Earlier today I phoned the police regarding a missing person. The problem? The missing person was me. Welcome to The Treadwell Mysteries.
Today, at 6pm a tidal wave of panic hit me. I had been missing for the past 4 hours. Not lost, missing. I desperately called the police, tears streaming down my face and high pitch cries rendering my voice inaudible, trying to explain what had happened. They bastards didn't care. 'Looks like I'll have to solve this one myself' I thought. Welcome to The Treadwell Mysteries.
I wasn't wearing any trousers. This wasn't a mystery so I quickly put some on. First problem solved, things were looking up but I looked down. Footsteps. My footsteps. On the floor but where else would they be? I laughed for a moment but then my steely gaze returned and I chased the prints down the stairs of my building out towards my van. Something inside was moving, but what? Welcome to the Treadwell Mysteries. I kicked the door open, despite having the keys in my pocket. It took 9 minutes and will cost nearly £600 to repair. An old lady phoned the police and I have to take all my documentation to police station post haste. Bastards. If only there was somebody around solving real problems! Welcome to the Treadwell Mysteries.
There I was. Bound and gagged in the back of my own van. I'd urinated, so I had either had a cup of tea some hours ago or a beer 7-10 minutes ago. I had read somewhere that urine attracted sharks and sure enough one was sat in the passenger seat. How had I got there? Was someone trying to frame me? Could I get away with not washing those trousers? I was sure as hell going to find out. Welcome to the Treadwell Mysteries.
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