Indeed, it was another mystery for the Hardy Boys.
"Jolly Gillikers, that house on the cliff sure looks suspicious!", reaching a bright, wholesome, all-American conclusion. Why they just didn't leave it up to J. Edgar Hoover and the G-men was the real mystery, though.
And it was a mystery why they approached the house by sea, along some inconvenient-looking cliffs, instead of just walking up the sloping driveway. Yikes! A squall came in, and knocked their chaperone into the water where he was eaten by sharks!
And the mystery deepened, why they didn't bring enough fuel to return their motorboat back to shore just in case the mission failed. Out to sea they went. . . . . "SWISHHHHH!"
And it was simply no mystery why they didn't bring in potable water. . . . . or food for that matter.
Three days out at sea. . . . . my, were they thirsty! But you weren't supposed to drink sea water. . . . . one of them tried first, and began to hallucinate. Suddenly he began to speak in a Portugeese/ Hungarian misfit's accent-- "I am Kirok: king of the Indians!".
The other cupped his hands and drank, and suddenly believed that he was Bojangles Robinson-- the Negro tap-dancing sensation persecuted throughout the south as he held out his arms in front of him with a helpless, moping expression before clawing away with a particularly angry, elastic face as if he were swatting away bees.
All and all, when they were discovered a week later out in the middle of the ocean they were found to be reduced to a feral, matted state-- hungrily ripping a raw seagull carcass between them. And truth be told, they couldn't be told apart!
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
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