have two more mouths to feed.. Yes, I'm a widow with two children.. William killed himself due to poverty.. I can't do the same because I love my kids.. Oh William1 Where have you left me!
Oh well, I must go now to that drab, crummy job.. I can't talk now, I have customer complaints to listen to.

Likare
Likare

Reply deleted by Moderator.

Likare
Likare

Friday, June 12

The clock by my bedside showed 2pm,as i got up in my dingy apartment down over at Doylesburgh.
How many years ago from today was it? 5? 10? Lets just settle on 5, a man my age still has vanity.
I mused around for a bath, before locking up and heading out for my station at Gustav's. I nodded over to Gustav as i took my place at my usual stool. My drink was soon brought up as i began sipping. Ahh... sweet relief.
It wasn't long before Mr.Pippins showed up. I barely glanced at him but my heart was pumping like an AK-47 in the hands of a maniac. My mind was sharp alert as he sat down and drank. He soon finished his drink and went out the door. I gulped down what was left in my cup and stealthy followed.
I suddenly felt a pang of pain as i followed him, i knew where he was going, and i had my tape recorder in hand. He soon reached his destination-the graveyard. He took out a small brush and cloth and carefully washed the gravestone of Julia Pippin-Grosso. As he wiped, tears flowed down his cheeks, confessing how he killed his sister, who was caught in one of his uncontrollable rage. He left a bouquet of beautiful lilies-her favourite before he left.
I stepped out from behind the tree i where i was hiding, and held the recorded confession in my hand. I dropped to my knees as i reached Julia's grave. My Julia, my lovely wife, dead. I let out a shout of rage, as i tightly gripped the recorder. Tears had been flowing down for some time, yet it was only now that i was conscious of the wetness on my cheeks. Memories flowed uncontrollably of my darling Julia, how she smiled, how she laughed, how she loved her brother, her only kin. My head bowed low.
My face was dry when i finally got up, and buried the confession tape in the soil that covered Julia, beside the 4 others, that would forever lay with my Julia.
I took out a single Lily from my coat pocket and placed it on her gravestone before trudging back to Gustav's to indulge in another cup. That was life in a day of Beat Cop, Preston Grosso.

Belami
Belami

Hi, there! My name is Emmett Lundstrom, and I'm the friendly local tobacconeer. I enjoy my hobbies, too. My mother was an artist and potter specializing in traditional Swedish designs. I myself learned how to use a potter's wheel while still a child. I still have the enormous kiln out in the shed, and have been known to throw a vase while in the mood. It's a reflective activity and reminds me of good times.

My dad -- well, memories of my dad are unfortunately not quite so tender. He had a temper and so I learned to stay out of his way. I too have a temper -- when I see someone mistreating someone small and defenseless. For example, there was a guy who used to come into the shop and boss his kids around something fierce. And I heard he was unkind to his dog. I am a dog lover myself and that really rankled me.

Well, the guy died recently of a heart attack. My very best friend in town works as a morgue assistant and I was hanging out with him when the body came in. Robert and I really know how to share a laugh. I guess that's why I like him so much.

I'm proud of my little shop. I'm especially proud of my extensive collection of tobaccos from around the world. I have even been known to come up with my own special blends. I don't have a family, and my little hobbies mean a lot to me.

That mean guy wasn't too big. He fit okay in the kiln. For a mean guy, he made a nice blend.

TEALY
TEALY

PRESTON GROSSO'S OBITUARY

Preston Grosso, was a man that many people had met, but very few had actually known. He was the son of Joseph Grosso, a traveling salesman, as well as a partially functioning alcoholic absentee father. Preston's mother, Patsy. was his main source of love and validation. On Preston's ninth birthday, his mother passed away, in a horrific hit and run accident . Joseph, sought comfort in his career expeditions, as well as the bottle. Preston, found solace in the idea of creating a family of his own, one day.

His dream began, the day he and his wife Tabitha, were blessed by the birth of their son, David. Preston, had finally found peace and fulfillment, in his role as a doting husband and father. His dream came to an abrupt end, when he came home to find, Tabitha and David brutally murdered. The Police department, as well as the entire Doylesburgh community, were sent into a frantic frenzy.

After four long years, without any strong leads, the case was closed. Preston decided he would turn his devastation, into something productive, and chose to become a beat cop. He had a hard time letting go of the suffering. Therefore, out of a fear of the unknown, he preferred suffering that was familiar. Throughout, his career he was able to bring justice, to many crime victim's families. However, never his own. Therefore, Tricky Mister's bar, became his only refuge. He became his father's son. He became a stranger who never felt at home, who didn't really want and was not really wanted, who could never belong, and must be always a little in love with death...until he met his own.

Preston Grosso, I hope you have finally found peace in your rest, amongst your life's beloved stars.

kat00011
kat00011

how long is one forum post and

kat00011
kat00011

Robert Dark. What name could be more fitting for his dark past?
Young Howard Bright grew up in the slums of Doylesburgh. At age 8 his mother died. That is, she was killed. Robert's father came home one night, drunk as a skunk. Mrs. Bright questioned him about it. Those were the last word to come out of her mouth. That night Howard's father beat his mother to death and then skipped town. Howard was left alone in his living room with his mother's corpse. From that moment on, Howard was in love with death.
Fast forward 7 years. Howard is now fifteen years old. He has run away from Doylesburgh, the cops hot on his trail. As was said before, Howard fell in love with death. He loved seeing the fresh corpse lying perfectly still. He loved the chill of the skin after it had been dead for some time. But most of all he loved the look of fear on a person's face just before they died, the recognition of what is happening, and the sheer panic that stole across their face. Howard Bright had killed many at this point. The police had just solved his latest murder and were trying to put him in jail once and for all, but Howard escaped. He had seemed to vanish into thin air.
10 years later Howard returned to Hammett Square. He had undergone a name change. Howard Bright now goes by the name Robert Dark and works as the morgue assistant at Spade Central Hospital. This is the perfect job for Dark. He can feed his addiction without getting his hands dirty, his addiction to death.

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