Rumours are like wildfire. They spread fast, destroying everything in their path. For example, the rumour that Bobby Greenberg started that actual wildfire in Pemberly Woods last Saturday. Much like that real and extremely troublesome bout of flames, rumours can spiral out of control and the “cool” teen who thought it would be okay to light up some illegal drugs in an area of dense and dry forest ends up wishing he had listened to the advice of a kind and generous authority figure. What was I talking about again? Ah yes, rumours.
There has been a rumour floating around Little Knee for some time now. I have heard it whispered in the grocery store, graffiti’d on the side of the old abandoned power plant and even briefly mentioned on the local radio station, LKTR. Yes, I listen to Little Knee Talk Radio sometimes. George, if you wanted to talk to me about my chilli cook-off contests, you could have come to me directly. We were close once.
Citizens, read the following sentence, pause, read it again, and believe it.
The Mayor is not dead.
If you’re reading this sentence, then you should be of the opinion that our Mayor, His Benevolence Humphrey Griddle, is still alive and well. If this is not the case please refer back to the above sentence. I myself have spoken to Mayor Griddle just this morning, and can assure you that his soul was still firmly in his body, anchored down by the ever relentless grip of life. If that man is dead, then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. (For those of you about to consider my twin sister Paula’s recent adoption of an orphaned chimp named Zebediah, chimps are apes and not technically monkeys. Read a god damn pamphlet.)
Some of our more nerdy and nosey residents pointed out that in last month’s public address, the Mayor exhibited some rather unusual behaviour. One particularly keen-eyed citizen with what I can only imagine is an otherwise empty life saw fit to draw attention to the fact that the Mayors wrists were attached, with long pieces of string, to what intrusive photographs reveal to be two of his aides on the roof of the town hall. To suggest that these two aides were responsible for the perfectly normal albeit constant and wild movements of Mayor Griddle’s arms, and not the vivacious Mayor himself is bordering on treason. This can be simply explained with a little insight into the hard-working and dedicated sort of man our Mayor really is. You see, such is his allegiance to the people of Little Knee, that should an emergency occur during his speech, he would deem it far too rude to answer a phone call, speak to an advisor, or to receive a fax. Therefore, much like a spider does with its web, the Mayor has devised a system in which urgent messages can be sent to him through a series of vibrations via the helpful ‘Aide Strings’. If this sounds ridiculous to you, then you are simply underestimating the intelligence of our Mayor and the precision of his arachnid techniques.
Such trivial conspiracy theories as this, and the admittedly strange ending of the Mayor’s speech in which he shouted in an unfamiliar tone ‘END OF RECORDING’ serve no other purpose than to add unneeded specks of dirt to an otherwise glossy and luminous institution.
During my talk with him this morning, I admit I had my suspicions. I cannot completely disregard the words of my people, after all. I must look after you all, as a strict and loving father, and an important part of that is hearing you out. When a bluebottle landed and rubbed it’s scheming paws together on Mayor Griddle’s eyeball, I admit, even I entertained the possibility. But I told him stories of my time on the force, and humorous anecdotes about Little Knee, and his respectful silence convinced me of his still strong presence in the room. Perhaps it was the dizziness I was experiencing from the overwhelming odour of formaldehyde, but I dare to say that the Mayor and I bonded, today. Who knows, perhaps the Mayoress will invite me over again, dressed in her distinctive all-black dress, and I’ll see what my new buddy has finally decided to play as his first move of our chess game.
So, there you go, citizens. Lay to bed these ridiculous notions of a dead mayor as you would your young children, or as my sister would her beautiful new chimpanzee. Trust in Mayor Griddle as you trust in me, and never question it again.
As a footnote, I ask that residents continue to stay out of the Jerry District. Missing persons reports indicate that it is absolutely unsafe and still utterly terrifying.
Oh, and Catherine, I ask again that you collect these godforsaken crystal skulls. They are in a big wooden box on the front lawn of the station. I swear I can hear them humming from my office and it’s wreaking havoc on my digestion.
Yours ever faithfully,
Paul Fitzgerald, Chief of Police
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