Friends. Mourners. Fellow competitors. Good morning.

We are gathered here today in the Disneyland Haunted Mansion because it’s what our dearly departed would have wanted. And we gather under the heaviest of circumstances—to remember xeena, who was taken from us far too soon.

She was not taken by the will of the gods, some cruel twist of fate, or by some horribly bizarre accident involving sports mascots, baby oil, squeaky horns, and various items found in the produce aisle, as she would have preferred.

No, she was eliminated.

Eliminated by cold, clinical, calculated murder. It was two in the back of the head, served up Sopranos-style. It was done with a polite smile, a kind word, and statements like, “it’s just part of the game,” which is how many make themselves feel better about this cold-blooded execution.

Please—hold your applause. This is a funeral. Have some tact, for fuck's sake.

Make no mistake, this was murder. A game-sanctioned execution. And when her cold, lifeless body hit the floor, it felt inevitable. Even xeena herself foretold her demise like she was Nostradamus. Unlike many who claim otherwise, she definitely did see it coming.

In the wake of the devastating news, there was no screaming. No chaos. No public rending of garments or gnashing of teeth. It was polite. Civilized. It was news met with practiced smiles of sympathy and many statements like, “Oh, that’s too bad,” "who would have done that?" or, "I’m shocked."

Spoiler Alert: Nobody was actually shocked.

Although nobody claims their fingerprints are on the murder weapon, if you listened closely, you could hear the communal sigh of relief that issued from the darkened, shadowy corners. Perhaps a few high-fives and fist bumps were even exchanged in secret. This is the way of things when others conspire to murder.

In Shakespeare’s time, this would have ended with poison. Honestly, it might have ended with poison here as well, if not for the whole, taking two in the back of the head thing. As she rose and consistently dominated the field, it seemed inevitable. Even to xeena. If only Caesar had that sort of foresight.

So, anyway, while it might have ended with poison, it actually ended with genteel phrases like, “Thank you so much for sharing.”

Well, bless your hearts.

After her passing, the competition continued, of course. Others stepped forward. New entries were posted. Applause happened. Spreadsheets were consulted with renewed authority. Others were eliminated and some replaced her at the top.

But let us be clear, we stand at the graveside of good judgment.

xeena was not defeated.

She was not outperformed.

She was inconveniently excellent.

And for that, she was taken from us. Capped. Rubbed out. Whacked. Is currently sleeping with da fishes.

On a personal note, I am forever grateful to this most amazing person we are eulogizing here today. Like the true force of nature she is, she blew into my life like a tornado and has changed my world in more ways than I can count. She has added a big, bright light to my life. For that, and for her, I am ever so thankful.

See you in Valhalla.



Thank you. Please join us in the reception hall where Pepsi cola and Tiramisu will be served alongside quiet resentment, and likely, platters of new plots and conspiracies.



*laughs in Lana Del Rey*

“Admit it, Caleb,” Asher growled.

“I didn’t do it!” he yelped.

“Troop 67 is a brotherhood. It’s sacred, dude. We don’t lie to each other.”

“I didn’t do it, man!”

Asher held his flashlight and leaned close, letting the tip of his nose hover mere inches from his suspect’s like the hardened detectives in his favorite shows. He shone the bright beam of light into Caleb’s wide, watery eyes. The boy shook his head, straining against the duct tape binding his wrists to the chair.

“If you didn’t do it, then what’s that mess on your face?”

“It’s powdered sugar,” he cried. “From donuts, okay? My mom packed them... for emergencies!”

Asher nodded to Isaiah who rifled through Caleb’s duffel. Plastic crinkled as he pulled out a half-eaten pack of donuts.

“See?” Caleb shrieked.

Asher muttered to himself as he cut the tape around Caleb’s wrists with his pocketknife. Free, Caleb nearly toppled over as he leapt to his feet. He righted himself then snatched his donuts from Isaiah, but not before he managed to pop one into his mouth.

“These are mine!” he protested.

“They’re stale anyway,” Isaiah complained around a mouthful of donut.

“Why are you even accusing me?”

Isaiah patted Caleb’s ample belly. “That’s why.”

Caleb’s chubby cheeks turned bright red. “That’s like racial profiling.”

“Fat isn’t a race, dummy,” Asher snapped.

“You guys are jerks.” Caleb flopped onto his bunk, bright red and sulking.

“Don’t cry,” Isaiah said.

“I’m not going to cry.”

“You kind of look like you’re going to cry.”

“Shut up.”

As his troopmates bickered, Asher paced, thinking hard, then turned to his cabinmates. They weren’t taking this problem seriously. And this was a very serious problem.

“Troop 67, listen up,” he intoned. “This is the third time our marshmallows have been stolen. If we don’t figure this out, Mr. Riley is going to cancel s’mores night.”

“Well, it wasn’t any of us,” Isaiah said, wiping the sugar from Caleb’s donut off his lips. “Bet it was those jerks over in cabin twelve.”

“Troop forty-two?” Asher asked. “Nah. They’re cool.”

“They’re jerks,” Isaiah insisted.

“Maybe they’d be nicer to you if you hadn’t put salt in their lemonade instead of sugar,” Caleb chimed in.

Isaiah shrugged. “Whatever. It was funny. Not my fault they can’t take a joke.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Whatever. Practical jokes are like a rite of passage at camp.”

“Not everybody feels that way,” Caleb retorted, the scorn of having been the butt of more than a few of Isaiah’s practical jokes clear in his voice.

“Come on, Troop 67, we need to focus here. We’ve got a major situation on our hands,” Asher called. “We can’t let s’mores night be canceled.”

“Your definition of a major situation is different than mine, man,” Isaiah said.

“Yeah, mine too,” Caleb agreed.

“Yeah, his definition of a major situation is running out of donuts.”

“Shut up!”

“Come on,” Asher snapped. “Focus.”

“I’m focused on my pillow,” Isaiah said.

“But we need to figure out who’s stealing our marshmallows. We need to save s’mores night!” Asher called, trying to rally his troopmates. “Who’s with me?”

“Not me. I’m tired,” Isaiah said. “I’m going to bed.”

Asher watched aghast as the rest of his troop murmured their agreement and shuffled to their bunks. He stood in disbelief and horror. He couldn’t believe they didn’t seem to care about the best night of their whole week at camp being canceled.

“Fine,” Asher growled. “I’ll solve this case myself!”

“Good luck with that,” Isaiah called.

Asher stomped out of the cabin, slamming the screen door behind him. The nearly full moon hung high overhead, bathing the world in a silvery light. Asher breathed in the earthy aroma of the forest, trying to calm down. He heard whispered conversations and soft laughter drifting through the night. He frowned and couldn’t help but feel a little dispirited.

He tried to keep his spirits up. He had a mission. A new case. Maybe his troop didn’t care about s’mores night, but he did. And when he uncovered the thief, he’d be the hero of Troop 67. He might even get a special merit badge for his crafty mystery solving skills.

He would uncover the thief and save s’mores night. No matter the cost.

Leaves crunching beneath his feet, Asher walked around to the side of their cabin and stood before the table. The cooler they kept their dry goods in sat atop the table.

“The scene of the crime,” he said as he pulled out the old, battered notebook he’d been using for years labeled, Detektive Klews.

The ground squelched underfoot as he inspected the area. Opening his notebook, he jotted a few observations. “Lock intact. Cooler left open! Bucket overturned again. Ground muddy. Bucket Bandit’s motives unknown. This is no ordinary criminal. A mastermind. Not to be underestimated.”

Asher scanned the darkened cabins, hearing whispered conversations and quiet laughter. He remembered what Isaiah had said about practical jokes. Maybe another troop was playing one on them. Troop thirty-seven had a reputation for mischief. He thought about capturing one of them and interrogating them. But then an idea struck that was so clever, it would have made his favorite detectives proud.

“I’m going to catch you jerks in the act,” he said with a devious grin. “And I’ll be a hero!”

Moving quickly, Asher refilled the bucket and set it beside the table, then cracked the cooler lid. Everything was set just as it had been when that devious and nefarious thief had stolen their marshmallows.

Scene staged, he ducked behind a bush, making sure he had a clear line of sight. It wasn’t the most comfortable position—there was a stick poking somewhere sticks definitely shouldn’t be poking—but real detectives suffered for justice.

Asher pulled out his journal and made another entry. “Trap set. Must be careful—this criminal is vicious. Could be my final case.”“Stakes high. Morale low. Snacks dangerously depleted.”

A twig snapped in a nearby bush and his pulse raced as he imagined a bear, or Bigfoot, or a hockey mask-wearing, machete-wielding maniac. But it was just a bird. It shrieked as it soared into the darkened sky. Asher sighed as he sat down, feeling silly. His favorite detectives were never scared like that.

More long minutes passed, and as his eyelids grew heavy again, the sound of rustling leaves jolted him awake. From the darkness, a masked figure emerged. Asher held his breath. The thief hesitated, then moved toward the cooler with speed and stealth. He stared in disbelief as the moonlight revealed his nemesis.

“No way,” he whispered.

It was a raccoon. A big one. It turned the bucket of water over, further muddying the ground, before clambering on top of it. With nimble hands, it flipped the cooler open and reached inside, pulling out a bag of marshmallows—their last bag! Without it, s’mores night would be ruined.

“I’ve got you now, Bucket Bandit.”

As Asher rose to put a stop to the theft in progress, more movement sounded in the bushes to his right. He turned to see three smaller raccoons emerging, chirping hungrily at their mother. The mama raccoon, bag of marshmallows in tow, hopped off the bucket and slipped in the mud she’d made. With a sharp squeak that might have suggested embarrassment, she rounded up her babies and disappeared into the bushes, gone as swiftly as they’d arrived.

A small smile on his lips, Asher opened the notebook as he listened to the raccoons retreating into the night with their ill–gotten gains. Suddenly, Troop 67’s s’mores night felt like a worthy sacrifice if it meant a family got to eat.

“Even bandits deserve dinner. Especially when they’ve got mouths to feed."

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” he said, closing the notebook with a snap, another mystery solved. “Scout’s honor.”