When I was growing up, the house down the street had an infestation of bats. The town was asked to do something about it, but thankfully didn’t bother finishing the job. These bats were totally harmless. While I will admit that there was an unfounded fear of rabies, this was basically due to anti-bat racism on the part of a real estate developer. Said developer saw a convenient excuse to knock down the place and start gentrifying our neighbourhood. Profits, not people, he probably said before most of him disappeared out in the woods.
Of course, when I put it like that, it’s going to sound suspicious. Surely, the owner of the bat-infested house must have had him murdered. This is a salacious lie, and it’s one that his widow tried to spread at the town council meetings. It’s also preposterous: according to the chief of police, the dude got eaten by bears when his car broke down on the highway and he chose to walk home through the forest during peak “hungry bear season.”
This in itself is a little suspicious, because the guy who owned the bat-infested house was named Robert Bear. Upon further investigation, however, it was determined that he was not related to any actual bears (the animal.) No, his unique surname came from having a great-great-great grandfather who once fought a bear (the animal) in his home country, whose name is unpronounceable (both the animal’s, because it is unknown to history, and the country’s.) Robert felt bad about the whole thing, but it did conveniently produce a lack of witnesses against him for the bylaw proceeding. And so the bats got to stay.
Really, the only unanswered question is why the real estate dude’s car broke down in the first place. I was also curious about this, which is why I formed a team of teenage detectives to investigate the situation, and – if necessary – to confront our inner demons and use them to kill God. Ultimately, we determined that it was a shitty old Mercedes, and the fuel pump seized up. Carlita, our science expert, figured out that several gallons of bat guano poured into the tank was the cause of the failure, an intriguing coincidence.
We confronted Robert about it, and he congratulated us on our diligent scientific research, and gave us each five hundred bucks in “scholarship money” from a Hefty bag of cash that he had lying in the basement, next to a jerry can and funnel. At this point, like all good detectives, we agreed that we had solved the mystery and decided to never speak of it again.
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