dannyomo

DECAGONS

#00365 L200

#14208 L200

#15031 l194

#15961 L200

#17807 L200

by KJETIL GOLID x DECA

#19034 l191

LUCI

The story of

I. Birth of Luci

II. Lullabies for Isaac

III. First Sacrifice

The Blueprint Skull

IV. Return to Diorama

We are ripped awake.

Our nerfed comfort we cradled ourselves to death in, Cling one last time.

Death to baby.

Long live Luci.

Leave them.

Time to take our first steps again.

Along with your offering.

art and poetry by @SamSpratt

Decagon

#365

Detective

Jack

Season 2

Feb '23

Wait, no. Try again: Fried sugar dough. I mean, it’s gross. Objectively.

I was back from Hawaii. Back from trying to find myself (I failed). And I was on a bit of a health kick. Vegetables, chicken, and vodka. The three core food groups.

That’s all to say, I was looking good—sunkissed and down a few pounds.

Yet here I was at Donny’s Donuts, the scene of a crime. Donald Redder, proprietor, dead.

S2-02: Concentric Circles

My investigation was punctured by a flurry of radio activity.

“All units. All units. Suspected homicide at Donny’s Donuts Culver City.”

I briefly tuned out, thinking it was a repeat of my present location. But then “Culver City.”

I rushed to my car. I may be tired and jaded, but there’s something about a potential serial killer that wakes you right up.

The Culver City location was a particular feat of human ingenuity. It was a donut shop in the middle of a traffic circle (“the donut in a donut,” it was called). How you safely walked there was a bit of a mystery (it involved a tiny crosswalk in the back).

As I slammed my Chevy into park and jumped out of the car, I instantly knew something was amiss. Inside the glass windows was a scene from an obsessive hungry person’s dreams. Neatly assembled on the counter were uneaten donuts of many flavors and varieties.

But interrupting this organized obsession, a body.

Not a robbery. Her purse was untampered with.

Cecilia Redder.

The grand dame of Los Angeles society. The ex-wife to Donald Redder (but continued business partner).

I knew from my 20s precisely what that was (maybe my 30s too…).

Cecilia Redder seemed to be a cocaine user.

Or, someone wanted us to believe that.

Found on the baking room floor. Called in by the acne-ridden 16-year-old tasked with opening up this sugary hellhole.

After the mess with The Circle, the force had cleaned ranks. The LAPD was to be the finest police force on the planet (I chuckled too). The issue? The mass firings had left us hamstrung. We barely had enough cops to secure a murder scene, let alone investigate one.

So here I was, outside a Donny’s Donuts, telling sugar-addicted Angelenos to get out of the damn parking lot.

My own personal hell.

Fried dough.

Shit. A second

BURNED🔥

Detective

Another day, another blood-soaked reminder of why the mayor is down our throats.

The crime scene is barely secured. Los Angeles’ finest...idiots who fumble their way through the academy, only to end up beating some poor souls at a traffic stop.

Anyways, I’m here now. Called away from the west side, beckoned into the hellscape of Beverly Hills. Ready to figure out who killed this man, now splattered on his own linoleum floor.

Dying in a kitchen. Not as bad as the toilet, but close. Your body watched over by appliances. Your last breath witnessed by the breadbasket.

What they won’t teach you in a book is that it all means something...A murder in a bathroom. A murder in a kitchen. Nothing is inconsequential. Did the offender mean to keep things contained (the bathroom)? Was it a crime of passion (the bedroom)? Or was it a domestic escalation (the kitchen)?

That’s why they pay me the medium, government bucks. Fuck it. I’m rambling. Time to figure out who did it. If I was a gambling man (I am), I’d bet the wife did it.

S1-01:

The Murder on South Maple Drive

Jack

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AUTHOR OF THE BESTSELLING SERIES, "THE TRUTH"

My Name is Jack

BRUCE @ STUDIO YORKTOWN

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Tesse-Lebras-ion!

Jetsam