Missed Classic 4: The Scoop - Des Wahnsinns Fette Beute

By Kenny McCormick

Kenny’s filthy notebook (with anatomically accurate drawings of asses… and mules) legible page #6: Mrs. Tracey, apparently, is a woman with expensive tastes and can’t seem to keep her legs closed. A woman after my own heart. Except that I’m cheap.

Before carrying on, I just noticed, and let it be known, that I have not provided a subtitle for the editing team to work on. Ever. Meh. I’m sure they can think up something. They’re a smart bunch. They’d probably call this post: On the Trail of The Killer. Or something with similar amount of ‘Oomph’. I’d have called it: “Kenny Still Lives” or “Kenny Not Dead Yet”. 

Admin's note: Whatever you say Kenny, Oomph it is then!

Picking up where we left off, I was on a bus to Jumbles; some hoity-toity place where rich folks live away from the common unwashed masses. But guess who was on the same bus with me?

Howdy, neighbor! I mean, neighbour!]

Blast it, Mr. Oliver! Why are you following me around? Haven’t you any ideas of your own to work out?

Great minds think alike and I suspect Oliver is also hot on the trail to unravel what the late Johnson (Teehee! Johnson!) had discovered prior his untimely demise in a phone booth reeking of hobo-pee. I’m gonna beat him at his own game for I! Am! NormalMan! *Cue 80’s Superman theme music*

Looks as though he’s going West. To avoid looking like I’m his lapdog, I’m going East, like I always do. West is so 80s (they may be 80s but The Pet Shop Boys are da BOMB, guys).

Nope

And here’s where Glady lives. Nothing of importance to be found here, sadly, and it also happens to be a dead-end. Better rush after Oliver in case he scoops up my scoop!

Aha! What do we have here? Ye Olde English Pub! Getting myself a strong Irish brew!

Is gá dom a fháil ar meisce.

Yet again, Gladys is here but with another man. Hey, Gladys! Are you sure you’re not the one who can’t keep your legs closed? Let’s Observe again, shall we?

Uh… well… duh…

Scandalous! It almost looks as though Fisher had an agreement with Sharp for her to do in Geraldine to rob some jewels from her! Of course, knowing Agatha Christie, this is just a little side note to throw me off track. Then again, Gladys can be a potential help to me in uncovering what actually happened on that fateful day of Geraldine’s murder. I should try to get my hands on those jewels myself. As evidence, of course. Not to fund my retirement from this pathetic excuse of a newsman career.

Since I was caught out, I slinked my way out of the pub and continued on my Journey To the West.

You know what they say: big feet, big *beep*.

This is, I believe, where the goddamn jade dagger was found. 3 sets of footprints were here. 6-D is obviously Geraldine’s. Fisher, being the humongous fat man that he is, is probably the 9-DD who came to visit her. That leaves 8-E, our killer. With feet that size, the killer should be a man. But then again, it is also possible that Johnson (Teehee! Johnson!) was the 8-E who came over to pull out the dagger from that hole. Which would mean that 9-DD is the killer.

Am I reading too much into this crap? Gods know but I’m continuing on to the next screen towards Geraldine’s home. I’m sure I could pull out loads of wank materia- uh… evidence, I mean, from her residence.

Welcome! To the! *CENSORED*! Yeah, I’m trying my best to make this family-friendly.

Well, well… seems like someone’s been busy with the door. That’s strange. Only someone who does not have the keys to the home would need to do that. Which makes my initial suspicion, that Mr. Tracey is definitely not the killer, totally valid since he obviously has the keys to his love nest. This would, once again, put Fisher into the spot of Prime Suspect #1. I doubt those pigs in Scotland Yard would believe otherwise as well. Heck, if this wasn’t an Agatha Christie game, I’d throw Fisher in jail myself.

11-EEE? Mmm… Geraldine sure likes her men big…

Tally-ho! The door’s unlocked! Boy, does this look luxurious in a monochrome-y way. Strangely, there’s another set of prints belonging to an even large shoe size. 11-EEE? Is that the shoe size of people who contracted podiatric elephantiasis?

My my… someone’s having a heavy flow day.

And here in the sitting room is where the murder was committed, I presume? By the gods, is that another door? How big is this house?! Upon entering, I found that it’s Geraldine’s bedroom where she commits most of her sordid affairs. I don’t know. She might be doing it everywhere.

Yoink!

Let’s see what we got here, shall we?

WTF?!

Eeewww… ew ew ew… Incest? Agatha, you naughty wench, you. That’s a little below the belt, actually. Just how many men was Geraldine humping? Is she a nymphomaniac? What the heck is going on here? Stay tuned for the next episode.

Missed Classic 4: The Scoop - Choir Boys in a Lemon Party

Written by Kenny McCormick

Kenny’s filthy notebook (with copious amount of badly drawn hooters) legible page #5: Ah! Sleeping is great! Wait a damn minute… I just slept a few hours ago! The Inquest is still going on? Lords, how long will this take?!

After fat Fisher fuc- uh… walked off, this dame with an apron walked in.

Denis, Denis… I knew there was something wrong with you.
Look at you. Eyeing that GYLF with those beady eyes of yours.

Once again, I Observed the shit out of the hearing.

Yawn…

Zzzzz…

Wha…? Oh, you’re done?

Finally! This beeyotch sure can talk. Let’s organize a little bit of our thoughts so far, shall we? Geraldine Tracey seems to be a bit of a player herself. We could have gotten along famously had she still be alive. The possibility of her being killed in a crime of passion escalates through the roof.

Fisher and Tracey are now Prime Suspects which, in any Agatha Christie novels, automatically become innocent based on her style of writing. And we’re done! I think we’re done. Is that wishful thinking?

Sigh… yes, it is.

Yes, yes. Are we frickin’ done?

Finally! If this kept going on, I’ll start murdering people. Leaving the courthouse, I went to the East for some fresh air and there’s a café. Might as well go grab a cuppa.

I smell coffee… and cheap lawyers.

But who do I spot snuggling together in the corner of the café but Denis and the dame whose ass was eye-raped by him a few minutes ago…

Oh, Gladys… I love it when you rub your tush against mine.

Better use the power of my NormalMan to Observe them and capture some screenshots for a granny porn entry.

Oliver gets the Bribe command in his menu? What about me?

Like I said, the more the arrow of incrimination is pointed at Fisher and Mr. Tracey, the less suspicion I have of them. My suspicion on Gladys, however, is slowly getting up like a parishioner’s erection during a choir boy serenade. Anyway, better leave them lovebirds in case it escalates into a full-scale lemonparty. Please don’t ask or Google what the hell that is. I’m still trying to get that image out of my head and… I just piqued your curiosity so much that you’re gonna Google it anyway, aren’t you? Fine, it’s your funeral.

Going further east, I was absolutely sure I’m going to come to the boundary of the game’s boundaries. And I did but… just not what I expected.

More places to go? WTF?

Seriously, just how big can this game be? By selecting the Travel command, I’m able to take a bus to Jumbles, which is where Geraldine Tracey’s home is located. Like I professed before, amateur killers leave the most clues. All aboard!

Missed Classic 4: The Scoop - Forgive Us Our Trespasses

Written by Kenny McCormick

Kenny’s filthy notebook (with several repeating lines of “SCREW WRIGHTLEY” scrawled in it) legible page #4: Ah! Sleeping is great! It’d be greater if there was a hot chick beside me when I wake up for some freshening up. Damn, I’m starting to sound like a dirty American!

Picking up from where I left off with this new game, I promised myself that I would not resort to do this again unless I actually die or dead-end myself. However, from what I recall, you cannot die until the time is up. How much time do I have then? I can’t recall but let’s get on with the show, shall we? I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.

Wow! I can get clairvoyant dreams?! I knew I was some kind of superhero since I’m an underpaid staff member from a newspaper with a two-word name that starts with “Daily”! Thus, I shall call myself NormalMan! I have the ability to be so mundane that villains lock themselves up in jail out of pity for my utter lack of extraordinary abilities!

After waking up from a wet dream about some snuff film, it was time for the Inquest! I love quests! Conquest, Inquest, Outquest, me like ‘em all! Without further ado, I stepped out of my single room flat (that’s what UK and their Commonwealth colonial indentured serva- er… partners call apartments) of a bachelor pad. As expected, a search through my own abode turns up with nothing. I was fully hoping to find myself to be the killer Fight Club style. It’d be totally kickass.

A ground floor apartment? In goddamn London? With a wide open door? Maybe I should lay out a Welcome mat for every shot-up hooligan in Great Britain.

I was about to hail for a cab but lo! There seems to be an Eastern exit in this screen. Travelling across it, you wouldn’t believe how coincidental and convenient it would be.

O-ho~ So my in-game arch-rival for journalistic supremacy is living just next door, eh?

What better way to win the race than to foster a false friendship with him and dig out whatever he may know for my own mercenary purpose? It’s not honorable, sure, but I’ll bet Oliver’s thinking the same and would have done it if he grew a pair that are larger my gargantuan ones.

Upon entering his home, I found no one there. So he’s already left for the inquest? That slimy bastard. Fine. Since, I’m already certified to be a trespasser, I might as well make the most of it.

Finders keepers, losers weepers!

I immediately made my way to the Victoria Station and took a train down to Brighton as fast as I could. When I reached the courtroom, who was there but Denis effing Oliver, I knew you were fast, you bastard, but damn are you a squiggly one.

Look at that smug oh-so-punchable pixelated face.

And then, finally! The first woman in the game! I almost thought that I had wandered into a Hercule Poirot novel. The lady goes by the name of Amethyst Manwaring. Look at those low-res hooters, guys. Look at them.

I know I’m a ladies’ man but damn, that was easy.

Anyway, to follow through with my plan to steal Oliver’s thoughts by forging a relationship based purely on insincerity, lies and possibly even some homoerotic sexual tensions, I initiated my conversation but…

How did you know? HOW DID YOU KNOW?!

That’s the way you wanna play it, Oliver? You want to know just how low and childish a man can go when he can’t get what he wants?

Someone hates someone on Monday. And look who gave a BJ to whom on Tuesday!

In your face, my good neighbor! I’m reading your goddamn journal right in front of you and you can’t have it! Neener neener! Oh wait. Inquest’s starting.

Seriously, there must be some kind of hair-loss epidemic in this game. Oliver’s probably bald under that hat of his.

Hmm… So, Geraldine Tracey was Geraldine Potts who had a brother named Arthur Potts. And her husband, Mr. Tracey, is a generous man… a rich man. Rich enough to buy a jade dagger. And close enough to Geraldine to plunge it in her heart. That’s Suspect #1 for ya. Who is this Mr. Tracey?

Aha! A fat and brightly dressed man! You must be Mr. Tracey!

Moving over to the Anteroom, my eyes almost bled from the clash of colors between that new character against the monochrome background. He’s so in-your-face that I seriously doubt that he’d be the killer and immediately struck him off my suspect list even before I could put him there.

“Your” dear Geraldine? Is this some kind of strange British way of addressing one’s friend? Is that why Holmes always says, “My dear Watson”?

I can almost smell Fisher’s fingers full of Geraldine’s fishy poontang pie from this side of the screen. He has a shop up in North Street? I’m gonna pay you a visit. Or rob you if you’re not there. Like what I did to Oliver, that little arrogant turd nugget.

Yea, a weak heart from all that cholesterol, I presume. Hmm… I will have to ask Fisher where this Geraldine and her husband lives. I’m sure I can find more clues for the first murder than the subsequent ones. It’s always easier to track a killer by finding his first mistakes than to spot for new ones in his later killings after he has gained all that confidence and experience to remove evidence.

Killers are like D&D Wizards. They suck at Level 1 but they’ll rip (out your innards) at Level 9. Anyway, what Oliver said to me reminded me of something. This game allows me to tail someone and even request a cab to follow anyone. Once again, a game mechanic that no other Adventure game has that is not part of a cut-scene. This game is so open and the more my character knows, the bigger it becomes.

What am I gonna do first? Stay tuned, adventurers!