Ryan Moore '25
Law Weekly Historian
Upon returning from summer break, the Law Weekly staff received an anonymous letter at our office. The letter was signed by “Ron, a concerned citizen,” who wishes to bring awareness to copyright infringement and the poor state of contemporary American fiction. What follows is an excerpt from his letter.
Detective Ronald McDonald stood at the edge of the crime scene, the neon lights of the McDonald’s sign casting an eerie glow on the wrappers scattered behind the dumpster. His face, once painted brightly in hues of red and yellow, now wore the faded expression of one who ate too many cold McNuggets.
The press had dubbed the perp the "Hamserialkiller," a twisted fiend who roamed the streets of Fry City, leaving a trail of murdered Double McCheeseburgers in his wake. The victims were always found behind McDonald's parking lots, their wrappers crumpled, their pickles missing.
Ronald took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke mingling with the cold night air. Two months from retirement, he was haunted by a killer who defiled the sacred ground of the Golden Arches. His police sergeant, Officer Big Mac, had teamed him up with Grimace, a rookie cop with a chip on his broad, purple shoulders.
Grimace approached, his bulky frame casting a shadow over the crime scene. “Ronald,” he said in a shrill voice, “they say this Hamserialkiller is one twisted patty melt.”
Ronald nodded in agreement and flicked his cigarette into the darkness. “Twisted enough to murder fourteen Double McCheeseburgers over the last two years. We need to catch this Son of a Fry before he kills again.”
Grimace nodded. “I’m with you, partner. But Mayor McCheese wants a briefing on this latest murder. In person.”
Ronald arched an eyebrow. “Mayor McCheese? What does that crooked public servant want with us?” Maybe the Mayor had some beef with these burgers.
They walked through the streets of Fry City, the echoes of their footsteps drowned out by the distant hum of a drive-thru. Outside Mayor McCheese's office, Detective McDonald couldn't shake an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Inside, Mayor McCheese sat behind his desk, his cheesy grin stretching from ear to ear. “Detectives! So glad you could make it. Any leads on this so-called Hamserialkiller?”
Grimace spoke first. “The Hamserialkiller has struck again, Mayor. Our department is still unable to identify any possible suspects; we were hoping your office could approve an emergency budget request for additional police resources.”
Mayor McCheese chuckled, the sound as artificial as the cheese on a Filet-O-Fish. “Detectives, I would love to help you, but I can’t spare any more resources. I’m just a humble public servant.” The mayor’s assistant, a tall Mcflurry, entered the room and pointed to their watch.
“Detectives, thank you for meeting with me but I have other matters to attend to.”
Ronald’s eyes narrowed. Something was off, but Detective McDonald couldn’t quite place it. His experience had taught him that in Fry City, the truth was as elusive as a working ice cream machine.
Grimace reached into his pocket and pulled out his business card. “Mayor, if you ever need anything from us, please reach out.” He felt around his pockets for his missing pen. “Actually, Mayor, can I borrow a pen? I can give you my personal cell, too.”
The Mayor nodded and opened his desk drawer. While rummaging around for a pen, the Mayor knocked over a jar. McDonald's blood ran cold. He only caught a glimpse, the Mayor moved too fast for McDonald to get a good look, but he was sure of it. He knew what he saw in the jar.
Fourteen dried pickles.
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