“SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THE STATE OF NEW YORK”

Squattedman could not get the image of the winged dwarf armed with bow and arrows out of his head. At first he thought it might be a hallucination. But when he looked at the corpse that was still sitting in the chair with the arrow going through his chest, he understood that it was real or very close to reality. He still hadn’t had time to get rid of the corpse. The truth is that he had been expressly postponing that unpleasant process. He did not like to get rid of corpses. It was an activity he had always despised since he would go to school and the teacher of Philosophy (a Jesuit over a hundred years old) died while giving him a private lesson. He was afraid that the rumor would spread that teachers died mysteriously while giving him private lessons. (Last year the same thing had already happened to him with the teacher of Mathematics, and the previous year with that of Natural Sciences.) He was afraid of being accused of serial killer. No teacher would lend him a private lesson and, consequently, he would not be able to reach grade five. He already saw himself with white hair, embedded in one of those desks similar to torture colts, next to a boy who was six times younger. No, he had to get rid of the teacher’s corpse. But how? He couldn’t think of anything other than hiding it in the closet where the drawing items were kept. And just the next morning there was drawing class. He still remembers the hysterical laugh of the drawing teacher when his dead colleague fell on him upon opening the closet. Luckily, the autopsy showed that it had been a natural death. The thesis was imposed that, because of his lack of vision, the teacher had confused the closet door with the one that led to the playground.

In any case, now the situation was very different. That death with an arrow crossing the corpse could hardly be attributed to natural causes. He tried to find a convincing explanation, because the one about the flying dwarf that believed himself Cupid would not have passed the most elementary credibility filters. He thought of declaring that a tribe of Apaches on horseback had broken into the apartment, which was their former hunting territory, and had mistaken the man in the chair for a buffalo. After all, buffalos have four legs just like the chairs and, if you narrow your eyes, a man in a chair looks a lot like a buffalo. But you have to narrow your eyes too much, almost completely. So he gave up looking for a convincing explanation and decided to get rid of the body. But how? This time he couldn’t put it in the closet and wait for someone to find it. But before thinking of a plan, he searched the pockets of the corpse. And, oh, surprise: he discovered a letter addressed to “Cow Head”! Thus, both cases were related. Indeed, the letter spoke of the dwarf as a political rival of Tammany Hall. Squattedman started putting the pieces together. The Cupid costume was just a campaign strategy. Some “Cow Head” minions had kidnapped the dwarf and pretended to keep him hidden in a ship until the elections had passed. But he escaped, and the letter warned “Cow Head” of his probable return to the political scene.

All this reeked of rotting, starting with the corpse in the chair. Squattedman had to get rid of it in any way. And then he had the brilliant idea of flying around with it and dropping it anywhere. People would think it was a duck shot down by a hunter. Or rather a hunter shot down by a duck.

This is a non-profit blog whose purpose is to raise funds for children in need. So if you want to make a donation in exchange for this story, click on this link to UNICEF. I really appreciate it!

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