Let’s be a DataLounge crime scene.

Put on your booties and hairnet, and put on gloves. We know you keep all three in your purse.

I'm the grease fire.

I'm the neighbor and also a main suspect, who lives next door to the victim, being badgered at work by the cops. I tell the investigators I'm too damn busy to sit for an interview. Surprisingly, the cops give and leave me the hell alone.

Moitle, wotta mernin' I have had. This flatfoot was askin' about some MOIDAH next door when I was out the door ta woik. So I says, "I ain't got nuttin'." And the fresh article KEPT askin' questions! Finally I says, Moitle, finally I says, "Look, coppah, I can't help ya. Now if youse'll excuse me, I got HATS ta sell!"

“He was always quiet and kept to himself.”

I'm the gallons of semen.

Second time this week I've seen her in the street in her caftan.

I'm the dodgy new neighbor who seems friendly, claims to have grown up far away - but knows all the town history, gossip and scandals.

I'm the cheesecake crumbs left all over the corpse.

I’m Momma, making the evidence disappear beneath my caftan so that the cops won’t take away the hot cagemeat paroled into my custody. Startling, in light of the fact that the evidence is several dead bodies, but my mussy is surprisingly capacious.

I'm the 1960s paneling with the bullet lodged in it where the victim swerved the first time. The second bullet is lodged in the victims's occipital. He won't have to pay for his parking place tonight. Or any night.

I’m the doubting veracity poster who is conducting the interrogations. I know you cunts are lying.

I'm the luminol that the CSIs spray to find blood. Found some blood spatter on the victim's caftan.

I’m Muriel pitching a fit saying, ‘You Queens better stop gossiping about our DL murder’. Until she realizes it will really benefit her site, because of all the True Crime Addicts bringing in new clients.

I’m the Teflon.

I’m the crime scene investigator, who is excitedly removing pubic hairs from the victim’s teeth for it’s evidentiary yield.

I'm a frau cop who mistook another apartment for mine and killed the actual tenant.

I am the repurposed drag queen duct tape being use as crime scene ribbons.

I’m the snitch who tells the police that the landlord was involved, since the dead man was telling everyone he was paying the rent boy.

I'm the envelope full of sperm-filled condoms. I'm addressed to Robert Sepúlveda.

I am the Doritos debris on the suspect’s hand that is assumed to be gun powder residue.

I’m your fingerprints on the murder weapon—a bug black dildo covered in santorum.

^big

I’m the stiletto footprints in the nacreous layer of permacum.

I'm the disco ball.

I’m copious amounts of pot spattered in blood. Not the victim’s blood.

I am the Cocaine all over the counter or could it be powdered sugar? I need DEA to test my evidence.

A dead grammar Nazi was found lying on the floor. Police have identified a number of Data Lounge posters as prime suspects.

The victim has been stabbed multiple times with a red pen. The words “fewer, not less” are carved in his forehead.

The homicide squad has called in the grammar police who are going over the crime scene with nitpicks and magnifying glasses.

I’m the neighbor boy. I discovered the body.

I’m the victim’s “roommate.” I’m sitting on an Eames Lounge Chair knock-off muttering “oh dear” over and over. I’m trying to look innocent, but not too innocent for the hunky detective to interrogate.

What’s that smell?

I'm the telephone. The CSIs will find no fingerprints on me, for I have only been dialed with a pencil.

I'm the words "Pointless" and "Bitchery" scrawled in semen on a wall. They baffle all of the crime scene investigators except one, a hopeless closet case who will never, ever reveal how it is that he knows what it all means.

Is that a framed poster of Leopold and Loeb?

I’m the gin and regret that triggered the crime spree.

Oh, look. The victim tried to write something with his bloody finger—MURIE . . . Who’s Murie?

I'm the mysterious blonde wig found carelessly thrown on the bathroom floor. No member of this drama would wear it; where did I come from?

Did I tell you I am a synthetic sixties fall - as revealed on closer inspection.

Pssst! You didn’t hear it from me, but . . . They discovered meatballs in the victim’s rectum.

I'm the motive: the victim asked for a towel.

There’s a strainer full of recently-cooked pasta sitting in the sink.

I’m the scribbled words above the broken recliner in pork rind grease: I HATED THAT FAT WHORE!

I am the pearls that even the medical examiner cannot remove from the victim’s clutch.

i'm Jessica Fletcher. I'll sort this all out in 47 minutes.

I’m the shrine to Jessica Lange. The detectives later suspect the broken figurines of Miss Lange played a big part in the crime.

I'm Velma Dinkley. I'll sort this all out in 21 minutes.

I'm Mrs. Patsy Ramsey. I can't help you. This baffling crime will never be solved.

I'm the inevitability of the Datalounger eyewitness forgetting himself and openly cradling his very special cradling-mug while giving his statement. (Unfortunately for the victim his entire statement was, "I don't know her.")

He'll spend the next twenty years in a rage over having his cozy little secret exposed, shrieking in every [italic] WHET That Datalounger Who Cradled the Mug?[/italic] thread that he was actually holding a high-end sex toy and how typical of the poors, the fats, and the olds not to have recognized it. Déclassé!

Then he'll die.

I’m the corpse named Mary.

And I'm the exclamation point painted in blood beside the corpse.

I am the undigested pineapple found in the victim's stomach at the autopsy.

The shooter was impeccably dressed, hair styled to perfection and not an ounce overweight. He gracefully walked into the bakery, opened fire as he shouted in a masculine voice "Rejoice fat whores".

I am the victim, Cheryl. Police enter and assume the noxious smell is advanced decomposition—mistakenly assuming the death occurred weeks ago. It was within the hour.

I’m the video footage showing the Datalounge angry villagers cornering Erna in the alleyway, then dousing her in grease before tossing their torches at her.

We're the eclectic browser history.

[quote]I'm the luminol that the CSIs spray to find blood. Found some blood spatter on the victim's caftan.

I'm the victim's bedspread When CSI's UV Light hits me I light up like the Las Vegas Strip.

I am the terrified cop who goes down to the basement reluctantly and, while his eyes adjust to the room, hears a single "Yum!", then a distinctive ruffling of fabric and a shape emerges of a fat, pimpled ass presenting hole.

I am the Red Dragon Cheese that is in the fridge. Since it's a DL murder, I will be a very important piece of evidence leading to a Butch Sous Chef!

I am the cop who is designated to listen to all the witness help line calls and rate them from 0/10 to, at best, 8/10 (c'mon, none of those ESTs come up with something remotely believable).

I am Cheryl, the murder victim of a Murder In the Orient Express type murder mystery. Who DIDN'T stab me is the real question. Not that it matters though since all the murderers get off scot free.

I am the victim’s caftan, with stains of McRib sandwich sauce, tomato paste and Bloody Mary! mix that seem to mimic blood stains.

I'm the victim's cat. No food for 3 days and the body just sitting there, WTF did you think I was going to do?

[quote] Let’s be a DataLounge crime scene.

Better known as the local ALDI discount supermarket.

I'm the eldergay, residing in bits and pieces in jars of the rough trade's refrigerator.

I'm the sardonic and prissy forensics team leader. Nothing nauseates me except the tasteless decorating choices of the dead victim.

"He was worse than Hitler...but that didn't mean I wanted to kill him!"

I’m the photographer snapping pics of the victim’s broken cunt bone.

I’m supine on the floor, next to a rotary telephone. I was stabbed to death with pencils.

Datalounge is a crime scene.

I'm the gargoyle neighbor who saw it all while perched on the roof.

I'm the coroner, realizing that "a man went up into the man."

I'm the MAGA hat left at the scene in a pathetic attempt to frame a deplorable for the crime.

I’m the murderous fatty on the lam.

I'm the disco lights and the gimp mask.

I'm the cak and graxy that tests positive for prussic acid.

I'm the tranny victim. I died of an overdose. Doesn't matter---my fellow trans will be all over SM tomorrow proclaiming there is an EPIDEMIC of tranny murders.

I [bold]should[/bold] be a witness, but because I smoke copious amounts of pot, silly, I'm pretty useless.

J'accuse Mrs Patsy Ramsey, formerly of Boulder, Colorado! Observe the almost empty bowl of pineapple on the formica counter top..

I'm the blowsy, nosy next door neighbor who takes offense when the detective tells her "Move it along, Toots."

But I’m deceased.

The victim has CUNT written on his forehead? Why? Uhm, this is DL officer. Duh!

I'm the neighbor who loves to appear on the evening news.

"Erna would give you the shirt off her back. She lit up a room!"

Mrs Ramsey, you'll nevah be dead on the lounge!

The suspect was arrested at the scene

[quote]You have the right to F&F. Anything you say can and will be met with "EST!" You have the right to start a thread requesting legal advice, to have your questions answered by shut-ins who have committed every episode of Ally McBeal to memory, and to have the cunty R1 present during any questioning. If you have not sufficient to pay $1.50 per month... Well, that's not my problem. I'm not running a legal aid society here.

I'm the DNA analyst assigned to work on the nacreous layer of permacum. My equipment blew up after it reached 9,999 distinct samples.

I'm the bloodcurdling scream that prompted neighbors to call the police.

Fix your equipment and get back to work, R86. The samples jackhammered from the shower floor have just arrived.

I am the old, gay cop arriving at the crime scene who sighs and then mutters: This is why we can't have nice things.

I get called to all the gay crime scenes for some reason.

I am the murderer who got tricked into confessing after the investigating cop and his sidekick went all "Tasteful Friends" on my ass and criticized the crime scene's interior design. Like, WTF you guys?

I'm the murderer who inadvertently gave away clues known only to law enforcement about the crime scene.

"Her sheets were 100% polyester"

I'm Drag Miranda Rights

[opening tongue pop!] "You have the right to remain sickening. Anything you tuck can and will be taped up in you ...."

I’m the heat (cop) getting ready to frisk you, and man I sure am ‘packing’.

I'm J. B. Fletcher and I will have this case solved with 43 minutes, in spite of R89 patronising me and telling me "Butt out Lady!".

R94 Well I am Colombo, and I can solve this case in 40 minutes. Back off Biotch.

I’m the turquoise belt hanging in the closet.

I am not one, but two Go Fund Me pages set up to assist the grieving yet financially stable widow.

Hi Mrs. Burrous.

I'm the victim's sole benefic-I mean, his best friend. What did he leave me?

I'm a killer twink. I was positively identified by my stinky feet and funky ball-smell.

I'm the front page headline of the local newspaper the next morning: "DEATH OF A SALESBOTTOM"

I am the old homophobic, homicide detective. I am grizzled, I am gruff, I am two weeks from retirement, I mutter "Homo passion job, I hate these." Inevitably, the killer somehow hears me.

I'm Dick Wolf, waiting by the news stand, so I can rip this from the headlines

I'm the clue that would solve the case but no one seems to notice me.

I’m Vivian Vance. Because I’m goddamn Vivian Vance, bitches!

I'm the mysterious letters to the police, signed simply [italic]Tasteful Friend.

I'm the cigarette smoking neighbor. I saw everything but sadly, the police mistake me for a gargoyle and never bother to interview me.

I was killed because I was one of the whistleblower's sources. Everything else is just diversion.

I'm the 22 "___is DEAD TO ME" threads that will be posted to DL in the days after the murder.

I’m the gay crime scene photographer. I get up close and personal with my photography. After looking at my photos, Cheryl TRIES to hire me to take her boudoir pictures for her new lover.

I am good taste, and I am dead.

I said I'm dead....Dead.

DEAD!!!!

I’m a slip of paper, folded like some kind of origami, slipped into the next-of-kin’s hand by a well-wisher. Later, when she opens me she reads, “Can I have his stuff?” It’s some kind of calligraphy. There’s a phone number engraved below.

I am the "Tatum O'Neal" threads authored by the main suspect waiting to be disclosed for the insanity defense.

R112 I enter the scene I’m able to make out the phone number it’s , hold on, ok, it’s 867-5309. They say ask for Jenny?

I am a dusty old iPod, haven't been played in years. DL wonders what songs I carry.

I am GapPlaylistGuy, hoping law enforcement is oblivious to what might be on that iPod

I'm someone who didn't read the thread before posting something redundant.

I will be the next victim.

I am the tawdry sheets that have not been changed in six months. Luminol and a black light reveal so many layers of human body fluids the dribbles splashes look like an elaborate abstract painting. We'll never separate the DNA out of this mess.

I'm the Midwestern husband who is a Christian and very active in his church.

Of course I didn't do it.

The victim’s apartment is full of photos of the victim smelling cookies.

I am the over eager reporter who waits on the sideline and, when spotting the cops leaving the crime scene, shouts: WHAT SONGS ARE ON THE VICTIM'S IPOD?

I work freelance for Buzzfeed and Spotify.

I am the final, unfinished message the victim writes with his own blood right next to him. I say: Julie is a c

I am Annie Leibovitz. I am so broke I have to work as a crime scene photographer now. Dear God, the light in here is atrocious!

"flames, from the side of my face..."

R124 here, "on" not "from", sorry

I am the judge that allows the convicts to be set free as long as they present hole.

I'm the perpetrator who will be found not guilty by a jury of Dataloungers because I am so hot.

Guilty, but sentenced to house detention. My house.

R128 I am the judge I agree R127 is free to walk.

I'm the Louis Vuitton shoe with the red sole, covered in a thick. ropey, nacreous layer of bodily fluid. Wait, all eyes detect .. the left shoe is a fake! A FAKE SHOE!

r130 - a fake shoe, a designer rip-off, this is bigger than we know.

I’m the corrupt DL’er cop. I see a Rolex watch laying on the victim, and simply try it on. Couple hours later I arrive home. Oh No! I realize I left the watch on my arm and left the crime scene. I guess I’ll have to keep the Rolex. Way they don’t know won’t hurt them.

I'm the nacreous layers of permacum that are revealed by the blacklight.

I'm the killer furiously trying to scrub skid marks off of the victim's bedding.

I’m Mama. I’m the victim. I foolishly ran a Prison Release Program for Very Hardened Felons. I never lowered my caftan given all my ‘drippings’. They’ll claim I slipped in my puddle and hit my head.

I'm the soft butch sous chef

I'm the Agatha Christie style mystery being written about it called Murder on the Atlantis Cruise

I’m the DL Psychologist trying to calm all the Queens down.

[quote] I guess I’ll have to keep the Rolex.

As if you could tell the real thing from a cheap knockoff.

I am the Frau novel about this DL murder. The title is: "Earrings & Caftan: The Basement Murders"

I am the glass supposedly punched by the intruder to gain entry but, whoops, I am outside on the ground instead of inside the house...it's an inside job!

I am the "Let's pretend we are an episode of Forensic Files" thread that the killer should have studied.

I am the fingerprint powder applied throughout the victim's anus.

I am the frenulum print found on the victim's forehead.

I am Miss Candice DeLong, offering my highly Botoxed hot takes on the proceedings.

I'm the "straight" married man, found dead in a seedy hotel room, surrounded by meth, poppers, and bondage gear

I'm the "straight" married man, found dead in a seedy hotel room, surrounded by meth, poppers, and bondage gear

I'm the victim, a 35-year-old self-described "pig bottom" who put his motel address and room number on his hook-up app profile with the caption "The door is unlocked and I am waiting for you."

I'm Nancy Grace. I'm not interested in this case because it involves gay men and not an angelic kidnapped white girl

[quote]I'm Nancy Grace. I'm not interested in this case because it involves gay men and not an angelic kidnapped white girl

How about a middle-aged man who identifies as an angelic 6-year-old white girl?

I'm the mauve tape demarcating the crime scene. Because yellow tape is so not fabulous!

I’m the DL German Shepherd smelling all posts to find the PERP!

I'm the three gays being arrested in Central Park for holding down an innocent frau unknown to them...........

And doing her hair and makeup

I'm the desk sergeant back at the precinct, fending off the anonymous caller who says only, "Can I have his stuff?"

I'm the gay police force asked to do a ground search. But we're all on our phones and giggling...