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It was during the annual “Hell Yeah! Pickles!” festival that chaos arrived in our small town. Gherkin Queen Farmers Daughter #13 had been attacked, and people came to me for help. My name is Police Chief, the town butcher. My moniker confuses people, so they often ask me for assistance rather than going to the actual sheriff, Pool Hustler Conman. Because of these mix-ups, I had gotten my Private Investigator license from the Cracker Barrel
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If it weren’t for that double-shot caramel macchiato with extra whip, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
Okay, let me start at the beginning. I was already late to the Philosophy Club meeting when I decided to stop off for a caramel macchiato. Heavy doses of sugar and caffeine were essential, as I would be participating in lively discourse on Existentialism, Rationalism, and “Which Came First: The Chicken or The Egg?” It was going to be a
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Ansel Adams (no relation to the famed photographer) lay on the cold, marble floor, bathed in sweat. The bank’s other customers lay all around him, some shaking, some whimpering, all terrified of the heavily-armed robbers standing above them. Ansel wasn’t sweating in fear of the robbers, though, at least not directly.
Most of his life, he’d struggled to master a “gift” (as his mother had called it), or a “curse” (the term the parish
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