Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yes: When the corpse first arrived at the morgue, the coroner's office was under the impression Unfortunate Amber had been mauled by some sort of wild dog, but upon closer inspection, they found one of Unfortunate Amber's unfortunately shellacked Glamour Length Lee Press-Ons embedded in her temporal lobe. Super-Smart Sammy immediately understands the implication, and squints, "Is that even possible?" Dim El Deano, far slower on the uptake, furrows his brow and guhs, "Wait. You're saying she did this to herself?" "Uh-huh!" the coroner nods, adding for good measure, "She scratched her brains out." Would that all Twitards did the same. Ignoring me, as is the wont of the tiny little people on the television set, the coroner explains, "It'd take hours, and it'd hurt like hell, but sure, it's possible." "How?" Dean blurts, still not believing it. "Pick your acronym," the coroner replies. "OCD, PCP, it all spells crazy." The coroner's best guess involves Unfortunate Amber suffering from a phantom itch of some sort and, in an amusing bit of business, once he describes the phenomenon and leaves, both of Our Intrepid Heroes start scratching at themselves uncontrollably. Far less amusing? I'm scratching at myself now, too. As is Raoul. "It won't go away!" he shrieks. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
An abrupt change of venue helps both of us immensely, as the camera leaps over to the scene of Unfortunate Amber's recent demise. "Speak for yourself! I can't stop scratching!" Okay, you need to stop raking your perfectly honed claws across your ass right in front of me, Raoul. Why don't you go fix yourself a nice flagon or ten? I'm sure their soothing effects will soon take care of your regrettable psychosomatic symptoms. "Good idea!" And while Raoul toddles his alcoholic behind back into his den, let's listen in as the LYING LIARS WHO LIE pepper the freaked-out yokels with questions regarding cold spots and sulphuric smells and such. Actually, on second thought, let's ignore all of those questions that Dapper Sam's asking and follow Dean as he snoops through the manor's first floor, as he soon stumbles across that tubby bag of putrescent adolescence from the previous evening, and although I still maintain last night's vile transgression against Unfortunate Amber should have resulted in a broken-off meat cleaver blade embedded in the vile child's head, the fat brat does offer us all a clue, and oh, gross. You'll have to excuse me for a moment while I vomit, for I've just noticed the slogan on lardbutt's t-shirt, here: "Take It Out & Play With It." "DEATH!" roars Raoul from the depths of his den, the various flagons clattering in their rack thanks to the vehemence of his outrage. "DEATH TO HIM WHO WOULD PURCHASE HIS T-SHIRTS FROM SPENCER'S GIFTS!" I can't say I disagree with Raoul's sentiment, but I really should push past our shared disgust to note the following: In addition to sexually harassing Unfortunate Amber, Jimmy The Hutt sprinkled itching powder on Unfortunate Amber's hairbrush. DUN!