The Hudson Factory Mystery

As any true loyal American patriot will tell you, there ain't no river quite as beautiful as the Hudson. At least any true New Yorker will tell you that. It ain't coincidence that it's earned the nickname "America's Rhine". No, siree. You see, I know all about the river Hudson. I looked it up on Wikipedia.

Oh, you may laugh, but there were many times that I shot the rapids in my kayak; mastering the waves that potamic Poseidon challenged me with. Yea, I laughed at the face of adversity, whilst laughing through the nurtured valley of death. And yet, I was still home in time for Thanksgiving.

Admittedly, my kayak was a plastic, inflatable one, made in Taiwan. And the rapids were a large paddling pool at my parent's house in suburbia. With my Latvian babysitter, Nadia, watching over me, in case I drowned.

Don't think she's a pretty vamp, either. This ain't American Pie, dude. The broad has got veins coming out of her veins. Her eyeballs have got testosterone, man. I mean we played baseball one day, and she hit a pal in the face with the ball...

... the Canadian Mounted Police found some of his teeth in Alberta.

The rest are worn by some Innuit, who is refusing to return them, as they helped with the seal harvest this year. Blow me, people are weird.

But I digress. I am missing the point, because this story happened on the River Hudson, and it was a very peculiar happening, too. I don't know if I should tell you any of this, because it's real grizzly 'n spooky shit, and only a handful of cadets at West Point and the albino paedo-janitor know about it, but we'll see...

I don't know if you bunch of weasels can handle the truth. You and your boo-hoo-hoo cry-ass stories and tales of pixies and shit. I've got no goblins to offer, just the truth that will have you shitting in your socks.

I'm not sure I should be telling you this. You are, after all, civilians. You nurture protection.

 

Did you notice Naomi Campbell today?
Did you?
Well?
Did you?
Where was she serving her community service toda, eh?
That's right.
Indoors, in a little shitcan by the River Hudson,
mopping up the doodoo.

Well, that should teach you, girl.
Can't go around chucking mobile phones on your maid's head!
If she was in Kentucky they would have fried her on the chair,
Her ass would have been served in buritos right now,
With self-made chilly sauce running out of her elctrocuted intestines.

Poor Naomi. She should have been named Hudson.

Back in Hudson Manor, however, something evil stirs...

As the door creaks open to let us in, we see none other than
the landlady of 221B Baker Street.
That's right folks,
None other than the famous home of the world's greatest detective.
Yes, Abbey National PLC
The true resident of 221B Baker Street,
Even though it's been knocked down and anyone who's been to London
the last couple of years would have seen a bare building site
with a shitty clock tower rising out of it,
which is as aspiring as the avant garde deco of Resident Evil, played on a portable black and white TV which your grandad kept in a nuclear shelter back in the 60s.

That is why the landlady of 221B relocated to NY.
And as anyone who's ever bothered to pick up books and actually read them (a hobby which not a lot of so-called writers seem to have done in this lovely little forum dedicated to the world of writing)... her name is none other than...

Yes, even grandad who has been lying in hopsital in a coma for the last year has guessed it... Mrs. Hudson.

The lovely, blossomy bossomy Mrs. Hudson has let us in, and we stepped through under the shade of her udders, for she is truly my brother's keeper, and the finder of lost souls. And also a source of milk.

But, lo and behold...

For another Hudsony wonder seems to glide down the central staircase to greet us into the colossal manner of the Hudsons by the River Hudson.

She is dressed in a refined silk gown, which drapes long behind her, following her like a clinging shadow. Her blonde locks shine like a Queen of Versailles, and those azure eyes matched with that cheeky, seductive smile, are key into any warm-blooded male's keyhole (even though technically speaking the male will be the key, and she the hole. Biologically speaking that is. No offence, or any shit).

But, hold on a minute!
What's this?
I don't detect any udders.
The boob alarm hasn't come on.
The mamary bell is not ringing.
My ding-a-ling is only at half-mast
Contemplating the task at hand,
And whether it's worth getting out of bed,
Or, in this case... my underpants.
This could only mean one thing.
If her tits are so tiny, then this lovely actress must have had some clout
to make it through.
Either that, or her mother is blackmailing fat Hollywood producers with all that shit that happened when people wore bell-ends on their trousers (and had the brains to match those bell-ends).

Yes, folks. It's none other than...

...Kate Hudson

Yes, you guessed it, or maybe not. The daughter of Goldie Hawn is giving us the horn and inviting us, wearing a revealing low-cut back white lace dress, which shows her downward back-smile peeking through.

Her mischievous eyes beckon us to follow, but something tells us to think it through. It's something that we need to contemplate, because she is, after all, a Hudson, and something weird could be happening in this peculiar manor.

So, what shall we do?

Shall we follow Ms Hudson into the conservatory where she seems to be heading, and share our body fluids with her, (or give her a cunnilingual massage, according to our orientation), or shall we watch The Simpsons? It's decision times, folks...

(To be continued... More Hudsonly Hudsony Hudsonery to follow soon(ish). Just follow the Huds On.

 

Thank you for those posts – I sure hope your not joking about posting more of the story and if your not - I hope it’s real soon. Cheers!

 

You got a whacky mind, my friend. Keep it up!

 

Thank you, thank you and... wait for it... thank you.
Alas, folks, instead of listening to reason, I followed directions from
my Hampton Wick, or to put it less colloquially... my dick.
Kate led me into a trap, little minx!
But, not the trap I was hoping for
(she is, after all, need I remind you, a Hudson).

No, my dear friends, we have been hard done by.
Instead of falling into a trap
where we get strapped on to the wall, and held there
by studded leather bracelets,
whilst Ms. Hudson dressed in a skimpy PVC "bunny with attitude" outfit (including a fluffy tail made from razor wire) torments our organic organs to the extent of exploding with want and ecstasy, instead...

... I find myself locked in a stinky dark broom cupboard.
The Hudsons have struck again.
The have misled us, ladies and gentlemen of this jury.

Lucky for me, however, that there is such global economic competition that even in this dunk, hopeless little non-entity of a room... even here, they've managed to put in broadband. That is why I'm talking to you, and how I've been able to continue my story.

I've also seen to sending an email to the local Hudson Police department informing them of my predicament and of my limited oxygen supply. The problem is the fumes from all the toxic chemicals, whose agonizing company I have had the misfortune to share here in the semi-darkness.

With the limited light of my palmtop I have been lucky enough to have found Kate Hudson's red lacey panties, which I have also had the wisdom, and innovation, to strap over my face to filter out the toxic fumes of the surrounding chlorine.

My poor angel!
My poor Kate Hudson!
How could she have succumbed to such Hudsonizing evil?
What good is success, my friends, if this is what it does to you?
If only I could find her and reason with her,
but I've been here for hours,
and, though my voice is hoarse with shouting,
not one single Hudson has had the temerity (temerity is a word I've just made up BTW, so don't bother looking it up) to come to my rescue.

These could be my last words, my sympathizing allies, so cherish them well, that one day you may group together, and spring revenge on the Hudsons for my gross mistreatment!

But, what's this?

Do I hear the turning of the key?

I shiver and scream as the light hits my eyes, as it rushes into the dense darkness from the bright hallway. My eyes have not adjusted yet. I am squinting, but I can see a silhouette before me.

Who is it? It can't be the police. I made the emergency call 3 hours ago, they should be here in 4 days. So who is it? Who? Oh, no!

It's an old woman and she's wielding something which looks like an axe.

I cower back into the darkness, but it's too late. She has seen me. She knows.

In my confusion I cross myself.

Then I remember I'm Jewish, so I decross myself.

"What the hell are you doin' here, boy? This is a health 'n safety risk. Are you tryin' to git me fired?"

"No ma'am. I beg your forgiveness and shit," I can't believe my jiminy cricket luck!

"Well sling your ass outta there. Don't tell me my niece has been up to her usual tricks agin?"

"Kate Hudson is your niece?"

"She sure is, 'n she's a pretty one. Tha's because she takes a chip off the ol' famly block. Look at me for example!"

I couldn't disagree more. Mrs. Hudson, formerly of 221B Baker Street, resembled Kate Hudson the actress, about as much as Borat's producer resembles Angelina Jolie.

"Can you tell me where your niece is now, Mrs. Hudson? I've got to return her panties, which I used as an oxygen filter. She saved my life, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Those aren't her panties, young man."

"But, I can see her name written on the label, ma'am. It clearly reads: HUDSON."

"I been doin' all the cleanin' for over 30 years in this decrepit house, 'n those draws do not belong to my niece. That much I can tell you."

And with that she limped down the hallway into the kichen, and slammed the creaky door behind her.

I was confused. Who's panties was I wearing on my face?

I approached the gothic mirror. The giant demonic frame of sculptured gargoyles mocking my every step, waiting to deliver the horror of my reflection's portrayal.

The truth:
Those weren't cute Katie Hudson's undergarments clinging passionately to my face.

They were Hudson's alright, but merciless horror of horrors:

It was the jockstrap of NBA player Troy Hudson, who plays for Minnesota.

That wasn't a delicate thigh perfume I was sniffing the last few hours.

It was dry crispy ballsweat that had turned to dust.

Needless to say that by nightfall I had filled two buckets with my puke,

and even a tube of bonjela couln't get the crotchy smell outta my mouth.

But the nitemare was only jus beggining.

What followed was a Hudsoning Hudssy Hudderblood Hudsonometry boogalloo.

Time is the greatest healer. And whiskey. And when I've knocked back a few I'll come back an tell you what the Hudson happened. Till then, be wary of any Hudsons, be they river, man, or jockstrap.

 

Sometimes you get the feeling that something's going to happen. I had an uncle who did that. Once, he was walking in the miidle of the interstate highway, when he turned around and said that he had a feeling that something was about to happen. Next thing you know he was hit by an 18-wheeler. If you're ever passingyou can still see some bits of him stuck in the tarmac.

But I had a different kind of feeling that something was about to happen. The kind of when you get dragged along to see a shitty movie, and you know it's going to be shit, but your buddies talk you round to it, and you go along, and it turns out to be shit.

On cue:

Bruce Willis walks in.

He is soaked in water.

"Whay happened? Is it raining outside?"

He looked at me with that serious look. You know the one, where he kind of squints the left eyeball a bit, and he frowns, the pissed-off look where he cocks his mouth a bit. If you don't know the look then watch ANY movie with Bruce Willis. You will find that he has a grande repertoire of 3 profiles:

1) Bruce Willis relaxed (i.e. before his wife or son gets kidnapped/he gets booked for a minor violation/a pet poos on his slippers etc.)

2) Bruce Willis is angry kind of look (as described above).

3) Bruce Willis gives a cheesy smile (the asshole has calmed down).

And that is the extent of his acting ability. I've seen more facial bonanza on the arse of a dungbeetle, but Bruce gets away with it, because most people who are assholes can relate to him. It's true.

"Man, I went to see a Bruce Willis movie last night, and it was brilliant."
"Far out, dude. What was it about?"
"I can't remember, like, but he made this really serious face, and then he smiled a bit, and then he relaxed."
"Oh, man, I have to see this. Is it a really serious face, man. Was he pissed?"
"Yeah dude. He was really really pissed. He really gets into his part, man."
"He should win the Oscar, man. I think he is seriously underestimated."
"Yeah, the Oscars don't appreciate real talent."
"Yeah."
(long pause.)
"What were we talking about?"
"Don't know. Never seen you in my life."

While these two emperor penguinswere shoutin in the corner, I was traing to pit my trains to stop Bruce Willis.
Why was he here? He wasn't a Hudson.

Or, was he?

Does anyone know the answer, and why?

Also, what is the capital of Maldavia?

 

"I am still best Keith Moon-type drummer around."


The hawk is an elegant beast. It soars high upon the winds and with it's keen sense and eye sight it can spot a meal ticket from miles in the distance. Once spotted he will dive into it with predatory greed and the alacrity of a lightening bolt.

However, when hawks descend upon every opportunity given, sometimes they come back up with rather embarrassing results. All his peers will then laugh at him in their hawky guffawing way.

This hawk in particular, that of the Hudson variety, was met with such embarrassment when, after it's elegant swoop for a juicy varmint, he did not see the large spruce that appeared in it's path on the re-ascent.

Thwap! Like Daffy himself, the hawk had impacted beak first into a squirrel hole.

"None to pleased! You smell of cheese!" the rodents chittered about the intruder.

Fortunately the squirrel matron had a crowbar stashed away for such fowl happenings and the hawk was forcebly removed from the tree dwelling, leaving him stunned and plummeting.

No one knows how this rare beast of the Hudson recovered, but indeed at the last moment - the flashing of your life moment before extinction and terminal impact - he recovered miraculously to soar again.

The squirrels however, still boycott the bastard's shows.

 

A thousand points to BodyElectric. Which brings the score to:

BodyElectric.......... 1000

Everyone else........ 0

I am glad that people are waking up to this Hudsoney menace and the global threat that it's endangering on our society. Hopefully, more people will rally to the cause before the Hudsons alter our climate irreversibly.

There are 2 key issues here to remember:

1. Everything that contains the word "HUDSON" and/or its derivatives must be recycled.

2. Always use a low-energy Hudson.

3. There is no 3rd key issue.

I can still see people who are grinning and sniggering somewhere in the background thinking that this is some kind of humerous shit, but it's not. This is the real thing.

20 years ago, most people laughed about environmentalists and just called them mentalists for their "at-the-time ludicrous" green issues. Now, slowly, they are beginning to back the cause that will save the planet.

But surely, as time goes on, and more information is at hand, we can get to the root of the evil. We can see from where it all stems from.

Bruce Willis is always shown in movies to save the world. So why doesn't he do anything to save us from the Hudsons? Because, as BodyElectric has very cleverly pointed out, he is a hawk of the Hudsons (those venomous land-grabbing piccoloes). And what do hawks do? They shit on other people's lawns, ladies and gentlemen. Now, I want you to remember that important piece of circumstantial evidence, as I will be referring to it later on during the course of this trial.

Therefore, I will make an advanced apology to any member of our jury who may be a touch sensitive over the next revelation of what has become a heinous case against humanity. I will now reveal that if you jiggle around with the letters contained within the word HUDSON, and then juggle with them (but not jeggle, because that sounds Swedish), you will discover an anagram.

Try it and see. This is very tricky, and you will probably find many allegorical anagrams, but I promise you that you will be shocked with what I have discovered. I don't expect anyone to get this, but feel free to try.

 

I like it - I have the answer - it aint the hudson but the willis or is it the campbel?

I dont have a clue what thats all about but its written well and is a clever psycoanalytical view of your musings on stardom especially of fakes like BW and NC
I am guessing but then who needs to guess and worry whether the guess is right or wrong when you got the most beautiful river in the world - the Hudson sitting in the USA
Thank fuck its in the usa though I couldnt bear to have that steaming pile of americans all huddling round some river in hull proclaiming it to be the most beautiful in the world.
Thats what I like about Americans - they would only call something beautiful if it was in the usa - so most of em stay in the usa - thank the lord -I bet they have the prettiest dogshit in the world too - in little pink bows all lined up on pavingslabs of gold somewhere near the hudson

While we just have to go downstairs to find mrs hudson - mrs hudson the motherly tits of the working class - home baking and huge big motherly breasts - homely deception of the rich - bullshit of itv and the bbc - mrs hudson keeps you in check and gets mr hudson to spank your arse if you criticise the aristos upstairs - upstairs downstairs - or out near the ptomac

someones cutting shit about sentimental imagery - I long for texas I love the olden days - isnt Bruce willis a great guy? hmm... put me in my place Mr Hudson just do it wearing a leather balaclava

 

It wasn't exactly the answer I was looking for, but because you opened other gateways of truth you get 1000 points. The score now stands at:

sentient....................1000
BodyElectric...............1000
Everyone else.............scratching their gazzoombas.

I dished Bruce Willis pretty badly before, but I'm only kidding, and he knows that because we're good pals. Bruce has done a lot of work for charity that people don't know about. Once a month, he donates some of his toenail clippings to third world orphanage organizations. If it weren't for Hollywood stars, instead of 31.078.940 people dying from famine, dysentery, malaria and typhoid each year, it would be 31.078.943!

Thank the Lord up above for conceiving these holly Hollywood mothers. These beaming icons of parthenology. These blessed creatures whose limitless love moves them to save 3 lives a year out of those 31,078,943 who are about to return to the Lord. Obviously they do it out of love, and not at all to stay the focus of the media. I don't think they do it at all to get a movie deal, or a recording deal. They do it out of compassion. Just like James Brown treated all his women with compassion. And Ike Turner.

Well done to them all. I'm sure that future generations of human beings will remember them all with reverence when they look back in history at the way our society lived. God bless their generosity.

And so to our anagram.

HUDSON is an anagram of SHUD ON

Don't look it up in the dictionary.

It's not there.

It's Japanese.

Don't look it up in a Japanese dictionary.

You won't find it there either.

The reason for that is that it comes from the dialect of one of the smaller islands belonging to Japan. If I draw any more attention to it, it is very likely that the island will become popular and the huge fluxuations of Hipforums tourists visiting would become so overwhelming that it would scare the fish away. The indigenous locals depend on the fish to survive and if you lot scare them away like the bunch of wild buffaloes that you are then the people will starve, and not even Anjelina and her spotty husband sitting on a scooter would be able to save them. Neither would Madge and her hubby: "2 films Richie".

SHUD ON ladies and gentlemen. A Japanese word and an anagram of the anathema that is HUDSON, but what does it mean?

If your're eating your dinner finish it first and then come back.

SHUD ON was a revolting and dangerous type of martial art practised the fore-runners of the Ninjas, a clandestine sect known as the Minjas.

These Minjas, or Mingers as they are known in the west, developed ways of poisoning their targets using natural byproducts, rather than concocted toxic substances.

This way the assassinations could go undetected.

They would train day and night in order to be fit and agile. Their main exercise has been the SQUAT, and there is a reason for that, as you will find out later. Briefly, there has never been a warrior in the whole of history, that has been as good at bending down as the minjas.

Their staple diet of cabbage, beans, prune juice, bran flakes has given them a catharctic and healthy digestion providing all the energy they need without piling on fat. It also has another advantage...

Minjas killed their targets by invading their pagodas and heading for the shogun's kitchen.

While in disguise they would wait until no one was watching then they would pull down their kimono and take a dump in the master's food.

The scatological minja would stir in the shit with a special wooden spoon known as the SHITAKI (shit-stirrer) and then break it into chunks so that the whole meal resembled an Indian curry (particularly a VINDA LOO).

The unsuspecting SHOGUN would eat it, contract LERGY and die horribly.

If the victim failed to die then the minja also failed his mission, and from shame he would never wipe his ass again until he eventually died from PANTY SCABS.

The word SHUD ON came into circulation when the demonic sect was finally discovered one night. As the frantic guards run around the battlements of Yatoki Castle, early on the sunrise in the 12th century the samurai was called by the herald.

HERALD: (bowing)Tragedy my lord! The Shogun is dead!
SAMURAI: Yojimiba! He was well guarded. How could this be?
HERALD: He was poisoned, my lord.
SAMURAI: How! Impossible. The kitchens were guarded.
HERALD: Then he must have been a spy.

(much shouting in the courtyard)

GUARD: We have found the culprit.
(Drugs in wretched beaten manand throws him on the floor)
SAMURAI: Is this the man who has brought shame to our clan?
GUARD: (bowing) Yes, my lord.
SAMURAI: And how did he do it? Is he carrying poison on him?
CHEF: I can answer that question

 

SAMURAI: Who are you?
CHEF: I am Gordoneki Ramsuzuka the fucking chef.

(Samurai cuts chef's head off. Claret everywhere)

HERALD: Aiieee! Why you do that?
SAMURAI: He didn't bow.
GUARD: I know how he did it if I may speak.
SAMURAI: Speak.
GUARD: He SHUD ON his food.
HERALD: That is disgusting!
SAMURAI: Guard! you have failed the shogun. You know what to do.
GUARD: Yes sensei. AAIIIEEEEEEE!!!

(commits hari-kiri)

SAMURAI: What great evil has fallen on this land. The end is near.
HERALD: I can no longer live with this shame.

(cuts his head off with a BIC razor. More claret.)

SAMURAI: You! Ass minja! I hope you live forever! To bear witness to the havoc you caused.

(samurai unclips a hand grenade and clings to it. He is blown to smithereens.)

(Ass minja gets up. Looks around. Shrugs his shoulders. Then fucks off home to play with his Nintendo Wii)

Evil ruddy Hudson
Very very naughty.

 

cool so they all shittakid together in a big shitaki fest
a sword up the shitter sounds like a good way to blow hemaroids away

 

It's true that Gary Glitter is connected to the Hudsons.

But nothing could have prepared me for the shock, as I opened the bathroom door and found the cricket coach stone cold dead on the floor. Of course, at this point in time, and due to the legal system, I am not allowed to mention any names in case I incriminate the course of justice. I will, however, say that he was the coach of the most fair-playing cricket team in the world, a team that never ever cheats, and also a team that is never implicated in any forms of international illegal betting-coup match-fixing scandals, especially, and I would like to stress 'especially', during cricket world cup tournaments. You see unlike our own American baseball, cricket is a British invention (invented by Queen Victoria in the 17th century) and as such is an untarnished institution, because as the whole world knows, we are the cause of everything that's wrong, and the limeys just go along with it when we click our fingers, and they are totally innocent, and go to bed before 11. And they're gay. But anyway...

I was at a loss seeing this stiff on the floor, and had no units left on my Nokia for the paramedics to scoop all the shit up. Then I was lucky... Who d'you reckon walked in?

Yep. It was Mrs. Hudson's lodger, none other than the greatest sleuth that has ever lived... Shyster Holmes.

"Shyster. Thank god you're here!" I said.

"Avvy! How are you my boy? You never call, you never write," said Shyster.

"Yeah, I've been really busy with studies. This sociology degree is really pants."

"No time for an old man any more. What would your mother, Rosa, bless her soul, say if she could see you, grown into such a fine young man? Have a pretzel."

"There's no time for pretzels now Shyster. There's a body on the floor."

"Shalom? Wat is this schmuck doin? Is he praying?"

"No Shyster. I think he's dead."

"Oy vey! I'll call the rabbi. Is he... you know..."

"What? Err... Oh, that. I don't know. What d'you think I am?"

"Well, go on then..."

"Go on what?"

"Have a look."

"What d'you mean have a look?!? I'm not going to put my pawprints all over his pants and genitals if he's been murdered. What will they think?"

"Well, you might be right. There's blood on the floor and the bruising on his neck suggest that his neck might have been snapped, but then again he might have slipped coming out of the bath."

"That's more like it, Shyster. Hey, where are you going?"

"It's sabbath and I don't work. I'm going to get a bagel from Aaron and then go home and watch young people from the window, and then call the police 5 times for disturbances. Besides, you're a bock, and if I stand around you, you will bock me, too."

As Shyster left the Hudson's manor I thought hard of what i wanted to say to him, and it came out something like this:

"Shyster, you're a shyster."

But now it was time to solve this mystery, and perhaps one of you will help me.

Who killed the cricket coach?

Whoever it was, it wasn't:
a) the butler.
b) an annaconda

I repeat: It WASN'T THE ABOVE TWO.

So who could it be? Who is the murderer? Huh? Huh?

Please forward cc all answers to Scotland Yard.

 

Did Barry from East-Enders do it?

Heres the facts: Barry from East Enders could have gone in disguise over to the cricket coaches hotel and whacked him on the head with a wet fish for a laugh - the coach thinking he was under attack turns round and starts punching Barry then to defend himself, Barry releases a highly trained python snake into the room - the python sees Barry is being attacked and strangles the cricket coach

Or it was Sylvester Stallone
who got frustrated with being as intelligent as the average pineapple, and in a fit of rage because he didnt understand the rules of cricket - he released two fully trained commandos into the room to strangle the cricket coach

 

I submit for your judgment a small plain envelope. Inside is the truth of the matter but we will not get their yet. For as I look around this vast wide world, the Hudsons keep a 'coming and this particular phenomena led me to a more than one possible perpetrator of this crime.

Our candidates are: a ghost, The Queen and the Murderer.

"Where's the bloody gin? " Lizzy cried. "I haven't had a good stiff drink since Mums died"

It had been true. The royal stash was lost with the demise of the Queen Mum and on the verge of resorting to the gin of the proles, Lizzy had contracted a pychic medium to drag Mumsy back from the eternal so she could finally get a belt o' the good stuff.

Her and the Corgis poured into their chariot and blazed down the road to the Hudson household where the seance was being held in the attic. Soon there after the cricket coach went into the downstairs toilet for a dump.

The ritual began and Lizzy and the leprauchan of a medium began to chant. The dogs joined in with a howl and at the point of the cacophany crescendo, it all stopped - a mysterious wind snuffed out the summoning candles....it was not the spirit they had expected.

It was at this point, the point of wiping one's ass after a good satisfying exvacuation, that the cricket coach heard echoing through the vents from the attic an odd and uneathreal voice...

"Always the Gin presented to Her Majesty, Never the other way round."

Taken off guard and off balance by the errie intonation of the past, he fell and bounced his head off the porcelean, leaving him prone and dazed on the bathroom floor.

This is when the Murderer walked in and finished the vile deed.

But enough of this framing, even Hudson against Husdon, I shall now open the envelope and read to you it's declaration in the form of a haiku.

The murderer is:
Hugh Hudson in the ballroom
With a cricket bat

 

I like your style, body electric, yes I like that a lot

I still say
Barry from east enders
in the bedroom
with a trained python

 

A good guess by both, but unfortunately the correct answer was given to me by a surprising new contestant: Ronald Macdonald.

It appears that our newbie is a bit of a genius, so well done, son.

The new score stands at:

Ronald Macdonald..................2000
Bodu electric.........................1000
Sentient..................................0100

I have decide to subtract 900 points from Sentient to make it fairer on new members. I don't want new members to be discriminated upon, and I want to do everything within my power to set an equality charter so that evry man, woman, no matter what color, race or creed has a sense of equality and freedom. God bless our hipforums,

 

Is the answer David Hasselhoff
in the swimming pool with a womans bra?

 

No.Sorry Sentient. That is wrong. The correct answer was David Hasselhoff in the swimming pool with a woman's bar. That makes the new score:

White Scorpion...................3000
RonaldMacdonald.................2000
BodyElectric........................1000
sentient................................1

Come on sentient, you have some catchupping to do if you are to beat this new player Ronaldinho de Macdonaldinho. Apparently he's already got a big harem of a female fan base in here. All the girls are flocking to his call. I suspect, however, that he is a Hudson and can't be trusted.

 

Ah a screaming Rock Hudson ?

He knew people like James Dean, who used to dress in Leather motorcycle gear and then go "out" for the night with the guys from "Village people"

Was it the Indian, from village people, with a ligature, in the garden???