Biscuits gone missing. A goose in a mask. And one rooster who thinks he’s in a cop show.
A group from Yolotown and Dunwell sat in the police station.
The walrus Chief of Police stroked his immaculately coiffured white moustache.
“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a serial snack thief on the loose. Biscuits from Yolotown’s meeting room. Doughnuts from Donut Disturb. Even the mayor’s emergency jelly bean stash—gone. This is Snack Crimes Investigation now, and you’re my temporary agents. Find the thief before they strike again.”
Dunwell set up in a dimly lit investigation room.
The snail nibbled a biscuit and turned to the lion. “We’ll follow the clues and let them lead us to the thief. Build a profile. I’ll check the crime scenes.”
The lion nodded, already mapping out clues.
Yolotown, meanwhile, were parked outside Donut Disturb.
The rooster and sloth sat in their wooden cart, both wearing shades.
“Should we interview witnesses?” asked the sloth.
“No,” said the rooster, “we’ll use good old fashioned instinct.”
A young hedgehog strolled past with a satchel.
The rooster whipped off his shades. “SCI agent! Hit the deck, hedgehog!”
“I’m going to school,” said the hedgehog.
“A perfect cover.” The rooster dumped the satchel’s contents on the ground: books, a sandwich, a juice bottle, and a chocolate biscuit.
“Evidence,” declared the rooster, pocketing the biscuit.
“It’s my lunch,” protested the hedgehog.
“Not anymore—it’s going to the lab,” said the rooster.
The sloth leaned forward. “Seen anyone suspicious?”
“Yes. You.”
At the crime scenes, the snail found crumbs.
“No teeth marks,” she noted. “It must have been a beak.”
The lion tapped a map covered in pins and string.
“They form a spiral. The centre is the park.”
“And we’ve got a footprint,” said the snail. “Running it through the system now.”
The sloth suddenly pointed. “Suspicious pigeon. Walking funny.”
“Let’s follow it,” said the rooster, sliding across the cart bonnet for no reason.
They chased the pigeon through alleyways, knocking over barrels and boxes until it landed.
“Freeze! Wings in the air!” yelled the rooster.
“I’m coming home from work!” squawked the pigeon.
Sloth shook his head. “Not him.”
“Seen anyone shady?” asked the rooster.
“Yeah—goose in the park. Comes home at odd hours, wears black-and-white stripes and a mask.”
“Maybe it’s fancy dress?” offered the rooster.
“And he carries a big bag marked ‘SWAG’,” added the pigeon.
“We can’t go around accusing people just because they have a bag,” said the rooster.
The snail’s radio crackled.
“New theft reported—someone impersonating an officer stole a biscuit from a hedgehog.”
“Doesn’t match our thief’s M.O.,” said the lion. “Also—footprint ID just came in. Goose. Lives in the park.”
The snail grinned. “The game is afoot.”
They sped to the park.
The goose spotted Dunwell and tried to waddle away, but they boxed him in — packet of biscuits under his wing, beak smeared with chocolate, sunlight glinting off the crumbs like tiny gold flecks.
The rooster and sloth wandered over from the ice cream stall.
“Oh hey,” said the rooster. “You caught the pigeon?”
“It’s a goose,” said the snail. “And yes, we caught him.”
“It’s not what it looks like!” the goose squawked. “This isn’t chocolate—it’s mud! I was… digging for worms!”
“And the biscuits under your wing?” asked the lion.
“Found them lying here. I wasn’t going to eat them — just… admire them. Like art.”
The rooster frowned whilst licking his ice cream. “Doesn’t sound like our guy. Probably a wild goose chase.”
The sloth sighed.
“Let’s check his house,” said the snail.
They pushed open the door.
At once, packets of biscuits cascaded into the street — bourbons, custard creams, ginger nuts, chocolate digestives. A flood of crumbs rattled across the cobbles.
The goose cleared his throat. “For the Annual Biscuit Preservation Society. We’re saving them… for history.”
“Take him away,” said the snail, nibbling a ginger nut.
As the goose was led off, the rooster stepped forward, tilted his head to catch the light, and declared:
“This goose… is cooked.”
He slid on his sunglasses.
No one heard him. Dunwell were already getting their photo taken with the Chief of Police, the camera flash catching their smiles, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders — tired, proud, and smelling faintly of ginger nuts.
Davide la Locomotive 
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