Madames and Monsieurs. Poirot has seen much evil in the world, but the evil of this man is in a category all it’s own. His crimes are those of which Poirot cannot speak of in polite company, and they stretch the limit of discretion and manners. And he flees his persecution but cannot resist to remind the world of his existence. To brag about the money his filth has brought him. To try and, how you say, “flex” on a girl who’s concern is for the future of this planet by touting his many fast cars. But she is not so easily cowed and came back strong against his crude message with one of her own. Poirot may not condone the language, but he cannot deny it may have been called for. And there, there he let his hubris lead him to make his mistake. In his video, there, there is his pandora’s box. It does not look like much, it is after all a pizza box and such food is popular among the masses today. But this box…this box proved where he was hiding away. What hole this rat crawled into!
I claim no deductive prowess on my part, Watson. Our quarry is a braggart and a fool and he has proclaimed his location for all the world to see. But the prey is still afoot, dear doctor, and we must be swift. Bring your pistol.
Archie, one must, if one has the cranial and philosophical capacity to do so, always beware of the Devil. A simple jackass can blunder through crime after crime for a lifetime, depending only on the fatuity of the police, which he might well receive, so long as he is taciturn about it. This man, this Mr. Tate, has neither the discretion nor the patience to be a criminal worth investigating since he is above all else an infantile buffoon who announced his location to the world in a fit of pique baited by a woman he himself called upon to annoy. No doubt he deserves to get arrested and tried and imprisoned but that is not the sort of work that may supply me with fee, so stop badgering me about it. One cannot focus on every charlatan of the world no more than one can count the grains of sand in it, now as to the Brassolaeliocattleya …
Dear, dear, not a nice boy at all. Pride, you know, it’s always pride with such men. Reminds me of the postmaster’s youngest son, William, always bothered the girls horribly, read their postcards at first, then their mail, then started to demand things of them because of what he learned. Not a very nice boy and grew up to be a very unpleasant man. His father shielded him many times, they had money you know. Sent him away so Switzerland, but in the end it was no good he got into trouble there too. Just like this Andrew boy. So many young men think leaving to a different place will make things easier. Oh dear, and he was very foolish taunting that child, the girl activist, so many of them today and she’s just like Mattie from the flower shop you know, you don’t step on her toes on no! She poked him and he flared up and of course announced his location in the silliest way. But of course criminals often do, oh human nature is much the same everywhere isn’t it?
Jack, we already knew he was a cad. The real trouble was actually tracking him down. And for all his money and connections, he couldn’t control that fragile male ego. Accidentally giving away his location with a simple pizza box because Miss Thunberg embarrassed him in front of his idiot fans. Nothing could be more satisfying. Well… Almost nothing.
The Washington Post’s Mensa Invitational invited readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
people write AUs where characters from a fantasy universe are in like, the setting or plot situation of another non-fantasy story all the time, and usually it’s a no-powers version of those characters because more often than not the powers would absolutely break all the stakes of the au.
And that’s totally logical and makes sense, but I think the version where the transplanted characters get to keep their powers and break the stakes has hilarious and underutilized crack potential.
Like just once I’d like to read “The 74th annual Hunger Games goes absolutely tits up and nobody knows why none of the kids seem to be dying despite some serious effort on the part of the gamemakers. Meanwhile sharp-eyed viewers at home may notice that the shy and unassuming male tribute from district 11—whose personal item was a pair of costume glasses—hasn’t been seen on-camera even once since the opening gong. But not many people do notice. After all, in all the pageantry leading up to the games, no tribute was more boring than Clark Kent.“
