Getting a Clue

GETTING A “CLUE”!

Given the rise in popularity of the “True Crime” genre of entertainment, I decided to improve the Clue board game.


It didn’t seem – to ME, at least – that the theoretical mansion was particularly large or the theoretical murderers particularly adept. I decided to improve your play by adding new rooms (“crime scenes”) and killing objects (“murder weapons”). My generosity isn’t endless, however, so you’re still stuck with Miss Scarlet and Colonel Mustard.

CRIME SCENES:

Attic
Breakfast Room
Cabaña
Den
Eat-in kitchen
Family Room
Gym
Hobby Room
Indoor Pool
Java [the] Hut
Kitchen
Laundry
Media Room
Nursery
Office
Pantry
Quarters
Rumpus Room
Sunroom
Toilet
Underground Pool
Vault
Walk-in Closet
Xylophone Jam Room
Yard, Front/Back/Side/Prison
Zen Garden

MURDER WEAPONS:

Antifreeze
Bare hands
Candelabra Dagger
Electricity
Fire
Glass
Heroin
Icepick / Innuendo Jackknife
Kill Kit / Kindness Louisville Slugger
Mixed Martial Arts
Necktie
Overdose
Plutonium Quill
Rattlesnake
Sword
Talons/ Taser
Uzzi
Vibrator, X-tra Large Water
Y-incision
Ziplock Bag

P.S. YOU’RE WELCOME!!

Sexual Molestation at Your Local Neighborhood K-Mart

“I frigging love this❣️ I don’t know why we insist on only using “lovely” and “lavish” language in poetry. Poetry should reflect life, an observation you and only you are equipped to make. So if I didn’t already say it: I love it!”

This was the comment I made on the poem Your Design by Kait King. I’m linking it, not because I have any exposure to offer Kait [she’s a professional, and I’m not], but because I obviously like what she wrote. I can guarantee you that if you like anything I’ve written, you’ll feel the taut determination of justice in this piece. It’s also important for you to read it for us to move forward. So please, 30 seconds:

https://kaitkingthewriter.blog/2021/11/15/your-design/

Okay, you’ve read it. I want to link a poem I wrote about a murdered child after binge-watching true crime videos on YouTube. Please do me the honor of reading it. I believe it honors predated children by shining a light on their predators. And again, it’s necessary to proceed with this.

https://comewordplaywithme.com/2021/09/23/a-child-cries-unheard/

I know: it’s not a light read. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m starting to realize that my more imaginative writings have a way of amplifying my inner voice. I don’t know if that requires elaboration (which is a bad sign at this point), but I’ll try:

The week I wrote that poem, my first-ever (of 2) based on lyrical patterns in songs I particularly like, I was thinking a lot about the time I was “sexually molested” (I don’t even know the term for it anymore) as a 6-year-old in a K-Mart in Atlanta, Georgia.

Those were different times and I don’t blame my mom that this happened. She didn’t even know about it until I told her years later. It was during the summer, and every time we went to the store, my mom had to “struggle” all five of us “summer siblings” into an impossibly-small car. Seriously, there were no Tahoes in the ‘70s! I don’t even know how we got to the store in the first place, I just…don’t. I only know that as soon as the car officially came to a stop, children and adults had dispersed and were on their ways to their own favorite dark corners of the store.

Of course, I was the child who made a bee-line for the Toy Section…because that’s where the Barbies were. And I adored Barbie, Skipper, PJ, Ken, and their “Malibu” cousins. All I wanted whenever I had a birthday was a Barbie. And if I didn’t have enough birthday money saved, I’d buy barbies clothes instead. I had a large vinyl box that held all of my barbies and all of their clothes and accessories. I had a mental inventory of every single item in that box.

So I didn’t see the old man near the toy section until I was next to him, separated by an aisle that was about 3 feet high (I’m not very good with height and depth perception). I just remember looking (up?) to see an old (because he’s bald, like my Grandaddy), nice (because again, he looks like my Grandaddy, and Grandaddy loves me) Man standing there.

Who looked DOWN at me and said Come Here, Little Girl.”

He must need my help, because Grandaddy only ever tells me to do something in that mean kind of way if it’s an emergency. So he must need my help. And you’re not supposed to not mind your parents or grandparents, especially when you and your mommy and sister used to live with your grandparents. Since your Daddy didn’t live with you anymore.

Now you only know that your new Daddy Mike says it’s very important to mind grownups, and you’re a good girl. Maybe your older sister Stephanie isn’t, but you are.

So you go to help, and the nice old man tells you he has an emergency (good thing you listened!). He describes his emergency as this:

“I have a “pin” stuck in my [this is one thing I don’t remember: the term he used for it] __________,” but it really didn’t matter because he was busy demonstrating with what he was holding in his hand.

He said he needed me to help get the pin out.

I remember I sucked in my breath very quickly, because immediately I knew I was seeing something that I shouldn’t see.

And there wasn’t a “pin” in it, either.

That man, positioned right in front of the toy section, proceeded to shake his grown man’s penis in front of my little girl’s face. Why? Because he got a thrill from trying to crush the Innocence out of a

Little.

Tiny.

Baby.

Girl.

Well, guess what, Cocksucker (because I’m sure if you’re not dead, you’re professionally sucking cock in prison right now):

You’re a sick pedo fuck and you and the rest of your kind with your disgusting shriveled cocks can rot in your own level of hell for ten eternities, alone and with no one to keep you company but each other.

P.S. You didn’t succeed. I refused to let you steal my Innocence.

P.P.S. I know you sick pervs get off on reading shit like this, but as does Kait’s character in Your Design, I want to expose you for the cowardly, crude, contaminated criminal you are.

Prompt from F-Book… “Concerts Attended which ‘Date’ Me:”

The Brady Bunch (that’s right), Judy Collins, Shaun Cassidy, Foreigner (Juke Box Hero), Journey (Open Arms), CULTURE CLUB (!), ZZ Top (twice), 38 Special, Golden Earring, Rod Stewart, The Church, The Replacements, U2, THE WHO (4 hour drive in each direction), Huey Lewis and the News, Johnny Rotten’s rotten band, Charlie Sexton, Elvis Costello, Bob Schneider, Black Sabbath (wow, what a story!), and Van Halen. I’m sure I’m missing at least 10.

At outdoor venues, like Chastain Park in Atlanta, Tanglewood in the Berkshires, and Ravinia outside of Chicago. I remember seeing Chicago, The Boston Pops, and Kenny Loggins at those 3 places, respectively. But I’m certain I forgot many. Including Mary Chaplin Carpenter, multiple incarnations of Fleetwood Mac, a 1990s version of Crosby, Stills, and ??, and again, too many my Gray Matter has forgotten to remember.

Which ones date you?

P.S. I’m really sorry for painting your cool outfit with highlighter yellow, Shaun. I was eleven when you Arrived, so hopefully you understand about short-term memory loss and technology missteps.

P.P.S. For the record, I stopped wanting to marry you in 1979. So I’m not cyber-stalking you, no matter what Billy Squier says.