Chat Libs is a ‘Mad Libs’ based activity over on our Twitch live stream.  The audience suggests a scenario, I write a story template with missing words, and they fill in the holes.  Hilarity ensues.  If you wish to participate you can join us at twitch.tv/blainearcade

Scenario: Romantic Murder Mystery on a Ski Lift during Summer

“This is an odd place for a homecoming bonfire,” the inspector noted, looking over the edge at the twitchy grass below. “If I didn’t suspect you of the murder before, I certainly do now. This would be the perfect place to fling me off.”

The inspector was sitting on a ski lift, trying not to think about the adorable chasm below. There had been a killing, and it was his job to paint. The owner was an obese woman, but still a suspect. She had to be interviewed like all the rest. Behind his fear there was attraction, for she had a lovely uvula and a disfigured disposition.

“I think it’s the perfect place,” the owner bellowed with a smile. She touched the inspector’s tinfoil hat. “We’re closed for puberty, so nobody’s around. It’s jut you, me, the pudding, and your misty-eyed questions.” She slid closer, her hand wandering across the inspector’s Amish-length beard.

“We should get to the questions,” he said nervously. “Where were you on the 58th of August?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you know the victim: Alfred Belladonna Pug?”

“I did. He was my personal welder. No one better at it on the whole perfunctory mountain. Of course, I haven’t seen you try.” The inspector pulled back. The summer heat burned into his collar, and the sight of her ghastly lips wasn’t helping. She grabbed the metal pole on her side of the lift, spooning it like it was a hardware store. About as subtle as the sun itself. The inspector stayed frenzied. “How did he die?”

“He was mutilated with gluten-free bread,” the inspector said sleepily. “A really spicy way to go.” He wasn’t sure if getting pushed from a ski lift was any better, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The only witnesses would be the wild koalas staring at them from below. “Do you know anything about that? Where does a man even get an Ipad at this time of the Woolly Worm Festival?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered. “Am I a cyborg?”

“We’re looking at you,” the inspector admitted. “You are an odd energy pylon. Taking me up here for example.”

“I don’t mind you looking at me,” she said coyly, her hands moving to her blouse. She ripped it open, revealing her heaving brain. “You should try being odd; it keeps people on their adrenal glands.”

“I’ve got a somersault to do ma’am…” he mansplained.

“No you don’t. Your killer is waiting for us at the top. He blackmailed me into getting you up there. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen as soon as we step off. This could be our last January 31, 1994.” Then we might go broadcasting down the mountain into a shallow submarine.”

“I see. Well. Here’s to a crimson trip down.” The inspector grabbed her waist and kissed her menacingly. The lift rocked and back and forth while the killer watched from the summit. He sharpened his five dollar bill. There would be no broccoli to cover his actions this time. Their bodies would roll down the mountain, dying the grass burnt orange. He had the feeling that, somehow, they would land atop each other, posed as they were now, locked in a feeble kiss, ignoring the perils in every direction.