Michael James Rutledge
(If It's Gothic, It's Ghostly)
No need for an update, because, hail, hail the gang’s all here.
Dallas County Courthouse
105 Lauderdale St.
Selma, AL 36701
1:41 p.m.
Alright, folks. We’re here today in the Dallas County Courthouse to find out who the hell killed me.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You don’t know who killed you? Well, you’re a special kind of stupid, aren’t you? Well, the joke’s on you, because of course, I already know. I’d be a real dumbass if I didn’t. And even though I might not have been the quickest on the uptake, I had something going on behind those brown-ish eyes of mine.
Besides, every dynamic duo has a dominant and a recessive. Guess which I was? Mr. I-Saw-Harper-First-But-You-Can-Have-Her, Hunter. That’s who I was, which, by the way I hated about me. Just waiting around for things to happen to me. Now, Jesus, if that ain’t some way to live. And die, it turns out.
By the way, you might have your suspicions on who did this thing to me. I mean, hell, just look at what he … or … she — not gonna get me that easy — did to my neck, red as fire still. You might even have worked it out while you’ve read this whole thing (too damn much of a fuss for little old me) — or had AI read it to you. However you choose your media intake is not for me to judge.
Chances are you’re wrong whatever you think, unless you’re one hell of a guesser. And, if you are, you should have taken me to Vegas while I was still alive. You could’ve gotten me out of this hellhole called Providence “Freaking” Flats. (You know, I think “Freaking” is in the town charter. Or, maybe the town fathers went with something else entirely.)
