A King collaboration [unfinished]

She woke up and immediately searched the nightstand for her cigarettes. Finding none, she set fire to a puppy and smoked that instead. As the puppy squirmed in agony, she got out of her casket and turned on some music. She always loved the song "I Want It That Way" by the Backstreet Boys in the morning.
She hummed and bobbed her way through the room towards the kitchen, where she spent two minutes breaking her husband's favourite chopsticks. After that was done she drank some custard and read a thesis on ornithological vernacular, casually noting an alarming absence of aforementioned husband.
The GPS-tracking device that she had implanted in him after she'd gotten him drunk on their 25th anniversary triggered the alarm on her HubbyTracker. Apparently...1

He was dead.2

She calmly emptied her cup of custard and put it on the table, taking a minute to collect her thoughts into an imaginary pink box shaped like a heart.
Alright. She looked at her watch. It was nine in the morning. That was doggy walk time.
"Hm," Frank said. She sat at the kitchen table in silence. Slowly, she became aware of a sound. It was coming from the hallway; a soft, slow scratching. She got up. It was getting louder. She stalked out of the kitchen into the hallway. Now she could hear it very clearly: the scraping of nails on wood. The heavy front door loomed in front of her.
Frank hesitated, then drew a gigantic revolver from her nightgown. She took a small step towards the front door. Something thumped against it and Frank would've jumped if she hadn't been a trained ninja assassin. With one hand she held her handcannon and with the other she gripped the handle of the door. She counted down inside her head, trying to ignore the scratching sound that was louder now than ever. Three, two, one.
In a flash, she opened the door and aimed her pistol. Her dog stared up at her, its paw poised to scratch at the door some more. Frank's eyes drifted from her dog to its leash. Holding the leash was a hand. Attached to the hand was an arm and attached to that was the rest of poor James. He was prone on the ground. A trail of blood led from his body into the street, marking the way the dog had dragged him.
Frank looked at the dog and sighed.
"Bad boy."3

A feeling of cliché swept over her, but she felt it was still appropriate to have said that. She decided that it was worth the cliché, the moment had been perfect for it.4

She quickly cleaned up the trail of blood with her ninja assassin track-covering skills and told Brosco to bring James back inside.
"Yes ma'am," the ninja assassin dog answered, and he dragged the body back into the kitchen, making sure James smacked in to every corner of every wall on the way; not one corner would go unused. 5

Frank entered the kitchen and started to inspect the body for clues as to who or what might have done this to her very beloved and even more dead husband. She found many odd and fresh bruises on him, especially in the cranial area.6

Then suddenly a dark figure flew in through the window, pieces of glass flying everywhere. He landed in the middle of the kitchen, kneeled down, a revolver in his right hand and an American football in his left. He looked up, the cigarette still in his mouth. The other still behind his ear. And the last two on the floor next to him.7

Frank immediately relaxed, as she noticed it was Darke Figur in his usual long black leather trenchcoat. "Darke, you're just in time," she said. 8

She looked him in the eyes and ominously added: "James is dead."