Gone Bitch: A Parody of Gone Girl

The number of volunteers at Find Amy Dunne headquarters had been steadily increasing day after day. But this increase was almost entirely due to an increase in the number of homeless people. A police officer had now been assigned to watch over the pastry table because certain “volunteers” had been trying to fill shopping bags with pastries, and there’d even been a couple of fistfights when the jelly donuts were brought out. Also, someone had put up a sign on the wall saying, “Please shit only in the bathroom.”

I went up to a couple of homeless guys who were manning phones for the tip line. One of them was on the phone, talking very animatedly.

“Did we get a good tip?” I asked, pointing at the guy.

“Nah, he’s just talking to himself,” said the other guy. “He does that a lot.”

My disposable phone rang once again. I really needed to shut off this ringer.

“Hey, you wanna good tip?” said the homeless guy who’d been talking to himself. “Get a real phone.”

Now that I’d shown my face at the volunteer center, I needed to get out of there and keep working on the treasure hunt. It was very important that I complete it before the clues got moved or thrown away. Because there was a present at the end! Who knows what it could be? Maybe it was an iPad Mini, or some Beats headphones!

When I was safely out of the Days Inn and away from prying eyes, I opened up clue #2. When I’d first read it I was completely baffled, so I’d decided to sleep on it. Maybe now it would make more sense. I read it again:

Clue 3 is in another place

You took your coed to fuck:

The house of the famous writer

Who gave us Tom Sawyer and Huck!

Huh? What the hell is she talking about? Who does she think I am, a fucking World War II codebreaker?

Ok Nick, slow down, think through this. Another place you took your coed to fuck…oh she’s talking about the girl from my class I was fucking, the same girl as in the first clue! Ok, good. But how about this last part? The house of the famous writer who gave us Tom Sawyer and Huck…think, Nick, think. Oh! Why not Google it?

I Googled “Tom Sawyer and Huck writer” and got the name “Mark Twain.” Who? Never heard of the guy. Shit, I am fucked. But then I spotted a picture of the Mark Twain House on the search results page. Hey, I know that place! I went there once because the girl I was fucking wanted to see it for some reason. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, that’s it! That house is the solution to Clue 2! All hail Nick Dunne, super-genius!

I hopped in the car and drove out to Hannibal, Missouri, where the Mark Twain House is located. As I drove, I wondered how Amy had known I’d had sex there with the girl from my class. But then I remembered Amy’s crazy. Note to men: if you’re going to marry a hot girl who’s crazy (i.e. a hot girl), at least make sure she has a job so she doesn’t have infinite time to follow you around.

When I got to Hannibal, I remembered how odd the town was. The entire town was basically a tourist attraction devoted to Mark Twain, but it was staffed mostly by Mexicans. On the main street, a bunch of Mexicans dressed like Mark Twain walked up and down the street saying, “Hola! Me llamo Mark Twain! Quieres un photo conmigo?” There were also little 1800s-style businesses. Hmmmm, interesting: I didn’t realize the cobbler in 1840 was named Juan and watched soccer nonstop on Univision.

I found the Mark Twain House, bought a ticket, and went down to the basement. We’d done it inside a gigantic wash basin, and underneath the basin I found an envelope. Like the envelope in my office, this one contained two notes. I opened up the first one.

My love,

I know I’ve been a total bitch to you since we got married. But that’s going to stop. Here’s one change I’m making immediately: I agree to your long-standing request that I pick up girls and bring them back for a three-way, and I won’t complain during the three-way when you’re really just hooking up with the other girl and not me.

Xo,

Amy

She was once again using the treasure hunt to win me back. And in spite of myself, it was working. Because I was a guy, and guys are genetically programmed to buy into every promise a hot girl makes, no matter how unrealistic the promise actually is.

I put the other note into my pocket without reading it. Trying to figure out another clue would be too much mental strain for one day.

I headed back to Go’s, where I was staying semi-permanently because my house was still a crime scene. I was sitting on the couch watching TV when Go walked in, looking exhausted. When she saw me lounging on the couch, she didn’t look particularly pleased.

“Hope you enjoyed your field trip,” she said.

“Rough day?” I said.

“You try running a cat cafe by yourself and managing 60 cat personalities. Plus, three of the cats called in sick, so we were shorthanded.”

My non-disposable cellphone rang. I answered it.

“Hey Nick, it’s Boney. Sorry to bother you so late, but there’s some new information I think you need to know.”

“What is it?” I said, hoping it would involve Amy and the phrase “never coming back.”

“Looks like Amy was afraid of you, Nick.”

“Huh? Why do you say that?”

“UPS delivered a package for Amy at your house today. We opened it up…and found a bazooka.”