The Case of the Mysterious Macaroons

Imagine this: I was returning to my apartment after a long day at the laboratory, my mind reeling from the many crimes against nature and humanity growing in the tanks below the basement. There was an ominous glow around the city, like it was covered in some sort of omin blanket.

Pictured above: the ominous city with ominous rainbow. Fun Fact: rainbows do NOT lead to pots of gold, as popular myth asserts, but rather to pots of mercury. This is the origin of the controversy surrounding Skittles' slogan “Taste the Rainbow.”

As I retrieved my keys from my pocket to enter my flat, I froze in shock. I discovered something mysterious on my door handle.

Pictured above: A mystery.

Immediately, my mind began racing. Had the drug cartel in Monte Carlo finally tracked me after I destroyed their operation by seducing the don's daughter and winning ownership of their casino in a game of canasta, only to disappear after they realized that it was I who had stolen their prized Tan Tiger Diamond only a month previous? No, there's no way they could track me down; they believed that I was dead, or rather, the man they knew as Raul Esteban.

Was it a booby trap set by rival scientists, afraid that I was approaching the brink of publishing my data on the neuroendocrine effects in the hippocampus before them? Had the reusable canvas bags gained sentience and turned on their human masters in the only way they knew how: minor inconvenience?

But by using my powers of deduction, induction, and (of course) seduction, I finally understood. The game was afoot. Here is the necessary background information on the case:

Two days prior, after exhaustive research into what the locals consider “nice,” I had prepared a batch of my famous blueberry muffins in an attempt to deceive the natives into friendship. So, I had given a box of them as a gift to my neighbor. I managed to trick her into befriending me, and thus began what we in the business call “the long con”.

However, I was not expecting this sort of reply. The bag was her work, there was no doubt. She had retaliated with an equally deceptive token of gratitude: an assortment of flavored macaroons inside the bag. It was, as the young folks say, “on.”

Pictured above: the tools of a professional. Delicious and malicious macaroons.

She, too, must be a “confidence man” (or for the politically correct, “confidence person” or “confidence woman” or “confidence womyn” or “cynfydyncy wymyn”). This was an unforeseen development, though I welcome the challenge from such an adversary so early in my arrival to Chicago. I shall rebut with an even more aggressive display of baked confections.

Perhaps I will send anger cookies or a resentful bundt cake (redundant, I know, as there is no other kind of bundt cake).