Stop Taxing Your Intelligence

 

 

Sam Samson, Detective

A Suspense Story
by Grunion Guy


 

Chapter One

Sam Samson was a good guy. He liked to help people because he was a detective. He always worked for free and was very popular.

One day a pretty girl came into Sam's office. He always had pretty girls in his office because he was a good guy, who helped people, for free. She walked over to his desk and began to cry. She was left-handed.

"Don't cry pretty lady," Sam said. "It gets things all wet and you look like you're not tough." Sam was tough too. He never cried no matter what, especially in front of a pretty girl.

"Hi," she said cheerfully. "I'm Kate Samson."

"Hi," Sam said.

"How are you today?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he countered.

"I need your help," she said.

"How can I be of service?" he returned.

"My name is Kate Samson and I need your help," she pleaded desperately.

"What can I do?" he announced.

"My friend has been killed. I don't know who murdered him, but he was murdered. Somebody killed him."

"Don't worry Kate, I'll solve the case and I'll save your life too!"

"Oh Sam, that would be grand."

Then, they kissed on the lips for twenty two seconds.

 

Chapter Two

Sam and Kate walked down the street to the crime scene. It was in San Francisco. He had a trench coat and a hat, and he carried a gun too. The gun had six bullets in it.

At the murder scene there was a dead body on the ground with a chalk drawing of itself around itself. The chalk was milky-white and eerie.

Pete Samson, a detective, was in charge there. He was a detective too, but not like Sam who was a detective. Sam was a private detective and Pete was a public detective. They hated each other.

"What are you doing here you stupid head," Pete yelled.

"I'm on the case now, Pete," Sam retorted.

"Well, you're stupid," the enraged public detective raged.

"Stick and stones may break my nose but names will never hurt me!" responded Sam effortlessly. "Ha, so there."

"O.K., you win this time Samson. But remember, I've got you on the tip of my tongue!" The mad detective went home to have coffee.

Sam and his dame looked over the murder scene hand in hand. It was one of those moments when they suddenly found themselves alone and wanted to do it, like in the other detective stories. So they did it. Then they hunted for clues at the murder scene, happy.

"Oh my God! Look at this!" shrieked Kate. "There's a big knife sticking out of his throat!" Upon closer inspection, Sam concluded that Kate had been right. They had found their first big clue. They had the murder weapon, which was a big knife.

Blood gushed out on the ground. It was blood-red. It made a kind of "squishy-squishy" sound as they waded through it looking for more evidence.

The victim who was dead was named Kyle Samson. He was rich and famous and had lots and lots of stuff. The murder scene was at his house where he'd been killed with a knife. There was blood everywhere.

Kate and Sam looked for more clues. They soon found an address book titled: Kyle Samson's Address Book. They thought that maybe the murderer could be somewhere in that book. Well, not really in it, but his (or her! hint, hint) name and phone number and address might be in there.

They started with the A's. There were none. Nor were there any B's. In fact, the book wasn't even started until the S's. They started there then.

The first name on the list was Samson, Omar Samson. Omar was an ethnically diverse, and thus politically more acceptable, and thus more likely to be published character. He was brown. Sam and Kate walked to his house, which was in San Francisco near the ocean.

"Where were you the night of August seventh of this year?" Sam grilled. That was the night that the murder happened, when the victim was killed.

"I was home watching TV." Sam, I mean Omar, replied.

"A likely story!" Sam informed. "For, you don't have a TV. I did research on you."

"How did you know?" the puzzled Omar asked puzzledly.

"I did research on you!" he howled.

"O.K., I'll admit that I wasn't watching television. I was listening to the radio on the night of the murder."

"How did you know that I was here about a murder?" Sam asked slyly.

"I don't know," proclaimed Omar. For, they had forgotten to do the introduction part.

"Hi," Sam stated, going back to the introduction stuff they'd forgot to do. "I'm Sam Samson and this is Kate. I'm solving the murder of her friend Kyle. I want to ask you a few questions, okay?"

"Okay," Omar responded. Omar was brown.

"Now, let's skip ahead to after you said you were listening to the radio, okay?"

"Okay."

"Then you didn't kill Kyle Samson, did you?"

"Uh, Uh."

Sam was glad that the ethnically diverse guy hadn't killed the victim because that would seem to be a racist statement, and Sam was a good guy.

"Bye."

Next on the list was Dr. Squidlo Samson, the old professor of science at the university. The University was in San Francisco, near the water, so Sam and Kate walked there too.

This guy was white, so he could be the murderer.

"Hi," Sam Samson said. "This is Kate and we're investigating a murder. Kyle, your old student was stabbed in the throat."

"I zee," zaid ze doktor in a Ruzian akzent like all profezors. "I vill tell you all dat I know."

Oops. Sam then questioned the doctor quickly and silently because he knew that his God's spell checker was not going to like the professor's speech much. Sam just knew that the old professor didn't do it.

Kate and Sam walked back to Sam's office and did it again. It was steamy and romantic, too. After they were done and happy again, they waited for some new evidence to present itself. At five P.M., the phone rang.

It was Pete Samson, the detective, who hated Sam, the good guy, but always called him up to give him clues because it turned out they were really friends and that the whole hatred thing was just an act to trap the real murderer.

"Sam," Pete announced. "It's Pete."

"Pete," Sam explained. "Hi, this is Sam."

"Sam," Pete proclaimed aloud. "I've got some knew information for you that we've found, and that you forgot to notice at the murder scene."

"What's that?" Sam asked, surprised and yet joyed at the same time.

"Scrawled in blood-red blood, on the ceiling, by a left-handed person, were the words: I killed Kyle Samson with a big knife; Signed, Kate!" Putting two and two together Sam suddenly knew who the murderer really was.

He whirled around to see Kate pulling a gun from her purse. She looked like a bad guy now. She wasn't really that pretty anymore.

"How'd you figure it out?" Kate asked Sam.

"Well, I noticed right off the bat that he'd written your name in his book with his left hand, only he was right handed. Also, a note in blood-red blood was written by a left-handed person on the ceiling. And you're left-handed, so you're the murder. Because, in actuality, you never knew Kyle Samson at all. You killed him with that knife, wrote your name in his address book really fast, wrote the note on the ceiling really fast, and then ran over here to blame the whole thing on the brown-skinned ethnic person. I can't believe I did it with you!""

"You're pretty clever, Sam. We could have made quite a pair. But, you had to figure things out. Everything would have been okay if it wasn't for those kids and their pesky dog! I'm afraid I'm just going to have to shoot you with this gun now."

So, Sam pulled out his gun and shot her instead. She started to die from the fatal gunshot wound to her face.

"I'm sorry Sam," she whimpered. "I always loved you." And she died as the police charged into the room

"Well," Detective Pete said. "I guess you solved another one, Sam. How do you do it?"

"Elementary, my dear Pete. Elementary."

Just then, Sam's real girlfriend, who was even prettier than Kate, came into his office, and they did it. After the cops had left of course.

So Sam was the good guy still. He'd solved another case yet again. But, he still couldn't believe that Kate had killed Kyle. But she had. Unless her being the murder is sexist, and not politically correct publishing material to editors. In that case, the old guy did it.

 

The End

 

Copyright © 1994 No Apologies! Press

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