The Curious Case of Mr. Silverworth Another dumb story, by Crystal Jacobs It was the night of Saturday the eighth of October in the town of Elmsdale, and Mr. Edmond Silverworth trundled down the street in no particular direction. Some would say he trundled with a gait, while others would call it more of a limp. Still others would call it more of a waddle. In fact all three were correct, as he trundled with both a gait and a limp, with just a dash of waddle added in for good measure. Passersby would often stop and stare in wonder at this strange man who managed to make forward progress by falling over sideways. Occasionally, a good samaritan would try to help Mr. Silverworth across a street, but his lilting trundle was like a crotchety force of nature, and it could not be stopped. On this night, he was wearing his banana yellow raincoat over a banana yellow button shirt, with banana yellow suspenders, banana yellow slippers, a banana yellow fedora, and not-banana yellow pajama bottoms. If you were to ask his neighbors if this was his usual attire (and it was), they would be hard pressed to answer. No one ever noticed what Mr. Silverworth wore, because his unstoppable, hypnotic gait overpowered the senses. Some likened it to a religious experience, and in past years a select few had even tried preaching on the street to the citizens of Elmsdale. Unfortunately this did not work out, for as soon as they met up to watch Mr. Silverworth, the sheer force of his gait caused them to forget why they got together in the first place. Some of them even forgot their names, and although there is only one recorded instance of a man forgetting the English language due to Mr. Silverworth, it has long been suspected that the true effects were underreported due to the lack of gait-watching regulations in the eighteenth century. Still, looking back on the events of this cold October night, we're concerned with neither his clothes nor his crude approximation of walking. Neither are we concerned with his wooden eye, nor his famous peg-pinky, nor even the lewd art he painted on Mayor Brown's stairwell. We are concerned with one thing, and one thing only. What I speak of is nothing less than the very course of Elmsdale history: Murder. I can already hear you saying, "Surely not! As an informed scholar and historian, I am quite well acquainted with the history of that day. There is no doubt in my mind that--" But you pause. "Unless--" you stammer, "unless--surely you're not suggesting--you can't be serious!" And you realize exactly what I am saying. Everyone knows the official story: the mayor died in his sleep, when he accidentally tripped and fell sideways onto his cousin Nile's drawn blade while sleepwalking. The course of history in Elmsdale was forever changed on that day, and Nile Brown's cruel reign of terror began. But at the same time, something very curious happened. The town's collective amnesia began to lift. Do you not find it curious that the French chose that day to invade? Or that the great Mystery of the Pants at Midnight was solved that very evening? What miracles never came to be because visiting Ben Franklin did not remember he invented electricity until that night? It has all become clear, has it not? No? Then I will lay it out for you plainly, sir. I have given you all the hints. . . . What? Don't be daft! You think that Former Mayor Douglas Brown is still alive, and Nile killed Mr. Silverworth by mistake? How could you possibly come to such a conclusion? Who, me? You think I'm Brown? Only Brown could have known those details about Mr. Silverworth, you say? There is a flaw in your theory, you know. I'd be over two hundred years old! And besides, one other person knew. He dared not tell anyone, because of the staggering influence of his trundlesome gait. But he knew. And he wrote it down. Yes, now you're getting it. It is as you suspect: On that fateful night, an unidentified man trundled into the mayor's foyer to paint something new--something lewd--something yellow. Banana yellow. And Nile, eager to help deface Douglas' property, was posing with his sword out at the bottom of the stairwell. And, as this mystery man approached, the sleepwalking mayor, even asleep and with eyes closed, was disoriented by the mere sound of the lethargic lurching of the intruder. Without waking, his vertigo overtook him, and he tripped and rolled sideways down the stairs, landing in the least fortunate way possible. Well, I certainly hope that cleared up the mystery for you. What's that? You want to know what became of poor Mr. Silverworth? It's quite simple, really. As the mayor tumbled down the stairs, poor Edmond trundled as he had never trundled before, moving as fast as he could to stop the tragedy unfolding before his eyes. But this most severe trundle was a move of desperation. He could not have foreseen the consequences. He speedtrundled so hard, he fell over through the floor, through the basement, down past the sub-basement, through one hundred and sixty feet of hard clay, an incomplete specimen of utahraptor (missing only the lower jaw), one and a half time capsules and a butler who, having been buried alive earlier that night, was still alive up until the impact. Yes, this man was murdered! By whom is not important--everyone knows the details of the Case of the Badly Buried Butler, of course, but apart from me, you are the first to hear of poor Edmond Silverworth's involvement. If only he hadn't tried to-- Ah, but there is no use going over "if onlys" and "what ifs". The sad truth of it is, not only was the butler killed, but Mr. Silverworth's femur was shattereder, broken into six more pieces than before. He would never trundle again. So there you have it: the true story of Elmsdale. I trust all your questions are answered? What? No, I said this story wasn't about the wooden eye. But, as I close the diary of a long dead trundler, let me tell you now that his stories are far from over. For now, I will say only this: the Case of the Whittled Lens will be told. But that is a story for another day.