Hearing the sickening crunch of bones breaking in the hands of both victims, and getting no response from either, James officially eliminated the two corpses from the suspect list. One of these folks though...was just not like the others...one of these folks just wasn't the same...crap, why was he thinking in Sesame Street lyrics?
He followed in the direction the others went. "Hey guys...watch yer step. We already know to avoid chandeliers, but who knows what else this sicko has got up his or her sleeve."
"What the ever living f#ck?" shouted James, when he recovered his wits and managed to stand, forcing his knees to stop quaking. " All I friggin' wanted was some free goddamn beer! Is that too much to ask?" He picked up a chair, and threw it at the wall... then he looked around, noted a large, expensive looking vase in the corner, and launched the next chair at that. "Hope that was expensive, f#cker!" He yelled at the air about him.
He walked up to the two bodies, and looked at the unlabelled bottle found by the woman. Was it open or shut? He couldn't initially tell. "Alrighty. You all are gonna think I'm nuts, but this has to be friggin' done." He stomped down hard on the fingers of the closest body. "Big effin' mansion, strangers...anonymous psychopath...people been rippin' off Agatha Christie for years...and 9 times outta ten, one of the initial victims..." He stomped on the hand of the second body..."just ain't effin' dead!"
James was startled by the voice, but a little more startled by the aussie's rude callout. He had been thinking this party invite was a little off, and the voice over the speakers a little disconcerting, but years of army bases had inured him to voices and loud intercom systems. He was also accustomed to obeying them. He was no longer a marine however, and he didn't have to be prompt about it. He watched the others move back to the ballroom, then followed casually, stopping at the entrance, and leaning against a wall there. This position gave him a good vantage point for the room at large, and prevented anyone from sneaking up on him.
Technically he had answered the summons...that did not mean he needed to be part of the group though. He'd play sheepdog to these folks if he had to, but so far, he didn't know if there really was a threat, or who presented it. That had to change.
He pulled out his sketchpad and pencil, and started drawing, both to calm his nerves, and to allow him to have an excuse to scout the room and it's occupants. The sketchpad provided a sort of immunity...if folks asked why he seemed distant or why he stared a little too long at someone or something, he could just show them the pad.
"Played soccer as a kid. But I pretty much forgot the rules, it's been so long. But if memory serves, I think you need more people than we have here." said James, moving from the table, nursing his beer. "But I'll watch. It's not like the host is making his presence known or entertaining his guests to this point."
He wondered why it felt like he was poking the bear saying that. Sure there were refreshments, but, beyond that, he had no idea what was supposed to happen at a function like this...just a big dinner? Dancing? Golf? A bacchanalian orgy? Who knew how the other half lived?
"I'm the crown prince of Budweiser." answered James in perfect deadpan. "We're a growing nation, especially every Saturday night."
He reached across the table offering his hand. "Name's James Gibson. Until recently Sgt Gibson. Most of my friends call me Sarge or Gibs. Unless they knew me in high school. Then the nicknames were probably more creative, but less flattering." He looked around the table, intending to offer his hand to each in turn unless they seemed disinclined to shake. "Consider that an introduction for all of ya, for the sake of expedience."
James moved towards the card table, surveying the scene. He knew how to play a few poker variants, but his luck was usually shit. He could bluff decently, but long term, his cards usually gave him the boot. There was only so often you could successfully bluff with a pair of deuces.
Making a mockery of the british accent, James said to the table "I say, ol chaps...There wouldn't happen to be a billiards table tucked away in a corner somewhere?"
He lifted his pinky from his beer glass and took a sip, as if it were a cup o' tea.
"We have Sprite in the States. Coke product. They're everywhere. And where I come from, we call it pop." He takes the glass, nodding in thanks. "More of a from the bottle guy, myself." he says, tapping the glass and taking a drink. "But hey, I'm apparently moving up in the world. No idea how I snagged an invite." He followed the girl towards where the music was playing.
He looked around at the other gathered invitees, not recognizing a one of them as yet. "Was hoping I'd know someone when I got here, might have helped me clue in on why the invite was sent. What part of Australia? I dated an Aussie exchange student once from a small town near Darwin, I think it was."
"Thanks." said James, to the whirling dervish answering the door. "James" he said, by way of introduction. "Was hoping I wasn't intruding. Heard something about a fancy shindig up in here. You know your way around yet? I could use a beer."
He peeked past her into the rather fancy hallway, hoping he wasn't going to break anything else tonight. He'd be paying it off for years if there was a break it you buy it policy.
After speeding along the long driveway leading to the house, James skidded his bike to a stop in front of the massive marble lions seemingly guarding the house, spraying gravel in every direction. He winced as a stray pebble cracked some poor schmucks windshield. Hopefully noone had seen that, he thought to himself. There was no doubt his arrival had been heard, if anyone was outside. He slid off his Africa Twin, and parked it near the left lion, then unhooking his chinstrap and removing his helmet.
"Nice digs...now what the hell am I doing here?" he muttered to himself. This was not his usual scene. However, when you got an invite embossed in silver for a high class function out of the blue, you went. Even if it was just to score free hors d'oeuvres and satisfy your curiosity.
He paused looking at the crack in some poor *******'s windshield... hopefully the host wasn't already regretting the invite. He set his brain bucket down on the bike seat, and removed his leather riding jacket, replacing it with a somewhat worn sports jacket in the storage compartment under the seat. "Barely presentable....just what I was going for." he said with a smirk, looking at himself in the bike's mirror.
He sauntered up to the house, wondering to himself exactly what the protocol was at these places...did he just walk in, knock on some big ass door, or what?
Looks (be at least a little specific): Muscular, 6ft4, light brown hair, short but in need of a trim, and light stubble for facial hair. Green Eyes. Nose looks like it's been broken a few times.
Clothes: Sports jacket, white collared shirt, not buttoned all the way, no tie. dockers and jeans
Personality (be a little detailed): Deadpan humor, a little gruff and reserved, seems very aloof but pays attention to everything
Likes (optional): Sketching, martial arts, hockey (watches mostly), and sci fi
Dislikes (also optional): country music, romantic comedies, and people who use text slang in conversation
Fears ( at least one): Loud noises, rats.
Weapon of choice (nothing crazy): hand to hand (MMA)
Backstory: Honorably discharged from the marine corps, but against his will (diagnosed with PTSD). Has taken up Mixed Martial Arts and is an up and comer trying to break into the UFC, despite being an older contestant. Runs an MMA dojo with a focus on Tae Kwon Do and Jujitsu elements.
Motive/Why they might be the murderer: PTSD could cause him to react involuntarily violent, but also is VERY angry that he was not allowed to continue to serve, particularly because three members of his old unit died after he left. Might target those that played a part in his discharge - ie diagnosing psychiatrist, witnesses who might have reported PTSD behaviors to superiors, or the ranking officers who made the decision to force him out, even if they did so with best of intentions.
Skills (at least one): Very strong physically, strong fighting skills, decent sketch artist (therapy tool to cope with PTSD)
Dunno if this thing is still on, but sending this out there just in case.