A long dinner table is set with a feast in the process of being devoured, and on each side four people sit facing each other. Leading the table is none other than the head of the household, a thinning man with a glossy dark mustache and glossy black hair wearing a tuxedo whose collar is, much to his wife’s dismay sitting at the other end, improperly adjusted. He is approaching middle age, and he eats with the utmost elegance and propriety, and to his left sits his mother’s brother, a worn man who’s got very little to say. He chews his food much like a cow does its cud, and to converse, the head of the household is therefore inclined to speak with the young man on his right, a friend of his son’s who has just been admitted to a prestigious college. The conversation is dull and spotted with references to life among the young and the nature of scholarly pursuit, a conversation wholly ignored by the young man’s fiancé sitting next to him. Draped with flowing locks of blonde hair and possessed of lush, busy red lips, she seems to have her eyes tuned to the head of the household’s son, a tidy, rigid young man sitting dashingly between his great uncle and his grandmother who in turn, seems perfectly ignorant and oblivious to the girl’s abject flirtations. The grandmother, another of the worn type of which, in stark contrast to her brother, simply has too much to say. In between shoveling down gobs of mashed potatoes and hollering at the wife of the head of household, she bobs her head around as she speaks as though she’d recently overdosed on a prescription of laxatives. Sitting next to her, a guest from the opposite side of town, and wearing her hair in much the same fashion: balled up like a helmet and dyed blue, the elderly woman competes for conversation with her mouthy counterpart though she perpetually loses the game. Barely fit for public viewing, she bares the tarnished characteristics of an overused broom, and across from her is her husband, a bumbling man vivacious of his own accord with the assistance of a few rounds of stiff bourbon, inserting his own unlistened-to and flagrant commentary on the state of ongoing liberal/conservative contention. Lastly, but not least, the youngest of the group and second son to the head of household, a young boy sits, his cheeks red and his eyes fixed on the situation of the green beans on his plate that will, to his best estimation, will not be eaten on that evening.
The scene is complex and fluid, moving along at a steady pace when suddenly, the lights go out for a brief moment. A commotion ensues as to the possible causes, and within yet another few moments, the lights have resumed, but with the most incredible detail added to the equation: The head of the household’s mother, his son’s grandmother, is lifeless, a gravy soaked fork protruding from her chest. Eyes meet with eyes and the sound of a scream pelts the room!
A murder has been committed.