Dippity Dot Dot

So, writing is a lot tougher than one thinks. My greatest weakness? I get carried away with descriptions and forget the plots; I'm apparently a lot better at setting out contexts than at getting a story going.

Anyway, this was spurred on by an MSN conversation with a friend that turned to the Plot Twists page on TVTropes; and one of the Plot Twists was "Bald Killed By Poisoned Wig", which kept us giggly for awhile.

Then I decided I'd like to try writing a story with that as a plot point, resulting in:

First attempt:

Detective Ato Goes to the Ball

My name is Thomas Rot, and I am a detective. Private, of course; the force wouldn't have me in it anymore after that incident with the President-Elect of the Smaller Congo (Independent), though of course young Amy Teur still comes around--unofficially, of course--for advice on the finer points of the business. Ask the man who's been around longest, it's always a good idea if you're in a dangerous business like mine. At least, it was a dangerous business until that incident, when I got pushed off the force and into this little office from which I send my ads. "Private Eye, experienced. Nothing too small." Got my nephew Pier to do it for me. It's small and cheap and gets me cases.

Small cases of course. Nobody hires private detectives these days but the average suspicious spouse or partner. Sometimes somebody loses their cat but the fire department covers that mostly.

At any rate I was suspicious when the little pink envelope arrived in the mail. Beware pink envelopes smelling of the latest-released expensive perfume, and double that if the seal is pink wax. Not many people who bother to use wax seals these days and even fewer who will custom-order their favourite shade. The envelope reeked of money and Eau d'Ruine, so naturally I had the office boy open it for me in another room and read it to me over the intercom.

"To semicolon open parenthesis former close parenthesis detective Thomas Flannel Rot comma" began the boy, and I began writing it down. Dennis Strait was the ideal office boy. Not at all curious, always ready to obey, and brewed some of the best coffee ever, and so forgetful his mama had tattooed his name on the back of both his hands and his address on his wrist. He went on through the whole letter that way, and then I got some coffee and read the letter.

That night I went to the ball, having done my reading and having met the client some hours previously. Everything was provided for me: suit, name, and unobserved entrance through the side door into the ballroom.

The first thing you noticed was how shiny everything was. Mirrored, polished, sequined, glittering, the Rich People were there and impressing each other; tiepins glistened on black ties, cufflinks gleamed from under sombre cuffs, stones sparkled in the rings on fingers, carefully whitened teeth shone in snatch-quick glimpses, gold dust glinted off the black of the suits, and that was just the Rich Gentlemen. If anything the Rich Ladies were even more blinding. Chatter was made, fans were twirled and snapped, and little hors d'oeuvres were carefully and daintily picked up and charmingly eaten. The band simply played and played, a collection of dull people operating large and gleaming instruments that completely overshadowed their players; even the music tinkled. It was all very Rich and I had no care for it, simply standing unobtrusively by the side in my servant's suit and watching the client's target.

The client was nobody special, just a chef who'd become worried over his employer's new eating habits. Not that it looked to be affecting him, the way young Mr. Kain Milch was dancing with his just-as-young fiancée, Miss Maria Enttäuschung; the two were a sight to behold, just like all the other couples on the floor. They became even more of a sight to behold when Mr. Milch fell onto the ground, convulsing and vomiting.

The dancing immediately stopped while all the servants converged upon the screaming Miss Enttäuschung, and naturally I went with them; the music came to a rapid halt, and then a tinkling sort of dirge started up while the sparkling guests began screaming at each other and at the ceiling while the servants began mopping up the vomit and generally restoring Mr. Milch to a radiant, if comatose, appearance. I, on the other hand, looked at the man and his shining white hair, full of golden dust the way the fashion was.

"Rot!" screamed the client, who had just lost his employer while I stood by the side watching. "Nobody leave the room!" he went on. He had obviously read far too many detective novels and was anxiously desiring that no possible criminal could leave the scene; the large cleaver he had suddenly produced and looked like he was about to throw in the general direction of the doors gave him authority, and the large doors were closed before anybody could leave. He turned on me, eyes ablaze and cleaver looming. "What, Mr. Rot," he bellowed, "has happened to Mr. Milch?"

"Zinc poisoning," said I, "his skin and teeth are tinged yellow, and he is dead."

Miss Enttäuschung wobbled and was in great danger of falling at that declaration.

"But Mr. Kain Milch is not dead, Minor Chef Kokki," I went on, "so now put that cleaver down--carefully, if you please."

Miss Enttäuschung fainted, and smelling salts were produced; she revived, still pale, and looked on. I tugged at the palm of my glove--it didn't tear. It was good material. Rich People had, apparently, Rich Servants. I reached for the ears of the dead Mr. Milch, then ran my fingers around behind them, and found the little flap.

"Mr. Milch was descended from an interesting lineage, Miss Enttäuschung," I said.

"His family were all bald," she said weakly. "They all wore wigs. But that is common knowledge!"

"Yes," I said thoughtfully. "It is common enough knowledge that it is written in their entry in the Who's Who."

"Who are you?" said an accusing voice.

"I am Private Detective Thomas Rot," I replied, and the accusing voices started up again until Minor Chef Kokki waved his cleaver and it caught a great deal of attention.

"I employed him!!" screamed Minor Chef Kokki, and waved his cleaver until all the accusing voices had died down. "Well then, Rot," screamed Minor Chef Kokki my client at me, "solve this case! For nobody leaves until it is solved!!"

"Your employer is living," I said, standing up, "and this man is dead of zinc poisoning. Any medical expert will tell you that. This man is not Kain Milch. Kain Milch is elsewhere."

Miss Enttäuschung fainted again, and more smelling salts were produced, and proved so invigourating to the young Rich Ladies present that several of them had to begin waving their fans, thus scattering glittering gold dust everywhere.

"This man," I said, "is Viel Milch, the lost twin of Kain Milch."

Minor Chef Kokki looked as if he would explode. "How do you know that from only an inspection of the most cursory type?" he bellowed.

"He is obviously a Milch," said I, drawing myself up to my full height, "and even in this bright light Miss Enttäuschung could not tell any difference; therefore he must be Kain Milch, or the twin, Viel Milch."

"Viel Milch is dead!" roared Sergeant Bluster as he entered the room, a small group of men behind him. "The evidence is incontrovertible!"

"It must be mistaken, then. Look at the corpse. It is Kain Milch in every way but one."

"Which way is it different?"

"It has died of zinc poisoning," said I. "Due to wearing that incredibly recognisable wig, made by the Rambut company and powdered by specially treated zinc. And Viel Milch was well-known for his allergy to milk." I pulled my copy of Who's Who out of my pocket. "These things are amazingly detailed, aren't they?"

The sergeant looked like he would explode.

Every name in there is a pun. No, I am unrepentant. But it reads more like parody/satire than like something written on crack, so I abandoned that and tried:

Second Attempt:

Dead Man at Ball

A man dropped dead at a ball. Because it was a ball, people continued dancing around him, assuming (because he was a young man) that he was merely performing some sort of newfangled move and that any time, if he was sufficiently ignored, he would get up. His tearful partner was likewise ignored as an incentive to return to the norm.

A servant made his way over. "Madame...?" said he unobtrusively, in the same tone as one that might be used to offer a hors d'oeuvre to the same guest for the fiftieth time.

"He is dead!" wailed the lady, distraught, and fanning the man as if being dead was like having mosquitoes and in this way she hoped to keep it from staying. "And we were to be married tomorrow!"

The dancing pairs around her began to dance noticeably more slowly, and to attempt to unobtrusively check their little palm-held calendars to see if they had been invited to said planned marriage. Upon finding out that they had not been, the dance resumed its frantic pace.

The servant looked at the dead man. "I see." He grasped the dead man by the hair and pulled sharply. The hair came off. "He is not the man you thought he was, Madame."

Madame fainted, and the servant produced smelling-salts.

"Would you like to dance?" said the servant gallantly.

"But he is dead!" said Madame.

"He is only a servant," said the servant, putting the wig on.

"Ah!" said Madame in dawning recognition, "you are Mr. Bourgeois--but then he is--"

"Chef Kokki, who I discovered this afternoon was my identical twin," said Mr. Bourgeois, "and I exchanged places with him for the day. Unfortunately I forgot to tell him that my wig is powdered with zinc, and he must have ingested some and died of it."

Madame sighed happily. Other servants came and removed Chef Kokki's corpse.

"We marry tomorrow, Mr. Bourgeois."

"We dance tonight, Madame Peruukit."

And the dance went on.

It's not that good either, but it's better. And at any rate it's shorter.

The combined time to get these both done: about two hours, though I interspersed with Facebook and MSN a lot; so maybe an actual total of a bit less than half an hour. Still, it shows that fanfiction writers are a lot more creative than one thinks.