Lloyd stroked his chin,
eyebrows raised as he ran an eye from one Trixie to the next. “Hmmm…I can see that this will require a bit
of creative restructuring.”
“I think yer a little
too calm about all this, pal,” said one of the Trixies.
“Well, panic and
bewilderment will get us nowhere, Miss Walters.
Er, that is to say…” He pointed
feebly at the Trixie that had just spoken.
“Which one were you, exactly? I
can’t recall if you were Stabby or Grabby.”
“I’m Stabby.”
“Ah, yes, yes, of
course. Then I suppose that would make
you Grabby. And therefore, we’ll call you, our third entrant, Sleepy.” He took a few steps aside, and gestured
toward the couch. “Now then, my dear --
er, dears -- if you would be so kind
as to take a seat, I believe we can settle this once and for all.” He scratched at a few bangs. “Probably.
Maybe. Hopefully. Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see how it
goes.”
They have no more desire to be in this situation than I, Lloyd
thought with a slight nod. If that’s the case, then it’s time I take
strides towards pacifying this predicament.
But how to go about it?
I should address the matter of Miss Walters -- one, or all of them --
being a self-confessed killer sooner than later, but…my instincts tell me that
isn’t a line of inquiry I’m in a position to pursue. So for now, I’ll have to put that little
tidbit aside -- even if it is likely to bring harm to my person. But my own well-being matters not; I would
like to think that I can do at least some good before day’s end. He
cleared his throat, and moved across from the ladies. “Now then, Miss Walters --”
“Yeah?” all three
Trixies asked.
Lloyd’s mouth hung open
before curling into a smile. “What an
adorably surreal situation I’m in! Let’s
see -- what sort of fun can I have with triplets?” He clapped a fist atop an open palm. “Oh, of course! In order to decide who the real Miss Walters
is, you should all fight each other!
Surely only the genuine article has the power needed to best her foes --
with all the grappling and feeling and clothing-tearing and hugging and kissing
that it would entail!”
“L-Lloyd!”
“No need to worry. I’d have a camera on-hand, of course.” Lloyd held up his hands at the sight of their
rising fists. “M-merely a suggestion, my
dears! A suggestion and nothing more --
unless you would be willing to partake.”
“Where the hell did
that knife go…?”
“Now yer speakin’ my
language, sister.”
“Ya may be a fake, but
yer all right.”
“A-anyway, I suppose we
should focus on the task at hand before preparing any sort of battle royale,”
Lloyd sputtered. As the Trixies calmed
down, he turned aside (noting the new sheen of sweat on his brow). Well,
it would seem that my hijinks inspire a similar reaction in all of them, so I
suppose emotionally speaking they’re indiscernible from one another. He covered his mouth. Is
there a way to trip up the fake? And
before I get ahead of myself, I should probably start rationalizing why there
are three Walters…Walters’s?
Walterses? Why there are three of
them -- let alone two.
I’ll need to attend to the matter piece by piece. I would think that solving one mystery would
put me in a solid position to solve another.
He turned back to the trio. “We’ll
have to act in accordance with protocol.
Let’s start with the obvious: a confirmation of facts.”
Sleepy Trixie rubbed
the back of her neck, nudging her clones -- rather unapologetically -- with
each motion. “I dunno what yer up to,
but I guess if it’ll get us outta this mess and closer to savin JP…”
“But of course.” Lloyd nodded rapidly. “The real Miss Walters would know only
something I know as well -- and if that holds true, then you doppelgangers are
destined to be dispelled. So I’ll ask you,
all of you, a question: what compliment did you offer me last night?”
“Compliment…ah, gimme a
sec, I’ll think of it,” said Grabby Trixie.
“I know this, don’t
worry,” said Stabby Trixie.
“Ahhhhhhh…hmmm, I think
it was…” said Sleepy Trixie.
And then, almost as if
they’d practiced beforehand, they said it at once: “Oh yeah! I said ya had a nice room!”
“That’s correct.” Lloyd’s brow twitched. So they
all knew it? Blast it -- I would have
figured that no one but the real one would know the answer, by virtue of our
alone time. But just to be safe… “Very well then. What sort of activity did I suggest would
transpire, given the late-night excitement?”
“A pillow fight,
right?” all three asked.
“What Shakespearian
character did you refer to me as -- unfitting as it may have been?”
“Romeo.”
Lloyd winced. I would
gladly accept Miss Walters having a good memory, but for all three to answer
flawlessly…I can see that this line of inquiry will do us no good. Meanwhile, Gaston Leroux and his cohort are free
to gallivant around Porbeagle at their leisure…while I have to contend with a
duplicitous duplicate. This is growing
rather vexing. Vexing, but not
impossible, so long as I soldier on and --
Ka-PERFECTLY
COMEDICALLY-TIMED FLUSH!
Lloyd and the three
Trixies turned toward the hall. And from
around the corner stepped a new entrant: another Trixie, patting a hand against
her stomach and pouting. “Oh man…was
hopin’ that eatin’ that dumpster food wouldn’t come back to haunt me,” she
moaned. She looked up at the couch. “Did I…did I miss somethin’ here?”
Lloyd stared at the
fourth Trixie. He looked back to the
three Trixies on the couch. He looked
back at the fourth Trixie. And then,
with a sigh, he gestured toward the couch.
“Please, have a seat. This is a
very problematic situation, but not an unsolvable one. We just need a bit of time and intuition.”
*
One Hour Later
Lloyd groaned and took
off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right.
So does anyone want to take a lunch break? I feel as if we’d best put the interrogation
on hold; we’re all frustrated, and could use a recess to calm our nerves.” He set his glasses back atop his face. “A show of hands -- who here would like a
serving of potato salad?”
Thirty-six hands shot
into the air. Thirty-six Trixies filled
the den, threatening to press Lloyd into oblivion. They had to shove all the furniture into the
walls to fit every last one of them; they sat atop the sofa, the chairs, the
coffee table, the rug, the carpet, the TV stand, the TV itself…one of them even
took a seat atop a now-empty vase. And
none of them looked too happy with the living arrangements; even though they’d
come to a temporary truce, each Trixie looked at another with more malice than
the last. Even as Lloyd took a quick
count, they could all distinctly make out murmurs and grumbles beckoning for
violence. If a hair so much as fell from
one of their heads, they’d have broken into an all-out brawl.
“All right. Math isn’t exactly my forte, buuuuuuuuut…” Lloyd glanced at the kitchen. “My father adores cooking in excess. And because of it, I believe there’s enough
potato salad left to give each of you an equal portion. So there’s no reason for any of you to --”
Nobody bothered
listening to Lloyd’s last words. They
just zeroed in on another Trixie entering from the hall.
“Uh, Lloyd? What’s with all the fakes?” Trixie Thirty-Seven asked, pointing at the
mob.
Trixie Thirty-Seven
would have been better off kicking a hive of killer bees.
“Who the hell’re ya
callin’ a fake?” one of them shouted, shoving her way through a trio of
clones. “We all know that I’m the real
Trixie.”
“Yer jokin', right? I’m the real Trixie! Yer nothin’ but a no-good copycat! And y’all better quit shovin’ me, or else I’m
gonna shove back!”
“Buncha lyin’
sneaks! I’M the real Trixie -- so back
off, or we’re gonna have a real throw-down!
And -- hey, who just hit me? Who
the hell just hit me?”
“Don’t go pointin’
fingers if ya ain’t ready to have ‘em broken, ya fake!”
“Oh, that is IT! I’m gonna beat yer ass!”
Lloyd couldn’t tell
which Trixie said that last line, but it didn’t really matter. All of them might as well have said it --
because not a second later, all of them started punching and kicking and grabbing. They didn’t even bother waiting for Lloyd to
slip out of the mob; he could only duck and cower as haymakers flew over his
head. “L-ladies! Please control yourselves!” he whined. “Your behavior is rather indecorous!”
No one heard him over
the roar, of course -- or more than likely, they just didn’t care. The Trixies knocked over furniture with wild
swings. The Trixies flung each other
into walls, with each thud leaving the House of Hoigleheimer quivering. The Trixies dug their heels into the carpet,
tearing it from the rest of the floor.
The Trixies grabbed anything within reach and clobbered other Trixies --
a trio of them even threw the couch atop another group. And when the furniture landed, they
immediately started body-slamming one another.
“Ladies! We can settle this with civility and tact!”
Lloyd shouted, but with little success; they seemed more content with trampling
and punting him about than any diplomacy.
Despite the ruckus, he stumbled to his feet, stroking his sore
ribs. “We have potato salad! A calming reagent, if there ever was one!”
One of the Trixies
dodged an incoming drop kick -- but Lloyd didn’t. He rocketed toward the back wall and crashed
against it, knocking an ironically-hung painting of an anvil onto his head. “B-but we have potato salad…” he moaned.
Again, no one heard
him. The Trixies just kept fighting and
fighting.
Potato salad. Potato salad for
all, Lloyd thought, half-wondering if he had a concussion.
Trixie caught another
Trixie in a piledriver.
We…we would have had so much fun eating potato salad. So much joy, and camaraderie, and good
spirits…
Trixie swung a standing
lamp like a halberd, eager to smash the light bulb atop a few heads.
Potato salad is truth.
Justice. Glory. And…wait a minute. There are thirty-seven… He raised a wobbly finger and started a head
count. Yes, thirty-seven women here.
Thirty-seven in need of potato
salad. Thirty-seven.
Thirty-seven…thirty-seven…thirty-seven…thirty-seven. How many portions would that require, then?
He counted off on his
fingers while a Trixie quartet went flying in front of him. No…no…no…hmmm. It would seem that I can’t divide the potato
salad equally.
He smiled
cheerily. Ah, what a relief.
And then, not a second
later, he jumped to his feet, blowing the painting away. “THIRTY-SEVEN IS INDIVISIBLE!” he roared,
throwing up his arms like a banana-deprived gorilla. “INDIVISIBLE!”
Lloyd’s outburst, at
last, put an end to the Trixies’ throw-down.
“I have had ENOUGH of
this incomprehensible tomfoolery!” Lloyd yelled, thrusting a finger
forward. “You say that only one of you
is the real Miss Walters! Fine! So be it!
But until the rest of you are willing to admit your deceitful ways --
until your corporeal forms leave my sight -- then as far as I’m concerned,
you’re ALL real. And therefore, you’re ALL
under my jurisdiction!” He stomped his
way toward the front door.
“Lloyd, what’re ya
goin’ on about?” one of the Trixies asked.
Lloyd put a hand on the
doorknob, then turned back to the mob and smirked. “I’ve yet to discover how one southern belle
can become a gaggle of them, but I suspect it’s to my advantage. Gaston Leroux may be able to evade a search
party of two or three, but against over three dozen, his prospects are on the
wane.”
“What? Are ya crazy?
We can’t go out there like this!”
“And why not? It’s quite a sight, but not one detrimental
to Porbeagle. Why, it’s nothing short of
a parade!”
“I-I ain’t goin’ out
there. Not with all these fakes.”
“Then I suppose you
would like to continue your tussle?” He
pointed toward the kitchen. “And how
long would it be before the fight escalated?
How long until one, or two, or a dozen of you decided to opt for
murder?”
The Trixies started
exchanging pensive looks.
“My thoughts exactly. And that is why I declare that we all --”
“I would prefer it if
we stayed here for a bit longer, Monsieur Hoigleheimer.”
Lloyd’s eyes darted
over the crowd. That manner of speech --
that voice so incongruous with Trixie’s…who among them had spoken it? Who among them was the true killer?
“Look all you want, o
violet one; look, and be deceived yet again.
For, as I expected, you’re a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to
matters beyond the mortal ken. Understandable,
but all the more endearing -- and exploitable -- because of it.”
“Where are you? Show yourself, you fiend!” Lloyd took a step forward, and glared at the
mob -- the mob that had grown eerily stiff.
“Show me your face, Gaston Leroux!”
“Ku fu fu…well, since
you asked so nicely…” A veil of crimson swept across the mob,
spinning and spiraling until it enshrouded them all in a velvet tornado. With each spin, Lloyd felt the wind brush
against him; it swept his clothes, his hair, and even his body a few inches out
of alignment. And yet, just as quickly
as it had come, the storm vanished. In
its place stood a certain someone -- a certain something.
A suit. A cape.
A top hat. A grinning mask. And of course, a knife thrust deep into the
heart.
“So, we finally meet,
Gaston,” said Lloyd. “May I offer you
some potato salad?”
TO BE HEARTINUED…
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