Food going missing

Abandoned as an infant high in the mountains of Colorado, James was taken in and raised by a family of marmots. They trained him in the art of satire, but warned him: ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ He didn’t understand the truth of their words until his adopted rodent brother, Donald Trump’s hair, turned to the dark side.

James could only sit by and watch, helpless and appalled, as his evil brother meme’d his way to the White House. Forever changed by what he had seen, James fled to The Netherlands and vowed to always use his powers for good.

For months now, food has been going missing at Frascati. What started as the odd apple or bottle of beer being seemingly misplaced has escalated to entire chickens and unopened bags of potatoes vanishing into thin air.

‘At first we suspected the rats,’ said Jeff. ‘But I’ve been putting rat poison in my food, and it’s still going missing!’

The elusive moocher has demonstrated particular tastes, offending some. While Jeff’s pastries, beer, and Chinese food regularly go missing, Yelyzaveta’s homemade borscht has remained untouched.

‘There’s nothing wrong with it!’ insisted Yelyzaveta. ‘It’s my mother’s recipe! I grew up eating it!’

All of the students’ efforts at independently solving the conundrum have fallen short of uncovering the truth. As a last resort, residents pooled their money to hire a private investigator by the name of Mr. P. Merlot.

A Hard Man to Find

The UK attempted to reach the investigator for comment, but Mr. Merlot seemed to not want to be found. He only advertises by word of mouth and, according to past clients, he is very protective of his physical address. Fortunately, the UK team boasts some of the best investigative journalists in Groningen.

‘We don’t even know where his office is,’ said one student. ‘Jeff got Merlot’s phone number from a friend. It was kind of sketchy, actually’.

Thanks to that tip, we were hot on the trail. After obtaining Merlot’s phone number from Jeff, we called and asked where his office was. Eventually, his directions led us to a dusty suite tucked into the corner of a mid-century office building. A faded plaque on the door read ‘Private Investigator’.

The office was heavy with the smell of wine and stale cigarette smoke. Inside was Merlot, leaning against a desk and contemplating an enormous suspect board.

‘You’re here about the missing food? This is a nasty one, the worst,’ he said bitterly. ‘And I’ve been on every rancid case from The Unreplenished Toilet Paper and The Mysterious Smells to Why Don’t Mommy and Daddy Love Each Other Anymore?’’

We prodded, but Merlot refused to comment further on the case, and advised us to ‘keep our noses out of it.’

‘If you still find yourself curious, it’ll cost you,’ said Merlot. He held out his hand, palm up. ‘Information isn’t free.’

Although our journalistic ethics forbid us from paying to play, the gumshoes at the UK will not deterred, and we will continue tailing this story until justice is served.

 

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