Written for the 2003 ASCI Writing Contest, did not win.
But my life changed quite drastically with the murder at the Green Snake Inn. I was decorated by the Queen’s Secret Service…and all for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
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I was on my lunch break one day and decided to go walk around London and look for a place to have lunch. I happened upon the Green Snake Inn near Kensington Gardens. I went there and ordered a Coke. It came, and then I ordered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.
There was a very harried young lady, the private secretary or stenographer type, sitting at a table near me. She took a sip of her drink, a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred (I’d seen enough James Bond films to know what that looked like). Then she tensed up, clutched her throat, and then, after a long wail, became quiet. I rushed over to her and checked her vital signs.
“She’s dead!” I cried. “Somebody call the police!”
