Chapter 7
Sunday morning in Waterford dawned foggy and mysterious, just like the town's latest conspiracy theory: that the mayor's squirrel was actually the mastermind behind the condiment cartel. The BK Lounge was unusually quiet, save for the soft rustling of newspapers, the clinking of mismatched coffee mugs, and the occasional suspicious glance toward the alley where the cartel cats held their secret "meetings" — or so the rumors said.
Colonel Mustard and Lieutenant Pickle sat in their usual booth, nursing lukewarm coffee and watching the town's power players shuffle in like a deck of cards—none of them quite showing their hand.
"Sir," Pickle whispered, eyes darting around, "have you noticed how every time someone tries to expose the truth, they suddenly 'disappear' into endless meetings or get invited to the mayor's squirrel appreciation brunch?"
Mustard nodded, his mustache twitching thoughtfully. "Power structures thrive on secrecy and disbelief. The less people believe the truth, the easier it is to keep the status quo. And in Waterford, that status quo is as slippery as a greased pickle sliding off a waxed floor."
Pickle shuddered. "I don't like the sound of that. It's like the squirrels are running a shadow government."
"Exactly," Mustard said, tapping his notebook. "And the more absurd the lie, the easier it is to hide the truth. When people refuse to look, the cats purr louder, and the squirrels plot harder."
Just then, Pelosi with the Clues appeared, gliding in like a riddle wrapped in a mystery, holding a magnifying glass over a shredded memo. "The truth is hidden in plain sight, but only if you're brave enough to see it. When everyone's too busy laughing at the ridiculous, the real conspiracies slip right past."
Pickle leaned forward. "So, what's the plan, Colonel? Do we expose the mayor's squirrel? Or do we just let the cats keep running the condiment cartel?"
Mustard smiled slyly. "Neither. We shine a light on the shadows. We question everything. If the mayor says the squirrels are harmless, we ask why the alley smells like stolen relish and why the trash cans are always mysteriously empty."
Across the room, the mayor's squirrel gave a suspicious twitch, as if it knew it was being watched. It casually flicked its tail and disappeared behind a curtain of hanging mustard packets.
Suddenly, the hotline phone rang, breaking the tense silence. Mustard grabbed the receiver. "Waterford Help Line, how can I not help you today?"
A distorted voice whispered, "The truth is in the mustard… but only if you're brave enough to spread it."
Mustard's eyes narrowed. "Well, that's cryptic." He hung up and turned to Pickle. "Lieutenant, it's time to get serious. Ready the musical artillery?"
Pickle grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Sir, let's sing 'The Hotline Blues' until the truth can't hide anymore."
As the jukebox sputtered to life, the BK Lounge filled with the familiar, mournful tune of their anthem—a rallying cry against secrecy, disbelief, and the absurd bureaucracy that kept Waterford spinning in circles.
The townsfolk, from the mayor's squirrel to the cartel cats lurking in the shadows, couldn't help but tap their feet and hum along. Even the cows outside mooed in rhythm, as if agreeing that sometimes, the only way to fight power is with laughter, questions, and a whole lot of mustard.
Later that afternoon, Colonel Mustard and Lieutenant Pickle convened a secret meeting in the alley behind the BK Lounge. Maps were spread out, clues exchanged, and plans made to infiltrate the next "secret" city council meeting—rumored to be held entirely in squirrel code.
Pelosi with the Clues handed Mustard a folded note. "Remember, the truth is often disguised as nonsense. Follow the crumbs, and you'll find the feast."
Mustard folded the note carefully and tucked it into his hat. "Waterford may be a town of absurdity, but common sense is our secret weapon."
Pickle raised his glass of suspiciously orange juice. "To mustard, mystery, and mayhem!"
As the sun set over Waterford, the fog thickened, the alley cats prowled, and the mayor's squirrel sharpened its tiny claws. But Colonel Mustard and Lieutenant Pickle were ready—armed with wit, wisdom, and a playlist of parody songs designed to peel back the layers of secrecy one laugh at a time.
Because in Waterford, if you can't see the emperor's clothes, maybe he's just naked. Or maybe you need new glasses.
Colonel Mustard's Clue:
If you can't see the emperor's clothes, maybe he's just naked. Or maybe you need new glasses.