Sandwich Crimes & Murder Times

Helllooo, Sprinkles, so it is Tuesday, not Sunday. However, Tuesday chronologically is closer to Sunday than Monday is and if I continue on this trajectory we will end up back on Sunday. Theoretically, if you think about it enough. But I digress—anyway, today I’ve written a short story (so we are veering into fiction today rather than me ranting). This is heavily inspired by those bad analogies written by high school students, if you haven’t seen it, look it up. It's hilarious; they’re brilliant. 

Anyway, enjoy the fabulously (and thankfully) fictional Romy Fisher. Or don’t. 

Josie xx 

***

In his hand he held a sandwich with bread as dark as the night sky except a bit lighter and more brown. With seeds like the stars, if stars were sesame seeds on rye bread instead of massive, luminous spheres of plasma held together by their own gravity. It had a filling of meat like the kind you get sliced from the deli because it was deli meat he’d gotten sliced at the deli the day before. The sandwich had a creamy spread spread across the bread with a spreading motion that was yellow like an artisan decorative clay mug that was glazed with mustard yellow. And the hand was attached to his arm like hands often are. His arm was on the ground because the rest of his body was on the ground. Potentially due to the knife in his back—a bit like someone put it there. 

A crime. 

Against sandwiches. 

And also a murder. It was okay though because I was here now, Romy Fisher, world’s most brilliant detective and my occasionally helpful sidekick I’ve-forgotten-her-name (Ivy for short). 

“My name is Connie,” Ivy says.

Irrelevant. I inspect the body for clues. Sandwich crumbs. How suspicious. He was the same height as a measuring tape that someone had extended to about 155cm and his long hair that obscured his face was brown like another person who also has brown hair.

“You get the materials for taking samples,” Ivy says, “I’ll look around the area for clues.”

I leave and go to my house which is nearby. I open the door and instantly feel confused and unsettled like when you accidentally skip a page in the book you’re reading without realising and now have no idea what the fuck is going on. Because this accidentally wasn’t my house. It was my neighbour’s house. I leave and go into the house next door. Yes, this is my house. It’s got the vase sitting there like an inanimate object on top of the table that just stands there like it is also an inanimate object—which distinguishes it from other houses like the one in Beauty and the Beast where the tables sing. 

I gather the materials for taking evidence and walk back to the crime scene (which is also the scene of the murder). On my way there, I see something. That looks out of place. Relevant even. I should know since I’m the greatest detective. I’m like Benoit Blanc and What’s-his-name Poirot except not fiction and not Belgium and not wherever Blanc is from. Or maybe I am depending on where Blanc is from. 

“I’m so glad you’re back!” Ivy says, coming over to me. “I was trying to look in that sewer because I saw a drop of blood on the opening for it and then I fell in!”

Disgusting. After Ivy fell in the sewer she smelt like Christian Dior Blooming Bouquet perfume if someone had replaced the perfume with sewer water. However, as a professional, I move past this and give her the sample-taking supplies. I also tell her of the suspiciously relevant object I saw on the way. 

“What was it!?” she exclaims, fascinated by my tale. 

It was a bowl. 

“What kind of bowl!?”

The bowl was in a rounded concave shape, a bit like a bowl, in a way that distinguishes it from a plate.

She groaned. It was perhaps some unusual expression of amazement towards my genius detective skills. 

We stayed at the scene where the crimes occurred until nightfall. Ivy brushed the bowl for fingerprints, analysed fingerprints, investigated the mechanics and routes of the sewer and did other boring things. Meanwhile, I continued inspecting the sandwich. Clearly the more important of the two crimes. Trying to distinguish whether it was rye or pumpernickel. 

I was as cool as a cucumber. Not a figurative cucumber either but like a legitimate real-life cucumber that someone had grown from a seed in late spring to early summer and then picked and then added tiny cucumber sunglasses and put in the freezer. Because I was cold and wearing green.

As I was using tweezers to extract a sesame seed from the bread in order to confirm it was, in fact, a sesame seed, Ivy gave a celebratory yell and jumped in the air. It was like she was flying not very high for a few seconds before coming back to the ground. I asked her what her actions were in relation to. 

“I think I solved the case,” she replied. “I gave the information to the main police station and they are going to get him right now.”

Well, well, well, would you look at that, another case solved by master detective Romilly Fisher.