Aden McCool and the Mystery of Skull Island-Chapter One
Since Serazio has been woefully delinquent in the Placklin Group's previously outlined literary efforts I have decided to write a chapter for him.
Skull Island, Chapter One
Skull Island is positioned ignominiously at an unusual bend in the mighty Rillito River just outside the line of demarcation between the bustling metropolis of Tucson, AZ and unincorporated Pima Co. To acknowledge its presence as an island is a bit of a misnomer since the Rillito itself is nothing more than a dry riverbed scattered with the refuse of the God fearing denizens of Tucson. Over 140 years prior the miserable spit of sand was utilized by the Confederate States as a fortified ammunition dump to control what, according to long since shamed cartographers, was considered an important navigable waterway.
The useless sand bar fell into disrepair over the years and was generally ignored by the majority of local citizens. Excluding, of course, those property owners with a direct line of sight to Skull Island who complained bitterly, with ample scientific evidence, of the unusual spike in leukemia deaths among those within a 500-yard radius.
Rumors had persisted for years that a drug addled Legionnaire possessing a jewel-encrusted scepter called Skull Island home. Some claimed the bombastic cries of the ostracized mercenary warlord could be heard at strange hours in the night when, it was assumed, he was in the throes of yet another terrifying morphine crippled dream-trance.
When Aden McCool awoke that fateful summer morning he was called on to the scene of a brutal murder of a teenage prostitute who, weeks earlier, had fled her Eastside home.
McCool, it was said, extracted the sap of fallen mesquite branches to utilize as a shaving balm in the morning. For a razor McCool calmly turned to his 12” Bowie knife, which incidentally came in handy when grappling with the more nefarious elements of the Tucson populous. Although consistently the epicenter of controversies ranging from flagrant corruption to unwarranted pre-trial killings it was difficult to argue against the considerable drop in violent crime in his district.
The first words from McCool’s mouth at the crime scene were, “Looks like some preternatural sex fiend pumped this floozy full of semen in every conceivable orifice before bludgeoning her to death with what can only be a jewel encrusted scepter.”
Never one for consideration, tact, or niceties of any sort McCool disregarded the fact that his comments fell well within earshot of the local camera crew recording live from the crime scene. Somewhere in an Eastside subdivision the girl’s parents wept in unimaginable darkness.
McCool’s indifferent gaze traced the meandering riverbed to Skull Island. He had no idea at the time that fate would dictate that the mystery of this otherwise routine prostitute bludgeoning would lead him inexorably to Skull Island.
-Aden
Skull Island, Chapter One
Skull Island is positioned ignominiously at an unusual bend in the mighty Rillito River just outside the line of demarcation between the bustling metropolis of Tucson, AZ and unincorporated Pima Co. To acknowledge its presence as an island is a bit of a misnomer since the Rillito itself is nothing more than a dry riverbed scattered with the refuse of the God fearing denizens of Tucson. Over 140 years prior the miserable spit of sand was utilized by the Confederate States as a fortified ammunition dump to control what, according to long since shamed cartographers, was considered an important navigable waterway.
The useless sand bar fell into disrepair over the years and was generally ignored by the majority of local citizens. Excluding, of course, those property owners with a direct line of sight to Skull Island who complained bitterly, with ample scientific evidence, of the unusual spike in leukemia deaths among those within a 500-yard radius.
Rumors had persisted for years that a drug addled Legionnaire possessing a jewel-encrusted scepter called Skull Island home. Some claimed the bombastic cries of the ostracized mercenary warlord could be heard at strange hours in the night when, it was assumed, he was in the throes of yet another terrifying morphine crippled dream-trance.
When Aden McCool awoke that fateful summer morning he was called on to the scene of a brutal murder of a teenage prostitute who, weeks earlier, had fled her Eastside home.
McCool, it was said, extracted the sap of fallen mesquite branches to utilize as a shaving balm in the morning. For a razor McCool calmly turned to his 12” Bowie knife, which incidentally came in handy when grappling with the more nefarious elements of the Tucson populous. Although consistently the epicenter of controversies ranging from flagrant corruption to unwarranted pre-trial killings it was difficult to argue against the considerable drop in violent crime in his district.
The first words from McCool’s mouth at the crime scene were, “Looks like some preternatural sex fiend pumped this floozy full of semen in every conceivable orifice before bludgeoning her to death with what can only be a jewel encrusted scepter.”
Never one for consideration, tact, or niceties of any sort McCool disregarded the fact that his comments fell well within earshot of the local camera crew recording live from the crime scene. Somewhere in an Eastside subdivision the girl’s parents wept in unimaginable darkness.
McCool’s indifferent gaze traced the meandering riverbed to Skull Island. He had no idea at the time that fate would dictate that the mystery of this otherwise routine prostitute bludgeoning would lead him inexorably to Skull Island.
-Aden
posted by Aden at 7:03 PM
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