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We were asked in class to write a short story named "The Night the Detectives Arrived. After writing the first attempt, I was not satisfied, as I guessed it would be similar to everybody else's first thoughts on the title, so I wrote another.
Here they both are.
I turned the page, and leant back in my chair. There was a knock at the door. I nearly threw my book in shock. I swore, quietly but harshly. My wife would have cringed at the word.
“Just a second,” I shouted, as I quickly shoved some things under the couch.
I rubbed my eyes, so as to give them a tired look. Perhaps that would dismay them.
As I opened the door, I saw two gentlemen, dressed like the Blues Brothers. I said nothing. After a moment’s silence, the one closest to me took off his sunglasses and spoke.
“Do you mind if we come in?”
“I’m quite tired, if you wouldn’t-“
“It’s of… It’s… quite urgent.”
“I’m afraid the house is messy.”
“We… are not worried. Your wife has not been at work for two weeks. We would like to ask you some questions.”
“Oh no, she’s here, she’s quite happy. I definitely didn’t kill her.”
“Sir?”
“Oh. Um. She’s just in her room. I’ll get her.
As I looked back, an arm reached out from under the couch, and loudly pulled a standing light over. There was a groan.
‘Oh shit’ I thought. ‘I didn’t kill her.’
It was getting late, and the applicants were getting worse. There was no way that we would have a single good act for this year’s charity concert.
The next act came in.
I sighed. So did Geraldine. They were dressed like the Blues Brothers. And just to make it worse, there were three of them.
“Well? Who are you?” I asked.
“We…” started the front man, “are the Singing Detectives.”
“Oh.” I would definitely need an entire bottle of bourbon tonight. This was going to be shit.
Geraldine leant forward in her chair and started crying. I turned to the applicants and said, “I think that’s your sign to start.”
The front man produced a guitar from behind him and, balancing it on his rotund stomach, began to play. I could tell from the get-go that his A-string was flat, and the G-string was sharp. This was going to break my mind.
The terrible tunes that emerged from their mouths well and truly hurt my tender ears, and at many times during their song, Geraldine hit the table in pure frustration.
I, too, put my head down on the table, and blocked my ears.
A few seconds later, a gunshot rang out. I looked up in shock to see the guitar wielding man dead on the ground, a bullet hole punctuating his chubby face.
I turned to Geraldine, gun in her hand. Tears were running down her face.
“Well, gentlemen,” I said. “We’ll call you.”