Eight Meta-Christs for the Dragonfly’s Crisps –Alex S. Johnson

Detective Massoni Massoni took one look at the corpse and fell over laughing.

“I-I just can’t do giallo today, I’m sorry.”

The M.E. crouched down to where Massoni was, and when he saw the corpse from the lead Detective’ perspective, had to be carried off in a stretcher. His laughter turned to hyperventilation, then he choked on a strand of uncooked pasta that had come unstuck from between his teeth, his heart-rate escalated rapidly and before anyone could come to terms with his life-and-death struggle, he died with a grin on his face.

“What the hell’s going on, Detective?” Internal Affairs were a bunch of assholes, a stock troupe of men in gray suits who couldn’t cut it on the street, so made life hell for the men and women who risked death and dismemberment every day in the line of service.

“I…look, if you want to suspend me, fine. I’m down. But you have to admit the corpse was killed in unusual ways.”

“Unusual ways in what context, sir? Have you no shame, no sense of mortal awe before the remains? Are you going to just continue laughing like some depraved Rimbaud?”

“I probably will. Now if you don’t mind, I have some fishing to catch up on.”

“Well, that’s it. You are suspended from the rafters until further notice.”

Massoni sighed, accepting his fate.

It really was an enormously humorous death, if one could only appreciate it.


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