Monday OT - A Balker Dies at Midnight!

It is our duty to die in as ridiculous a fashion as possible. I'm sorry, were you planning a slow decline in your own bed, surrounded by loved ones awaiting your last gasp and perhaps the last bits of  your hard-earned wisdom? Screw that. Go tease a buffalo. Blast yourself from a cannon aimed at your worst enemy's home. Invent an extreme sport like "Sky Boating". Boldly go. Without pants.

This is manbird

People come and go all the time here. How do you know if they're still alive when they just disappear? What a nauseating question right? Not knowing is the hardest part. Songwriters have said the same (Although some say "waiting" is even harder. Songwriters.Bah).

Several years ago, a Balker wrote that we would know if she passed because she had prearranged the delivery of a haunted doll to each of us when she did. I don't want her to die, but I really want my haunted doll.

This is doll

This is how you will know I have met my end. My lawyers, if they ever call me back - I've left seven voicemails jeez - will send an invitation and a one way ticket to an island off the coast of Virginia to each of you. You will be strongly encouraged to accept. 

This is island. Pronounce eye land. pretty scary yes? the Eye Land 👀ooOO0o0o0OOo0oO0o👀

Your arrivals will all be staggered so you won't meet until the night of the costume ball. If all goes as planned it will take place at the start of a category 3 storm, which you will weather inside a ramshackle but charming rustic house. My man, Mr. Reticular Polkaboy, esq. will explain the rules.

This is house, very fine house that is definitely up to code

Don't worry. You'll all be assigned aliases to protect your true identities. "Hello, I'm Teddy Smallwood," one of you will say. Only one of you will know that's not possible. Teddy died in a small aircraft accident three years ago (Three bullet holes in the back of the head). He was your prodigal brother. One of you is Countess Everbeard, one time lover of infamously speckled gun runner, Benson Shockberry, who is also in attendance. Spoon-fed Jilly is hitting the sauce again. Hard. Her husband, Sergeant Plumwaitress knows she fancies other women. Jilly Plumwaitress, née Fillybilly of the Philadelphia Petro-Fillybillys, is fine with that and knows her husband prefers men. Reverend Picnic seems to know more than he says. You get the idea.* 

This is mask persons 

SQRL's been murdered, and one of you did it.

Long time readers of Agatha Christie and other cozy mystery authors have a pretty good idea how this will end. The lone survivor will be supplied with a fortune (a fortune in nickels in a sack), a day old ham sandwich, a rowboat, and a sense of superiority at having gotten away with it all. In the distance you'll see the house crumble in the storm  One of you will solve the case and will win the opportunity to speak at my funeral. Say whatever you want, but you MUST include "He died doing what he loved best..." followed by the cause of my demise. Playing Frogger IRL, running full speed into a trompe l'oeil painting of an open window, chasing off the raccoons on the roof wearing my flip-flops - how the heck did they get my flip-flops anyway?, etc. You know; stupidly but quickly.

How was your Monday? 

My internet is on the fritz so this may not even post. 

[Shrug]

*A hint: Watch out for Professor Oxnard Humblebee - he disappeared early but there was no body.