Random stories

When Ian Smythe was in the process of choking to death we all laughed. It was his going away party, he had faithfully served as head of the Regional Office for over ten years. He was set to retire to what was assumed to be a lovely estate in the country somewhere back home, with his lovely, tiny prim little wife Helen to take care of him. Anyone who looked at his swollen, red faced figure knew he needed a bit of healthy living. So yes, this was a good thing. And since he could not bring the contents of his wine cellar and liquor cabinet, we were all happy for to have him host us, his colleagues and friends, for a series of increasingly boozy affairs over the last months of his stay.

So when I tell you we laughed, you must know that we were all several sheets to the wind, and in good spirits, as Ian himself was. The choking came quite suddenly and violently. So much so that he seemed to be putting on a show. It had to be, it was so over the top. And we went with it. When he finally gave a final croak and fell to the floor, his large frame flopped in a way that spoke of old vaudeville more than actual human tragedy. To be sure, it's a sight nobody necessarily expects to see. We picture, in our heart of hearts, death to be more graceful. We forget the mass our bodies possess until they fall limp to the ground in a thud like Ian's.

And of course he did stay there long enough that we had to go and see if he was all right. The laughter died down quickly enough, and we murmured to each other as his wife rushed to him, shook him with real concern and started yelling for help. Then, pandemonium. We were all no doubt stricken with a feeling of horrendous guilt for our moment of disbelief and rushed around looking for help. The doctor Sarr was phoned and there was old Doug hovering over the body applying his first aid training. The music was cut and the silence was deafening.

Here's what was on all of our minds and what colored the events that followed: poison. I'm sure the moment we realized Ian was not, in fact, having a laugh, was when we all set down our glasses on the nearest surface as quickly as possible. I for one was waiting for another victim to manifest, but there were, thankfully, none. It was only Ian.

And of course the poison, well, that was the thing. On everyone's minds was the fact that, in the last year or so, Ian's signature project was a sustained and quixotic campaign against the local traditional medicine. This came after the unfortunate death of his housegirl, who had been feeling ill with abdominal cramps and rather go see Dr. Sarr, as she usually might have, went instead to a practitioner of traditional medicine who prescribed something that was laced with strychnine. Ian and his wife Helen were devastated, as this was a young woman with promise, whom he was to be sending to university the following year. To be sure the cases of strychnine poisoning were common enough, and well documented. But the personal pain that Ian felt turned him into a man on a mission. The *slang nut* trees, the castor plants, became, in Ian's estimation, nothing less enemies to the advancement of the people. If given the opportunity, he would would gladly go on and on about how these plants likely killed more unsuspecting people than anyone realizes, through what he would call thoroughly unscientific and state-sanctioned quackery. This did of course draw some attention, and the government's august minister of health himself had asked him, every so politely, to knock it the hell off.

So in that brief moment, we all imagined the worst. We stood around in horror, as Doug pumped away at his chest. Soon all was quiet, save for the silent wailing of Helen, kneeled at his side, head bowed.

Some slowly, achingly, crept out. Embarrassed, overwhelmed, in a state of shock. Too many of us lingered, either to be of service, to stand witness, I have no idea. We stood in silence, or murmuring how awful how terrible over and over. Helen was in the arms of her several stolid members of the local Women's Group. I stood looking at my shoes.

"Let me through please!" the doctor yelled, piercing the silence as he ran through the room to where Ian was laying. Soon he opened his bag and pulled out his medical implements. His movements were trained and methodical, and he appeared altogether unmoved by emotion. Eventually he pried open Ian's mouth and peered inside. And then his hand was working his way into his mouth and down his throat. The doctor's face was intent and then, in an instant his eyes widened. He had found something. He removed his hand and opened it to reveal a shiny green object. We all looked and someone finally broke the wall of silence.

"Is that a lime wedge?"

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Submitted by naked_anonymosity on Wed, May 17, 2023 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

A murder mystery, without a murderer. The victim just choked on a drink, but nobody believes it was an accident because of the victim's importance.