Mardi Gras Infernus: A Murder Mystery in the deep, deep south.My name's Aloysius Kane. I'm what you might call a part-time detective, full time loser. Then again, in my town, everyone's a full time loser. Y'see, down here, things work a little differently. This ain't some hick southern town.
This ain't New Orleans, either. But it sure as hell seems like it. Welcome to Iscariot Boulevard, the heart of Hell's French Quarter. Anyone from outside of the Otherworld would probably mistake this for part of New Orleans, 'cept for the Demons, Skeletons, Imps and Goblins...
An' the Old Man, too. He likes to come down once in a while. Y'see, that's how the problem started. Ol' Tom himself came down to attend the festivities on Iscariot, leadin' a parade of the dead.
Man, you ain't seen a party 'til you seen Mardi Gras in Hell. The Old Man, Satan himself, leadin' up the whole shindig, dressed in a suit as red as flame and as cool as ice. Mirrored sunglasses, long black hair in a ponytail. All nine feet of the Fallen Angel, skeletal wings an' all, decked out for the party.
At his heels, a cadre of his Imps, tiny black and red creatures that look like some sort of Gargoyle. Four of 'em handling the Old Man's Fork, tow carryin', two hangin' off the prongs and throwing "beads."
Y'see, in Hell, we don't have glass. No, no glass at all. Polished stone is as good as it gets. Even Old Tom's glasses are made with some new polymer bullshit he got from the Humans. I don't see no use for 'em, myself.
These beads were small, polished metal skulls and balls of fire, linked together by the power of Hell itself. Sure got the Succubi and Lost Soul girls flashin' right quick, too. Of course, those opportunistic Demons Gone Wild schmucks were waitin' in the wings to film that little display.
Ol' Tom was wailing a mean tune on his trombone, with backup from Hell's own marching band, a battalion of Imps and Goblins on drums, guitars and horns, roarin' up a storm with a big band beat. A few of the Imps were bouncin' up and down on drums and cymbals that some Skeletons were wearing around their necks, too. Not a bad party.
Of course, even in hell the liquor gets t'flowin'. Blood Wine, Brimstone Ale and Ash Schnapps. Better than half the Rotgut you can get outside of the French Quarter, at least. Personally, I was sitting this parade out at Marie's, a nice little bar on the corner of Iscariot and Koresch.
Marie's a nice enough girl, fittin' in just right around the french Quarter. 'Course, I like a girl whose head can't be disconnected with a sharp wind, but what can y'do? They were Guillotine happy in her day.
I always figured she had a thing for me, but I'd never ask her about it. I'm not a bad lookin' guy, for an Incubus. Healthy, rosey complexion, black hair, sizable horns and a bit of good taste in my suits. I can understand why Marie took a liking to me, and I could certainly see that she was a looker. But, like I said: If I can take her out bowling and use her head as a ball, I'd rather just keep it friendly.
Near as I can figure, somethin' went wrong with the parade. Just as a Hellhound-pulled parade float made of wilted flowers and Lost Souls in gimmicky Angel Costumes rolled by, some commotion broke out.
I told Marie to put my beer on the tab, which she knew meant she'd probably never get her cash, and stuck my head out the door.
Sure enough, some dumb b*****d had gone and killed one of Satan's High Guardians, black suited "Feds" for the Underworld Control And Investigation Ageny, or UCIA. Someone had put at least four slugs in the back of that Demon's head, blowing his horns clear off and leaving him heaped in the street right in the Ol' Man's path.
I returned to the bar and gave Marie a grin, sitting down and ordering up another beer.
"Marie, sweetheart, hit me with the best you've got. I think a hell of a job opportunity just presented itself.."
Sometimes, it didn't pay to be a Detective. Like when I was alive. But now, in Hell, where I could buy a small country for the fee I knew Satan would pay? Well, let's just say that it's days like this I don't regret being enough of a p***k to end up here.
It's going to be another good day in Hell.