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 Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:21 pm
It's all the same; only the names will change
Everyday it seems we're wasting away
Another place where the faces are so cold
I drive all night just to get back home
Sometimes I sleep--sometimes it's not for days
The people I meet always go their separate ways
Sometimes you tell the day by the bottle that you drink
And times when you're alone all you do is think
My name is Cornelius Bartholomew Mustard, and welcome to my world.
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:22 pm
Navigational Chart
I My Name is Cornelius Bartholomew Mustard, and Welcome to My World
II Navigational Chart
III All About Mustard
IV Mustard's Adventures
V Mustard's World
VI Mustard's Story
VII--XV Reserved
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:31 pm
 General Information:
Name: Cornelius Bartholomew Mustard
Aliases: Mustard, Colonel. Do not call him Corny or Barty or Bart.
Gender: Male
Quote:
Likes: Shooting, being independent, knives, the wilderness
Dislikes: Fancy things, richness, being social, his family
About: The grandson of the fabulously wealthy Jean Doe Clue, Mustard spent much of his childhood visiting the old lady's extensive family at Nightingale Mansion. There, numerous bad experiences drove him to despise most of his family. When he was old enough, Mustard left his family behind and moved to a cabin in the mountains to be as far away from them as possible.
When his grandmother got older, she called for her grandchildren to join her at supper one evening to discuss the inheritance. As it was required that each of them bring a weapon, Mustard brought a revolver given to him by an old lover--one who left him after she found out how horrible his family was--with the intent that he would murder his cousins. Mustard was foiled when instead, one of his cousins decided to murder his grandmother. Thus began a very stressful night...
Mustard prefers knives in general over guns, but still likes them. His younger days saw a lot of incidents involving him and knives; he's a nut for them. In general, Mustard is a blustering, aggressive a*****e, but he's courteous to any woman he isn't related to.
Relationships:
Parents: Henrietta Hind Clue x Calhoun Mustard
Siblings: None?
Mate: None
Offspring: None
Friends: None
OOC Information:
Status: Open
Posts in: #752409
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:32 pm
Mustard's Adventures
Clue Cousin RP Contest--in which my grandmother is murdered! And my cousins are somewhat confusingly not murdered.
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:44 pm
Mustard's World
Note: Mustard's an a*****e. Please do not hold it against me personally if he says nasty, untrue things about your character.
Relations
Mistress Jean Doe Clue--My grandmother, a greedy, violent old b***h. She wasn't my least favorite relative--that would be Wylie--but I can't say I harbor any real grudge against her. And yes, I speak of her in the present tense. I don't think for a second she's dead. This is all a plot to get us to not trust each other, and I'm not falling for it.
Ruby Red--A cousin. Always seems to have a new boyfriend on her arm--a slut. She and Grandmother never got along, but she doesn't seem the kind to knock her off.
Wylie Morgan Green--Another cousin. A greedy profiteer too untrustworthy to turn your back on. Still not the kind to kill her, though. Doesn't have the guts for it.
Madame Elaine Rosemary Peacock--My cousin, a gold-digger, always looking for a new way to profit. From what I hear, she just got dumped by her husband for a newer model! She has a point about Plum, though. There's something not right about him.
Professor Plutarch Plum--My cousin. A weak coward who'd rather hide behind his books than do any real work. He didn't pack much, did he? I don't imagine for a second he did, it though. I pretended to blame him to allay suspicions from myself--and maybe I'll get Peacock alone for a chat...
Miss White--Another cousin, one who seems to have mellowed out since we were children. I remember her always climbing trees and complaining about us. Which makes it all the more suspicious that she's mellowed out. And why a purple rope anyway?! It clashes terribly with her fur! Almost as bad as Plum's hair.
Friends
Enemies
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:46 pm
Mustard's Story: The Clue Cousin RP Contest Entry
It had been a long day, and Cornelius Bartholomew Mustard—but please, Mustard will do—was in no mood to go to the mailbox. Outside the crickets chirped, and inside the cabin was cool and dark, the floorboards creaking familiarly as he made his way to his bed. Exhausted, he flopped down on the bed and fell asleep.
Morning dawned with the chattering of birds. Blearily, he pushed himself out of bed and shuffled to the table. Creak, creak, creak. He put the water on the stove to boil for coffee, pausing there to stare listlessly at the old kettle. Something. Needed something to do while waiting for the coffee. The mail. By the time he fetched the mail, the water would be done. Eh. It was as good an option as any.
With a grumble, he stepped outside and made the long trek to the mailbox by the side of the road. Already, the sun was beating down through the branches of the trees, and clouds of dust, heavy as smoke, fine as mist, were kicked up with every step Mustard made. That, the sounds of birds chirping, and the gurgle of the creek behind the cabin, were the only sounds to be heard from all around. No traffic. No planes. No noisy neighbors (well, besides the birds). Just the sound of serenity all around.
The mailbox was an old wooden affair a brisk walk from the cabin by the road. There wasn’t much mail around here—bills, usually—but it came in the only truck that came ‘round here. If Mustard wanted anything else, he’d have to go to town. He opened it up and reached inside, pulling out a thin sheathe of envelopes. He closed it back up again, then leaned against the mailbox to glance at the addresses. Bill. Bill. Bill. And…something else.
This envelope was made of a finer paper, and addressed in hand-written letters—so neatly and consistently written that they could be mistaken for print, but too ornate to ever be anything other than the writing of someone who considered neatness and orderliness to be chief virtues. The letter was clean, the stamp perfectly aligned, and there was a faint scent of lavender and rosemary around it. It brought back memories. Old ones. Ones he didn’t particularly like to remember.
An old, dark house. Laughing voices, clinking glasses, and games of chase up stairs and down stairs and hiding in closets. An old, dignified, woman who ruled this household with an iron fist. Cold. Passionless. What could she have possibly written to him about? Was he finally disinherited for shunning or shaming the family? With an angry grunt, he stormed off with the letters back to the cabin, where the kettle was whining. Carelessly, he tossed the envelopes onto the table, pulled a beaten metal mug down from the peg by the stove, and poured water over black coffee grounds. He took a sip of the scalding liquid and sat down at the table. Down went the coffee, and the envelopes were rearranged to their original order. Bills. Yes, bills first. Mustard pulled a knife out of his collar and slit the first bill open and read it through. It could wait. He set it aside. The next bill could wait, too, another payment on this cabin. The third bill…well, on second thought, bills are very important. Bills must be paid, yes, and paid as soon as possible. And the coffee pot could do with a rinse. Yesterday’s dishes needed cleaning. Oh, breakfast! Eggs, sausages, and toast, yes. And now there were more dishes to do. And sweeping, and…
Thus it was that Grandmother’s letter didn’t get read until late in the afternoon, once chores that Mustard had been putting off for weeks, even months, saw doing. It was only after the outhouse had been cleaned that he saw fit to pour himself a bath and read Grandmother’s letter while relaxing in the lukewarm water.
His fingers were trembling as he slit the letter open. Holding the knife in his teeth, he opened the letter and read it through.
Then read it through again.
Halfway through the third try, he just gave up and leaned back to look up at the bright blue sky and ponder. So. Grandmother was discussing her inheritance. Apparently she was getting old enough that she was getting insecure. But not old enough that she was senile, oh no—she was the same as always. Playing the family against each other. This wasn’t the only stunt she’d ever pulled. She’d often invited family members to bring weapons. Mustard remembered one time when he was just a kit visiting for a family holiday and one of his cousins had brought a jump rope. He remembered being foolish enough to climb up a tree with her only to find himself hanging by his foot. Yes. “Fun” times. And there were other incidents as well—one of his cousins had thrown a punch at him during an argument over television channels while Grandmother watched. She’d just smiled, chuckled to herself, and eagerly watched the heated tussle on the floor that escalated when Mustard pulled a knife on his cousin, and ended with both boys going to the hospital for stitches.
Mustard had never wanted to avoid a meeting so much in his entire life. And yet…at the same time, he wanted to go. Not for the inheritance—oh, the money would be nice, those bills wouldn’t pay themselves—but for a different opportunity. An opportunity readily associated with being in a closed room with his five least-favorite people in the world. And six weapons. And an old woman who reveled in carnage over the services she could provide.
Mustard’s decision was made. He dropped the letter to the ground and stood up, vigorously drying himself off with a towel before stepping down onto the creaking deck. There was no time to waste. In just a week, he and his cousins would be converging on Grandmother’s mansion. Time to pack. And time to plot.
A weapon, eh? A knife. No, not a knife. Everyone in the family knew that Mustard liked knives. No. His knife would have to stay at home. What else, then? The rifle? A shotgun? But the idea of guns reminded him of something hidden at the bottom of his trunk. Something smaller and better able to hide. Underneath the formal clothes that he pulled out—white suit with the leather bolo tie—he found a lady’s tiny hand-gun hidden in a secret compartment. A long-ago lover had left it there. He’d brought her to the family mansion to introduce her, but after a deplorable evening, she’d left in tears. He’d never seen her again.
When he bought the air plane ticket, he had his plan all in place. Inherit anything from the estate? There wasn’t a chance that was happening, not at all. Grandmother was a spiteful old b***h, and anything he said he wanted, he wouldn’t get. And even if she was so inclined, his cousins would snatch it out of his paws. Kill his grandmother? Not a chance. She’d die soon enough anyway, and her will wasn’t written yet. No good. No. He’d come to the party, all prepared, leave a knife on the sideboard like he’d never changed, while inside his coat was his revolver.
None of his cousins were making it out of there alive.
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:47 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:48 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:49 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:50 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:53 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:56 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 2:58 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 3:07 pm
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Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 3:09 pm
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