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(or, the Master of the Fortune Cookies)
It was a stormy night, insofar as it was neither stormy nor, if you get right down to it, night time. I was, in the best tradition of Sherlock Holmes, reclining on a bench. Not that Sherlock Holmes ever reclined on a bench. He did a lot of reclining, though, and I'm sure if he had ever found a bench, he would have made damn sure to recline on it. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, I wasn't playing the violin, taking cocaine or pretending to be an opium fiend. If it makes you feel any better, though, you can pretend I was.
Twas on this fateful night (or rather, lunchtime) that Aviator approached me, wielding his phone. 'Leslie, look at these strange texts I've been getting.'
I did so. The first one said 'Charlie! Charlie! I'm Charlie the unicorn!'
They got stranger after that. I am unable to recall the exact wording. Also, some of the wording I do recall is unfit to be published. However, the general gist of the matter is this.
The alleged unicorn intends to go back in time and get Hitler's autograph. How, I am unable to disclose. But to complete this noble goal, Charlie needs a Stalin-esque moustache, and he - or she - needs Aviator's help to get this.
His first thought was of a friend of ours who has a thing about Hitler. The other day, she drew a Hitler moustache on her finger, placed it under her nose, stood outside the window of Mr W's history classroom (we always eat lunch on the benches in front of his window) and sieg heiled for a good five to ten minutes in the hope that he'd look up. Unfortunately, he was thoroughly involved in marking papers and didn't look up once. As you can see, we had valid grounds for accusing this friend (whom I shall now on refer to as Hitler, as she asked for it especially. She's certainly making it difficult for me. Unlike a friend of hers, who asked to be known as Bob Dylan henceforth). However, we soon ruled her out. Aviator knew her phone number, and it didn't match that of the mysterious unicorn.
It was at this point that I, using my great deductive skill, began to suspect that what we were dealing with here was more or less than a unicorn. In short, I started to have the faintest inkling that Charlie was not, in fact, a member of the magical horse family. Yes, I was accusing him - or her - of being a liar. Harsh, but fair. There was one insurmountable piece of evidence against him or her (look, I'm just going to type 'her' from now on, it takes less time and it makes me feel less like I'm re-enforcing the sexist stereotype that all master criminals have to be male). Unicorns can't type. What's more, I doubt many of them own mobile phones. What would they keep them in? You can't tell me that unicorns have started to wear jackets now.
There was more to this intriguing mystery. After Aviator received the first texts, he had replied asking what he would get in return for the moustache. The so-called unicorn had quickly texted back, saying that Aviator would receive a fortune cookie to help him on his quest within the next few days from one of Charlie's minions. Unsurprisingly, we scoffed at this. Aviator then confided his suspicions.
He believed it was from my sister, the RCG. To which I replied: no. For one thing, her phone number's different to Charlie's. Also she's not called Charlie.
He agreed with me, and we parted ways. That is to say, we hung around for a good few minutes after that discussing Lox and whether or not he's going to be expelled (we're all hoping not, obviously). But we parted ways after that.
Later the same day, however, came news of a sudden discovery. A red box had been discovered in Giuseppe's locker - and it contained both a fortune cookie and a note. Giuseppe, Aviator, and I all crowded around. While the fortune cookie appeared to be a normal fortune cookie (well, it's a biscuit that's MEANT to have paper cooked inside it - it's not that normal), the note was far from it. Written in heavily disguised writing, it asked Aviator to draw a moustache on a bit of paper, cut it out, and leave it in Giuseppe's locker. We examined it closely. I thought the writing looked like a cross between Shoelace's and Giuseppe's, but as it was disguised it was fairly hard to tell. It could have been Giuseppe, of course: it's always the person you least suspect. But as soon as I began to suspect Giuseppe, that meant someone else was the person I suspected least. I don't know who thought of that theory, but it doesn't work at ALL. Anyway, Giuseppe thought it looked like the handwriting of a boy in our year, but decided, in hindsight, that it actually didn't. Aviator's contribution to this investigation was to chase people, force them to smell the box - which had now been revealed as a perfume box - and ask whether it smelt like men or women's perfume. Unfortunately, it was the end of school by this point and we were forced to leave for fear of missing our respective buses.
The next day, I arrived to find Giuseppe unusually complacent. She had opened her locker to discover yet another fortune cookie, this one meant for her, complete with a note thanking her for the use of her locker (the unwary reader may be a little surprised at how Charlie managed to get into Giuseppe's locker. Well, her locker combination is an open secret among her friends. Even I know it. And I can barely remember my own. I forgot it once, and had to search the school to find someone who knew it). What's more, she'd been considering it, and thought she knew who the person was. Unfortunately, she wouldn't tell me. She did give me the fortune from the middle of her cookie. It said 'Ask the right questions and you'll get the right answers'. I took this as a sign. But she still wouldn't tell me.
The next day, Aviator had received another note, again through Giuseppe's locker. This one thanked him for the moustache. It seems Charlie has now left us, presumably to go and get Hitler's autograph. Good luck to her, I say. As long as the real Stalin doesn't turn up while she's trying to fool our friend Adolf, she's in with a good chance. Assuming she's managed to build a time machine. The fact that they can time travel could give us some useful hints as to their identity. It may be this person:
But, then again, I was never a Tennant fan. It's just as likely to be this person:
As we all know, the Eleventh Doctor is far superior to the Tenth. I was actually having a long argument with Falcon about this the other day. He and Peanut ganged up on me. Marie-Clare and Ames are generally on my side regarding this crucial issue, but Marie-Clare wasn't there at the time, and Ames has never actually watched any of the episodes. She just likes Matt Smith because I told her he wears suspenders. Which he does. And which are far superior to whatever David Tennant used to stop his trousers from falling down on set. Anyway, Aviator was involved in the argument too, but he kept swapping sides to confuse and perplex us. Eventually we got to the point Peanut and I invariably get to when discussing the Tenth Doctor vs. Eleventh Doctor problem, which is yelling at each other and ignoring whatever the other person says. Falcon eventually looked on the library computers (yes, we were in the library at the time. MBD? Probably). 'It says here there's a book in the library about Doctor Who. We'll look at that, and then we'll see who's right.'
'You can't,' I said. 'I borrowed it on Tuesday. For my brother,' I added hastily, as all eyes turned to me.
'Well, look at it when you get home and you'll see that David Tennant is the best by far!'
We kept this argument going all the way out of the library, and part of the way into our locker areas. Unfortunately I was so involved in making what I considered to be a vital point in my argument I accidentally collided sharply with someone coming the other way. Aviator found this so amusing he spent the rest of the day pretending to walk into walls when talking to me. ARE THOSE THE ACTIONS OF A SANE MAN? In short, someone, who can be trusted in making important decisions Matt Smith/David Tennant-wise? I think not. Besides, we all know I'm right.
Anyway, that is the mystery as it currently stands. We know the perpetrator reads this blog because one of the texts said something along the lines of 'Hello Aviator, yes, that's right, I read Leslie's blog'. Who knows if this post will encourage or discourage her. Only time will tell.
And so, dear readers (also less dear ones; I wouldn't want you to feel left out), I am forced to leave you at this deeply suspenseful moment. But fear not! No doubt an update is coming soon on the . . .
CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS FORTUNE COOKIES
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