THE MUDDLED MYSTERY OF THE MURDERED MUSE, Chapter 8: The Strangest Case of Dr. Jack Ellington

The Muddled Mystery of the Murdered Muse is a full-length novel, presented to you in Medium-sized chapters twice a week (Tuesday and Friday), that tells the story of Sebastian Holden, a paranoirmal investigator who solves the strangest cases this side of Jersey City and Brooklyn.

If you missed the previous chapter, read it here; if you’ve already read this chapter, read the next one here.

CHAPTER 8: THE STRANGEST CASE OF DR. JACK ELLINGTON

Supposedly, each of us has another personality to us. “Supposedly” is the word the skeptics use, of course. Not me. I know for sure. When you have the kind of gifts I’ve been dealt by the stars above, there is no supposing anything. There’s only Truth with a capital “T” and that’s it. 
 
Case in point: Doctor Jack Ellington was a swell guy. I’ve never actually seen him anything but relaxed, in any situation. A neurosurgeon by day, by night he kicked back with a whiskey neat and some House of Cards or Game of Thrones or any other show with an “of” in the middle that happened to be playing on the television. On the weekends, he took his wife Laura to Paris, Madrid, Berlin — anywhere they could get away to for a nice couple-day couples excursion, just to see a different part of the world. He made money, and it was good money, too. And he not only knew how to make it, but he wasn’t afraid to spend it, either. 
 
And when something went wrong in his life, Dr. Jack Ellington was the most Zen fella on the face of this or any earth. Perhaps he knew that even when something went wrong in one’s life, it was really for the right reasons. It’s just that most people couldn’t see past the microcosm of the self when whatever was wrong started going wrong. Or right.
 
“We’ve been waiting for over an hour,” Laura informed him one time while they waited for their meal at a small Italian restaurant that had just opened in Jersey City. “It’s okay, honey,” Jack replied. “I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait.” 
 
“Worth an hour’s wait?!” Laura politely protested. “I sure hope so.”
 
“Can I get you anything while you wait?” The waiter asked as he stopped at their table.
 
Yeah, how ‘bout some fucking bread?! It’s the least you could’ve offered since you fouled up my night with my wife here. And drizzle that shit in olive oil, while you’re at it! And if it ain’t here yesterday, so help me Satan, I’ll eat your fucking face off!

Don’t worry — that little outburst? That was all in Dr. Jack’s Ellington’s head, when his more “Hyd(d)en self” took over. In reality, what he actually replied with was,
 
“Just some bread, please, if its not too much trouble.”
 
This was the case multiple times over the last ten years. Sometimes, it even happened on their weekend trips overseas.

Comment est-ce que tout est, Monsieur?” the waiter at a restaurant across from the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris asked gruffly, as the Frenchest of waiters often do.
 
Est-ce que je paiement suis diable pour?! was what Jack spouted off as gruffly in his head.

C’est délicieux. Merci beaucoup, garcon” was what he actually said in perfect fluent French, no less.

Funny thing was Dr. Jack doesn’t speak French that fluently.

And then one day…
 
“Would you like anything else, Sir?” asked a waiter.
 
Just the check, please.
 
But this time, what Dr. Jack Ellington actually said was,
 
“No, ’cause I’d like to be home by midnight, and it’s already 8:fucking-30, you pansy-assed putz! Just bring us the God-damned check, and bring it sometime within the next hour!”

The waiter didn’t know how to respond. 
 
More importantly, neither did a stunned Laura.

Nor did Jack himself…

>>> Continue reading: Chapter 9: The Suicidal Dare-Vampire >>>

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