The murder of Octavius Snickenbough was in all the papers. It was in all the papers not because it was a murder (goodness knows, murders are so common these days they could hardly be considered newsworthy) but because of who Octavius Snickenbough was.
Octavius Snickenbough was the local vicar who, despite having being married to a lovely wife for many a year, had singlehandedly fathered three children on the one night, all born in the same local maternity hospital on the same day, and all registered by different mothers with the information on the father recorded as “Octavius Snickenbough, Vicar”.
It had turned Octavius overnight, on the one hand, into a folk hero, and on the other hand, into a fiend. And now, several weeks after the births his body was discovered lying murdered in the sands of the local beach. The beach was in a sheltered bay and most popular over the summer months. The sand was a mass of hundreds of footprints going in all directions, so the murderer’s footprints going to and from the body were indecipherable.
Clearly, Octavius Snickenbough had been chopped to death by a tomahawk. In fact, it was patently obvious because a tomahawk, the kind used to split firewood kindling, was still protruding from the crown of his head.
Naturally, the three mothers of the three new-borns were questioned by the police, as indeed was Octavius’s wife. None could offer any information that caste the slightest light on the situation.
This all happened several months ago, and the police are no closer to solving the mystery and making an arrest. The closed beach has subsequently reopened, and parishioners seem to rejoice in the appointment of the new vicar whose homilies are considerably shorter than those once offered by the late Reverend Octavius Snickenbough. Rather fortuitously, the new vicar has his own house, so Mrs. Snickenbough is more than welcome to continue to live in the old vicarage. After all, why should it remain empty when it is warm and welcoming, and suitable enough for a lone widow to live comfortably? The potbellied stove in the kitchen is a little old-fashioned but Mrs. Snickenbough doesn’t mind that – once she gets a new tomahawk to split the kindling.
Well with that problem solved, hopefully she can revert to her maiden name. Snickenbough is quite a mouthful!
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I forgot to mention that she was born in Madagascar and probably can’t wait to get back to her name of Andriatsiferanarivo.
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I know one of his afamed children: Jonathan Snickenbough. Funny, he tends to jog along the beach every morning, but since the coast is barely 600 metres in length, he just goes backs and forth.
Odd.
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I think I know the Snickenbough you mean. He’s still looking for that tomahawk. So that explains the odd behaviour of going up and down the beach all the time. (And I might add that I had a nice story scheduled for today but changed early this morning to satisfy your craving for bloody murder).
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I was going to say «finally, some good Goodmanian carnage», but I realised that I’m the only one demanding it!
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Oh no you’re not the only one! This desire for carnage is rather widespread. I just wish people desired stuff more to my taste – like rock n roll.
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You should write some Rock – n – Roll and post it here with your classical music.
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I’m not very good at it!
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I wouldn’t be able to tell and neither would a lot of other people. Besides, the more you did it, the better you would get at it and the more you’d like it.
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So it was the new vicar right? I knew it!
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You’ve been listening to too many sermons!
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And since you appear to have grown hooves, you obviously haven’t been listening to enough!
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Ha ha! You’re the first to notice! I was thinking of going incognito for a while. Bloggers with no face seem to attract more followers. I thought I might try it and “Cloven Ruminant” is to go with my gravatar!
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Octavius Snickenbough was just keeping his name alive…it’s a shame that the missus had to frown on that.
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People don’t seem to realize just how difficult our job can be.
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We just never get credit…only grief or in this case a Tomahawk.
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Three times in one night is nothing compared to some of the things demanded of us.
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Just listening is a chore! I’ll get in trouble for that remark.
Once a king…always a king…once a night…is enough.
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LOLz
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Now was that Myrtle Andriatsiferanarivo of the aristocratic Antananarivo Andriatsiferanarivos or was that Luella Andriatsiferanarivo of the lower Toamasina Andriatsiferanarivos?
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You know them? It’s a small world!
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I often lose my tomahawks as well.
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Try putting it in an egg. Then you can hatchet.
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I see. What if the egg ends up on your face?
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That would be no yoke.
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That joke is over easy.
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This has to be one of the juiciest of stories I have read in a while. It has all the ingredients of a potbellied potboiler trilogy. Kudos to the neurons firing in that wizened skull. Meanwhile, beware of the tomahawk!
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“Tomahawk” is apparently a Native American word. It is an excellent word for what it is and for what it can be used for.
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What a wonderfully distinctive name. You should have a book with all your character names
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Thanks! I take all the first names from the daily death column, and if a surname is required I take that from the obituaries as well but usually I go for the odd ones. I agree – its a great name!
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THe clues are all in the kindling! I wonder how many people took a wack?
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The views on the kindling would possibly be split!
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🙂 🙂 🙂
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