Two for Tuesday! This time, you're getting not one, but two Riffs, for the price of one! (Granted, the price is "free", but whatever) Yep, so now we're onto chapter two of "Pasta Noir", where we get into name changing for trademark reasons. Anyway, let's get get out our lemons, and Riff this bitch!

2. Lemon Man

The King William District was a historical neighborhood. By “history” he means “full of old people.”  It had all the charm of L.A.’s Mulholland Drive at sunset. Well, it’s in LA, so absolutely no charm. Chris walked up to the beautiful Victorian home nestled deep within the cozy well-to-do suburb.  The scene was taped off.  C.S.I. was in & out of the home. Well, the detective made a pun and took off of sunglasses.  He made his way to a large, covered wooden porch.  The outside stucco walls were covered in thick green vine Do it for the vine!; dormant, snow-covered  Boughganvillia vines surrounded the outside property line.  The lot in general was immaculate.  Someone put a lot of love and money into its overall look and upkeep. Well, they were bored and had nothing else to do.

Chris carefully walked up the steps and under the yellow tape to meet with Michael at the door.

“Hey! Good morning, old man!” Michael commented upon seeing Chris make his way carefully up the steps.

“Good morning, young padawan,” The trekkie in me in mildly annoyed. Chris responded to Michael, who was 10 years his Jr. Wrong junior. Jr. is used in names, like William Schticman, Jr. You meant “junior.”

Chris was a mess but Michael thought the sun shined out of his ass, Do I want to know where the sun sets then? though he’d never admit it.  He’d rather bust Chris’s balls.  He learned a few things from his mentor over the past 2 years - things that have saved his skin more than once. Dermatology?

Michael smirked at Chris and began with the run down.  “The medical examiner is inside.  We got a one Max Von Drack, He sounds like an overly evil stereotypical villain. Kneel before the great Max Von Drack! Caucasian male, age 68.  His throat was slashed, his eyes gouged out and placed into his mouth. Are you sure? Because eye am not. Sorry.  It appears it was done while he was still alive.  He, uh… bit down on them. How did they tasta?  The vic' was also clenching a lemon his right hand. Remember, kids, Every Villain Is Lemons.  He squeezed the shit out of it too.  Wait, there’s shit in lemons? This is why I don’t drink lemonade.

Chris, being the smartass he was, couldn’t resist. I feel a connection to Chris. “You don’t think he was making lemonade, do you, Detective?” More like deadonade! Yeah, sorry.

“Really?  That’s just wrong, man,” Michael said with his eyebrows raised. “Anyway, he also has something carved into his left arm, a link to a website. “It says ‘pornhub.’ Weird."  I took a pic and already checked it out.  It’s a link to a horror fiction website called Scarypasta.” Ugh. 

“'Scarypasta'?! What in the fuck is that?” In the words of TVtropes, a Captain Expy. Chris asked with an expression like he just smelled something rotten. Do lemons smell rotten?

Michael raised his eyebrows “Yeeeah…  It’s a horror fiction website where writers post all kinds of short horror stories. “Also, some schmuck makes jokes about bad ones.” It has quite the cult following apparently. They found out the truth. Us Creepypasta –er, “Scarypasta” fan are part of a cult. The link is to a story called 'A Tale of Him Holding a Lemon'. Is that an actual story? I’m not joking or anything, I’m just curious to see if this is an actual story.

Chris laughed. “Are you fuckin’ for real?” This is a fictional story, so no.  He shook his head and looked Michael right in the eye. “Well, take me to the stiff.” Just look down, man. Oh, wait, you mean something else.

The S.A.P.D. Detectives made their way inside the lovely home, which would likely sell fast on the market regardless of the crime. Well, the blood stains on the floor will make it a bit cheaper. The hallway led to a large living room, finished in a nice oak.  Dark, polished wooden floors, bookcases and a china cabinet rested against the old walls.  On a large, blood-soaked Persian rug lay a man in a blood-covered yellow sweater vest, Mr. Rogers! Nooo! white dress shirt underneath and black slacks.  His shoes had been removed.  He had a grey mustache and wavy hair.  He looked to be small in stature, about 5 foot 6.  His eye sockets were empty and bloody. Because it isn’t Creepypasta without someone missing eyes. Blood covered the areas of his mouth and neck.  The long cut on his throat was apparent.  His left shirt sleeve had been rolled up and the link to the story was indeed carved into his forearm. Also carved on there: “Let me know what you think of my story.” The wounds on his arm had begun to dry and scab over, making the carvings even more visible.   What kind of monster would do this to an old man? Rush Limbaugh?

“This city and it’s fucking scumbags… always on duty. Yeah, but they take shifts. Fucking scumbags are day shift, fucking douchebags are night shift. Doesn’t look like the work of a button man What in the hell is a button man? Is that some new superhero? The Infallible Button Man? or a burglar; Looks personal. Actually, the killer said, “Nothing personal.” Anything taken?” Liam Neeson. Chris asked.

“No.  It appears that the killer or killers wanted the attention to be focused on the killing,“ That explains the sign on the lawn pointing to the house that say, “MURDER IN HERE!” Michael replied.

“Do you think there was more than one killer?” Somebody Told Me there were more Killers. (all capitalization is intentional here) Chris asked over his shoulder.

“Not sure.  We got C.S.I. running tests.  He hasn’t been dead too long. “In fact, we’re not sure if he’s dead or dying.” Livor mortis is set in.”

“Next of kin?  Someone has to pay for his burial,” Chris asked.

“None yet.  By the looks of things it doesn’t seem like he had any kids, if you know what I mean.” He’s impotent? Michael pointed at a framed picture on a bookshelf of Mr. Von Drack kissing another older man. Oh, he’s fabulous.

“He was a daisy. Driving Mr. Daisy, coming soon! OK, let’s get the patrols interviewing neighbors. Michael, take this photo and make your way around the gay bars tonight, “Trust me, you’ll fit in pretty well.””  Chris ordered.

“Ah, shit!!” Michael protested.

Chris looked at Michael and smiled. “Hey, grunts do the legwork… you know this. sonny-boy! Besides, the daisy Stop calling him a daisy. Call him a rose. in the photo is our prime suspect at this point.”

Chris located Mr. Von Drack’s cell phone and did a search. “Why are there so many numbers for interior decorators?”

“OK, I’ll start looking for next of kin.” Pasta Noir 3: The Search For Kin.

This part introduces an idea I find kind of interesting: Creepypasta based on Creepypasta. Creepypasta-ception (BWAAAAAAM), if you will. I personally find it kind of interesting (though many don't) partly because of the idea of the fourth wall not being able to protect you. Basically, the idea that the story you're reading about can hurt you. So doing it about Creepypasta would make sense, but it usually isn't done well, and just comes across as dumb. However, a murderer basing his murders off of stories is an interesting idea. Sure, these stories are technically called "Scarypasta" (is this to protect from lawsuits, or to place the story in a different world than ours?), but the basic idea comes across. This part isn't bad either, though I found calling the gay guy a daisy a bit rude, and it brought memories of Driving Ms. Daisy back. Anyway, the murderer's schtick is established, and the plot progresses, and Chris' buddy is introduced. It's done pretty well, and I don't really have any complaints. But will this good work be kept up? Join us next time for the third installment of "Creepypasta Riffs: Pasta Noir" to find out.

So, what do you think? Do you think my Riff is a disgrace to Scarypaste -er, Creepypasta? Do you wish I would be killed and have my eyes gouged out? Leave your thoughts in the comments below, and be here next time for part 3!