From 2010 to 2014 Richard Cobbett wrote Crapshoot, a column about rolling the dice to bring random games back into the light. This week, justice is coming: Barbie-style. Presumably in several shades o
From 2010 to 2014 Richard Cobbett (opens in new tab) wrote Crapshoot, a column about rolling the dice to bring random games back into the light. This week, justice is coming: Barbie-style. Presumably in several shades of pink, with lots of accessories… to murder. Kidnapping, anyway.
Life in plastic. They say it’s fantastic, but what would they know? Even in a world of glitter and glamour, the dark soul of humanity is always with us, waiting to strike. That’s where I come in. When life in the Dreamhouse turns into a nightmare, they call me. I look up in my office and see a dame whose face says trouble, and I’m just looking at my full-length mirror. The name’s Barbie. And this doll’s only yours for 200 dollars a day. Plus expenses, naturally.
Damn, who of the exactly four people at the carnival could have done it?
It started like any other day in false paradise. This was the week after I stopped that dyslexic murderer from killing half of Beverly Hills with her deadly make-up. Damn, that could have been a mascara. I guess I could have told Ken, but it’s not like I’m with him for his conversation. Besides, it’s best he think this whole Detective Agency thing is just another whim, like the race-car career, or becoming an astronaut, or running for President. He’d never be able to handle the truth of what we do. He just doesn’t have the balls for it. Or for anything. He’s lucky he’s got an ass to kill for, and I do not speak metaphorically here. Or anywhere there might be a tape recorder running. But that’s another story.
We were at the carnival for the day, just me, him, my partner in crime «Wine Bottle» Becky, and some other chick who reckoned she wanted into the biz. Junior Detective. You know the drill. Could have been any of a few thousand names from A’leeshan or Zabrynah, ’cause the one thing I won’t have people saying is I’m not inclusive. Heck, I set things up to just as well roll with a guy with a name like Zach or Bryan. Can’t say I ever expected that many to sign up, but this material girl ain’t no misandrist.
If the Son of God himself wants to get me coffee, I’m gonna tell him I take it with two sugars, no cheaping out by showing up with fish sandwiches and claiming Subway just ran an offer. Only miracle I want at lunch is a burrito that doesn’t make me fart like a foghorn in the Barbiemobile.
He saves! And restores! And sometimes clicks Quit or Restart too!
But where was I? Oh, yeah. Becky and I were at this charity carnival for some unfortunate types or something. I wasn’t paying that much attention when Ken explained. You know how it is when he talks, like every sentence is just some variant of «Damn, it’s lucky I’m hot,» and all that?
All that mattered was he was chairman of this event, and as chairman, the man with the money. The money he was carrying when he agreed to be part of some lady magician’s big disappearing trick during her practice show. No prizes for guessing what happened then. This is exactly why I’ve always said to him, Ken, sweetie, there’s only one lady’s mysterious box you’re allowed to climb into, and it’s never going to happen on a stage. Not this side of the Berlin city limits, anyway.
You know what they say, when you need to solve a case, team up with a Cluedo piece.
So, the game was afoot. Find Ken. Find the money. Stop anyone snapping off Becky’s head and trying to drink her, again. First port of call had to be our mysterious lady magician, Madame Wanda, backstage in her fancy magic theatre. She wasn’t there at first, but the same couldn’t be said for the clues. Rabbits in hats, playing cards, a hidden spider in a light that was probably also A Clue.
