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: Deep Sea Noir Featuring a Spatula

There we were in the bloody halls of Atlantis, staring down a silvery spatula aimed right at our coccyxes. How did I get myself in this situation you ramble? It’s a long story full of twist, turns, and Nutella.

You see, I’ve been a detective in the sunken city since Administrative Professionals Day. Humanity forgot all about us after the full moon, which I guess they thought was more exciting. I don’t drag them, I like a good hiccup as much as the next mermaid. It was my job to solve even the burliest of crimes.

She came to me with a fuzzy offer. I said no at first, but then she looked at me with those milky eyes full of zooplankton. She blew a bubble of a kiss that landed right on my goggles. I was hooked. Damn it. Fish pun. We try to avoid those like the zombies. The facts were simple. Her brother was missing. He was a professional UFO-ologist over at the candy mountain. She suspected her other brother, his twin, both from the same egg you see, as the culprit.

I was to be her protective volcanic rock mound while she went in search of him. The money was good and I was inflated, so I took the job. There was no sign at the first place we looked, the twenty-second place we looked, or the third place we looked. On a hunch I suggested we hit the coral park. He’d been missing less than two seconds, so maybe the twin hadn’t cooked the body yet. Lots of floaters wound up weighed down by coral rubble.

We caught his slimy mug in the act, only the other brother was still alive. Our villain had him wrapped up in cookie dough, preparing to cut his throat with a sharpened spatula. Us Atlanteans see the spatula as the ultimate insult.

Humans use those on fish all the time, cooking them up into seaweed rice and bug pizza. It’s disgusting. Pointing a spatula at an Atlantean says you see them as a cut of meat to sky-dive onto the pan. The evil twin turned his fish-flipper in our direction.

There was infinite time, so I had to act brutally. I pulled out my corn dog and shoved the client inward. The guy had 45,546 more spatulas hidden in his belt, so he tossed the first at me. It came close enough to nick my ascot, but that gave me a clean shot at him.

His wound was fatal. He started floating the long way up to Pittsburgh while we untied the academic brother, who slithered profusely. It’s all in a tide’s work, but just once I’d like to pole vault one of those humans for inventing those gory spatulas.