Well, a little late getting this one up, but here it is.  The fifth part in the round robin story between my Mandy and Dakota Cassidy’s Nina, with a little Gil and Marty thrown in for back up.  If you’ve missed any of the previous entries, make sure to start with Fashion Forewarned, then America’s Next Chopped Model, Zombie Eye for the Dead Guy and What Not to Scare.

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“Great.”  I kicked the model’s massive platform shoes; they sprouted from her ankles like shiny black hooves. “This is just fucking great.  Someone expects us to believe that this nimrod orchestrated Rudolfo’s beheading?”

Nina stared at the bucket of hot wings between the body’s twisted legs.  I plucked the remote control out, wiped the sauce off on the model’s blouse and thrust the chicken into the other woman’s hands.

“Still warm.” An evil grin spread across her lips, her eyebrow cocked.  “Any ranch dressing laying around?”

I ignored her and turned the remote over between my fingers.  It was certainly easy enough for a model to manage, a single red button protruding from a tiny metal box.  A real no-brainer.

“Well she killed herself right after,” Nina garbled through a mouthful of wing and holding the prescription bottle dripping with buffalo sauce.  “This is empty.”

“What’s the prescription for?

She turned it around and squinted.  “Can’t tell, but it’s Rudolfo’s.  His name’s right here on the bottom.”

“Well Christ.  What are we supposed to think, that this fashion model, who looks to be a whopping 16 years old, fashioned a big mechanized cheese slicer, jerry-rigged it over the entry to the catwalk, came back here, took a bottle of Garcia’s pills, while embarking on her first calories in weeks and then pushed the button, offing the midget all in really ugly shoes?  I don’t buy it, look, she doesn’t even have greasy fingers or hot wing sauce on her cheeks.”

Everyone nodded.  Nina, too, nibbling away at a little drumstick hot sauce striping from the sides of her mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

I pointed the remote in the direction of the runway and pressed.  A shirring sound cut through the room, followed by a clanging.  The guillotine cocked and ready for its next victim, I imagined.  “Well this thing definitely works, but I think we can agree that all this—” I waved my hands in front of the body, pointed at the wings, the pills.  “This is all to throw us off track.  This girl is no suicide.  For Christ sake, she’s still smiling.”

And she was.  A goofy one, for sure, but no less a smile.  Even Gil, who’d been silent the whole time standing near the rear exit of the tent with that Marty woman, nodded.  It just wasn’t likely.

“Well then who did it?  There’s no one else here.” I looked at my watch.  9:30.  Wendy’d be waiting for us a Skinshu with one of those cute tiki idol drinks.  “And I’m losing interest.  Quick.”

I scanned the room. Rows of dressing tables crowded with make-up, blow dryers and irons of various shapes and sizes lined one wall, while racks of clothing stretched out past them on the near side.  I was about to give up and join Nina, already walking to meet Gil and Marty, when the curtains swayed and the snotty usher skittered into the room, eyes darting nervously behind him.  He held a satchel tight to his chest and guilt smeared his face like the buffalo sauce on Nina’s cheeks.

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Tune in tomorrow night on Dakota’s blog for the next exciting installment!  And make sure to pick-up Road Trip of the Living Dead (in stores now) and preorder The Accidental Human (out Tuesday).