- 02:54:24: *** Murder, My Tweet - a Serialized Novel by Porter Randall ***
- 02:55:54: (c) 2009 - This is a work of fiction, etc., etc., all rights reserved.
- 03:00:30: Introduction. A novel written 140 characters at a time is probably not that original of an idea. I bet somebody else has already done one.
- 03:05:59: Luckily, that's not my problem. I'm just here typing some virtual words onto virtual paper, then turning them loose on Mr. Gore's internet.
- 03:08:23: This story was not written or plotted in advance. That will soon become clear. It's being done semi-spontaneously. I'm playing it by ear.
- 03:10:03: This is more of a bizarre literary experiment than anything else. Don't expect miracles. And, yeah...it's going to take a while to finish.
- 03:14:43: So, crank up that virtual fireplace, cook some possibly carcinogenic microwave popcorn, and enjoy this...thing. Or, not. -- Porter Randall
- 03:57:11: CHAPTER ONE. Frank woke up with a headache, in a pool of blood. His head was spinning. Well, not *actually* spinning...that's impossible.
- 04:00:38: His head was fortunately still attached, but he was dizzy and could taste the blood. It was salty, and not refreshing at all. Lousy mixer.
- 04:02:48: It took him a few minutes to realize that it wasn't even *his* blood, which made the whole thing even more distasteful later, in retrospect.
- 04:07:20: The blood seemed to belong to the dead blonde lying cold next to him on the floor, the one with the shapely shape and the giant knife wound.
- 04:12:27: "What a waste of a dame" he said, to no one in particular. He knew many women in his line of work, but very few with such beautiful gams.
- 04:19:20: Frank might have even gone online to blog about it, if he had the time...and had the internet existed yet. Which it did not. It was 1958.
- 04:22:55: Not that it was a bad time. TV was black & white, phones had rotary dials and weighed 10 lbs, and cars were huge and still made in America.
- 04:29:27: Yet, in 1958 strippers still wore those ridiculous pasties. Frank guessed that this must be a dead stripper, or a whore. Weren't they all?
- 04:39:47: He glanced again at the half-naked blonde. Even with the blood and the knife wound, she was easy on the eyes. He frisked her for evidence.
- 04:43:34: "Frisked", of course, meaning that he searched for clues to her identity. Also, he felt her up. Hey, it was 1958. Who was she gonna tell?
- 04:49:26: It might have even progressed from there. We'll never know, because at that moment a door opened and Frank Fargas saw a gun pointed at him.
- 06:20:02: The blonde's name was Maggie Underhill. Of course she couldn't tell Fargas this, nor that she didn't know her killer. She was very dead.
- 06:22:18: Maggie came to the city hoping to make a mint, possibly to be discovered at some soda fountain and become a star. And she did, on her back.
- 06:26:04: And, she had come up with a great chocolate chip cookie recipe, but that was neither here nor there. To recap, she was dead as a stone now.
- 06:35:14: She had an amazing body when she was alive. It was slightly less fantastic in death, her huge natural jugs lifted and separated by a knife.
- 06:38:10: At least no man can exploit me again, she may have thought while lying there all dead. But that was before Frank Fargas was feeling her up.
- 06:41:12: Yet when Maggie was on the slab, the feeling up would only continue. The coroner was a guy named Ted who lived with his mother. And a cat.
- 06:44:25: But I'm getting ahead in this story. Or off to the side, since these characters won't even appear again in it. Red herrings, we call them.
- 06:51:46: Fargas, the Fargo P.I., was face to face with a gun, and he knew the guy holding that gun all too well. It was his former partner O'Malley.
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