Halloween Punnies
Q. How can you tell that Dracula has been to the bakery?
A. “Mullins!” the Sarge barked. “Get yer worthless Irish ass over here and start documenting this shit.”
“Yeah boss,” I said, twisting a new bulb into the flash of the detective’s camera. It was all I could do to stand upright, let alone keep the bulb from flying out of my sweating palms. I hadn't even had my morning coffee before this call came over the police scanner.
The backroom of Mrs. D-lishus’s Coffee Shoppe looked like the gothic lesbian honeymoon of Julia Child and Lizzie Borden. Mrs. D-lish herself was found buried face-first in an industrial sized mixing bowl, riding in circles as the mixer dutifully prepared that morning’s bear claws and maple logs. In her buttery hand she clutched a makeshift crucifix of two intersecting spatulas. All around her, lesser bakery staff littered the floor, sporting creative gushing flesh wounds that only the most Indie rock of serial killers could appreciate.
The Rookie behind me was throwing up again.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Sarge said between puffs on that morning’s fourth cigar. “Man breaks into a bakery before sunrise, slaughters the entire staff, spills doughnuts all over the fuggin’ floor, then leaves without even bothering to open the register. We’re dealing with a bona-fide sicko here, guys. One word of this gets to the press and the person responsible will be working security at high school dances for the rest of his career, got me?”
The Rookie was able to stop adding color to the crime scene long enough to be a cop. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and kneeled over the pile of doughnuts, picking one up gingerly between his fingertips. “Sarge?” he began.
“Yeh, Anderson?”
“All of the… All of the jelly has been sucked out of these jelly doughnuts.”
“Fuck you, Anderson.”
I shot another picture of the carnage and reached for the bottle of Pepto tucked inside my coat pocket.
A. “Mullins!” the Sarge barked. “Get yer worthless Irish ass over here and start documenting this shit.”
“Yeah boss,” I said, twisting a new bulb into the flash of the detective’s camera. It was all I could do to stand upright, let alone keep the bulb from flying out of my sweating palms. I hadn't even had my morning coffee before this call came over the police scanner.
The backroom of Mrs. D-lishus’s Coffee Shoppe looked like the gothic lesbian honeymoon of Julia Child and Lizzie Borden. Mrs. D-lish herself was found buried face-first in an industrial sized mixing bowl, riding in circles as the mixer dutifully prepared that morning’s bear claws and maple logs. In her buttery hand she clutched a makeshift crucifix of two intersecting spatulas. All around her, lesser bakery staff littered the floor, sporting creative gushing flesh wounds that only the most Indie rock of serial killers could appreciate.
The Rookie behind me was throwing up again.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Sarge said between puffs on that morning’s fourth cigar. “Man breaks into a bakery before sunrise, slaughters the entire staff, spills doughnuts all over the fuggin’ floor, then leaves without even bothering to open the register. We’re dealing with a bona-fide sicko here, guys. One word of this gets to the press and the person responsible will be working security at high school dances for the rest of his career, got me?”
The Rookie was able to stop adding color to the crime scene long enough to be a cop. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and kneeled over the pile of doughnuts, picking one up gingerly between his fingertips. “Sarge?” he began.
“Yeh, Anderson?”
“All of the… All of the jelly has been sucked out of these jelly doughnuts.”
“Fuck you, Anderson.”
I shot another picture of the carnage and reached for the bottle of Pepto tucked inside my coat pocket.