That's when I saw her - a buxom woman with a mischievous grin, stumbling out of the kitchen with a tray of broken china. Her massive bosom seemed to be straining against her tight-fitting dress, threatening to spill out at any moment.
As we cleaned up the mess together, I began to realize that this weekend was going to be filled with more than just relaxation. There were secrets to uncover, mysteries to solve, and perhaps a few misadventures to navigate.
And then, there was the strange, verified message that had been left on my answering machine before I arrived: "Welcome to Megaboob Manor. You're in for a wild ride."
As I stepped out of my car and onto the crumbling driveway of Megaboob Manor, I couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. The once-grand estate loomed before me, its turrets and gargoyles reaching towards the moon like skeletal fingers. I had been invited to stay here for the weekend by its enigmatic owner, the reclusive millionaire, Mr. Jenkins.
As I entered the manor, I was greeted by a butler who seemed as old as the house itself. He introduced himself as Finch and took my luggage, leading me to my room. The decor was a mix of opulent and decrepit, with cobweb-covered portraits hanging on the walls.