A Weekend with Colonel Mustard
A Blast from the Past
First of all, Matie's Pop is submitting this. A brand shiny new empty-nester, I've been going through the literary detritus of a couple decades' worth of child-rearing, left in Matie's wake as she followed her sister Annna off to college. Some of it was written when the girls were quite small; all of it you're going to have to read on this site sooner or later. There's a moral here: Don't leave anything behind you don't want to see on the internet. Matie wrote this story when she was fifteen or sixteen:
A weekend at Mustard manor is every reporter's dream. There's always some lavish party, important political speech, or lascivious affair occurring, with all the most famous, important people invited. And this week, I would be present as well!
After I arrived at the large, secluded manor house, the butler, Jeeves, showed me to one of the many guest bedrooms. The large sitting room was sumptuously decorated in a grand Georgian style. I decided to investigate the bathroom, when I saw something I will never forget.
Inside the antique clawfoot tub lay the bloated body of Celine Dion. I gagged and turned my head so as not to see the hideous puce ballgown. I steeled myself and looked again. Her dead eyes stared up at me, crusted with mascara. I tried to turn her head away, but when I touched her greasy hair the top of her skull slid off and landed with a squelchy thud on the Moroccan tile floor. Her brain case was empty. This did not come as much of a surprise to me until I noticed the bloody can opener in the Russian enamel wastebasket.
I began to sense foul play. Even though I was just an interior design reporter for Better Homes and Gardens, I saw a story. My big break, even.
I ran downstairs to find the butler, but the only soul I could find was Col. Mustard himself. Strange in a house usually so full of life.
I greeted him warmly, at which point he seemed to hide something behind his back. We spoke of the weather and speculated on the upcoming Oscars, until the colonel excused himself, saying he had some important business in the kitchen.
As he walked away I noticed a bloody teaspoon sticking out of his back
pocket. A story indeed.
A weekend at Mustard manor is every reporter's dream. There's always some lavish party, important political speech, or lascivious affair occurring, with all the most famous, important people invited. And this week, I would be present as well!
After I arrived at the large, secluded manor house, the butler, Jeeves, showed me to one of the many guest bedrooms. The large sitting room was sumptuously decorated in a grand Georgian style. I decided to investigate the bathroom, when I saw something I will never forget.
Inside the antique clawfoot tub lay the bloated body of Celine Dion. I gagged and turned my head so as not to see the hideous puce ballgown. I steeled myself and looked again. Her dead eyes stared up at me, crusted with mascara. I tried to turn her head away, but when I touched her greasy hair the top of her skull slid off and landed with a squelchy thud on the Moroccan tile floor. Her brain case was empty. This did not come as much of a surprise to me until I noticed the bloody can opener in the Russian enamel wastebasket.
I began to sense foul play. Even though I was just an interior design reporter for Better Homes and Gardens, I saw a story. My big break, even.
I ran downstairs to find the butler, but the only soul I could find was Col. Mustard himself. Strange in a house usually so full of life.
I greeted him warmly, at which point he seemed to hide something behind his back. We spoke of the weather and speculated on the upcoming Oscars, until the colonel excused himself, saying he had some important business in the kitchen.
As he walked away I noticed a bloody teaspoon sticking out of his back
pocket. A story indeed.