No sooner after the boat arrived at the island's dock did it sink to the depths of this noxious swamp. An act of sabotage by some unexpected interloper, no doubt. As the unwitting actors in this morose play make their way towards the looming castle on the vista, an eery purple haze creeps up from the seabed and moves to follow them, blanketing itself across the island.
An overt schizophrenic with an unhealthy obsession for wizards and other magical men. Such atypical delusions usually stem from either childhood trauma, or in rare cases, repressed sexual urges involving roommates.
[Victim] There's no victim here, kraut. I don't know if you've been seeing the same war movies... or fighting in the real, actual wars, much like I have, but the commander must always die in the line of duty.
And in his final moments, Saxton Hale was not afraid. No. Especially not afraid of being shot or exploded or dismembered or having his head caved in with a candlestick or getting covered in really shallow but also numerous papercuts. Any of which you should consider yourself lucky would they ever happen to you.
[Suspect] Can you smell that? Burnt gravel; probably from an exhaust pipe. But if there are no roads on this island, then it must have come from a zeppelin. Yet we haven't seen any zeppelins in the sky, have we? That's right, because we're STANDING on a zeppelin RIGHT NOW. And who is the one person with ties to Zeppelin Manufacturing, a company whose HQ is located in the outskirts of Seattle which is practically the Bordeaux of North America? Bingo, Ringo! It's the Spy!
[Constitution of the United States] Yeah? So what if I carry at least five copies of the deadliest piece of literature ever printed with me at all times? The only really dangerous part of it is the first amendment and I've already crossed that out with my enchanted freedom wand, also known as a pencil.
If you keep asking me these insolent questions, I'm going to have to write the "Constitution of My Fist in Your Spleen" and sign it with my John Hancock. That's my other fist, for your information.
[Island] I didn't drive submarines in the gulf of Brussels just to die in some putrid swamp bloated with hippie-gas! I'm going to head towards that castle once I finish conjuring a boot to shove up the ass of the what-I-assume-is-long-haired, hair-concealing-mask-wearing bastard who sank our ticket off this rock.
Remarkably underdressed for the supposed costume party this voyage was intended for, the man in the scarecrow getup is clearly all business. Though he may seem more level-headed than the rest, that only makes him a more dangerous suspect.
[Victim] Everyone in the country knew about the Hale dynasty. Even as a kid, my mum would always say "Oy! Why can't you be more like Bilious Hale? He's a billionaire industrialist and full-time 'roo fighter while you're just a primary school student!" As you can imagine, it was easy to resent the whole lot of 'em. But my personal grievances do not extend to cold-blooded murder. I am, above all else, a professional.
[Suspect] When we first stepped off the boat, I noticed the others inquiring about certain "luggage" that had inexplicably gone missing in the confusion. I, too, have misplaced an important keepsake of the short time I spent as a drifter in Botany Bay.
I reason your suspect is the one who pilfered those items and there's a good chance he's currently planting them around the island in an attempt to pin the crime on someone else. If my memory serves correctly, Scout was the first to leave the swamp... And he sure left it in a hurry.
[Botany Bay Butcher] If you find a double-headed axe around here somewhere, let me know, will you? I'll admit that it may have been used recently with semi-nefarious intentions, but I'm not the killer you're looking for. Am I a killer? No question. But am I the killer? Statistically unlikely, mate.
[Island] Most everyone moved on ahead through a clearing in the pines. Myself? I prefer to keep my back to the water in situations like this. But don't worry about me, cobber. I'll be sure to accompany H.R. Pufnstuf over here to the castle once he's finished with his hoodoo hogwash.
The chainsaw. A standard replacement for most functions of the hand. Three peculiar words are inscribed on the stainless steel of the motor but they aren't worth remembering.
A most unfortunate weapons manufacturer, draped in a makeshift ghost costume. Written on the underside of the sheet in what appears to be human blood is text that reads: "AIR BLAST WITH ME". It probably has no significance.
A curved blade, lodged in the neck of a rickety wooden plank. The fissure in the handle appears to have resulted from the striking of a blunt object. Perhaps even something so blunt as the magnanimous chest of Saxton Hale.
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