It was the blandest of times, it was the flavouriest of times – well, no, that’s a lie, it was simply the flavouriest of times. Or maybe it wasn’t that, either, because flavouriest isn’t a word. But suffice it to say that things were not bland in the town of Flavourtopia, Saskatchewan. They had not been bland for many years – not since the days of Ignatius Hirschbiegel and Nikostratos Fernandez, the two great pioneers immortalised in stone at the town’s centre, their eternal gazes eternally surveying the eternal wellbeing of the town. “The Tiger and the Wolf”, as they were known – the conquerors who had wrested control of the town (formerly known as Blandville) from the mind-bogglingly bland residents who had previously called it home. The foolish fools had tried foolishly to lynch the heroes, but fooltacularly strung up their own instead. How foolish. It had been easy for Ignatius and Nikostratos to “eliminate” the remaining members of the town and claim it for themselves.
The town had grown since those days – the vanilla ice cream factory was re-opened, and the town’s economy with it. Sitting at the centre of all the hottest ice cream trade routes, it was a natural hotspot for all the finest ice cream engineers and technicians of all varieties. It no longer produced vanilla ice cream of course, but rather more exotic flavours, including Strawberry, Raspberry, and Porcupine.
One June day, however, something entirely expected (this is Flavourtopia) happened – a malfunction at the ice cream factory opened up a rift in the space-time continuum! Also, there was something to do with quantum physics. Therefore, absolutely anything and everything that could possibly happen is justified. Shut up.
The ice cream factory was put under quarantine, with nobody allowed in or out until the quantum rift thingy was dealt with. The workers were annoyed, but quickly went about applying their surprising knowledge of quantum space-timeology. But as they were nearing completion, some of the workers heard a scream come from the direction of the factory director’s office. When they arrived at the scene, they found their boss dead, hanging from a rope tied to the fan on the ceiling.
“This rope…” one of the workers whispered, “it looks so cliché and… dare I say it? Bland.”
The rest of the workers gasped in fear. The legendary brutality of the Blandvillians had been passed down through the generations of Flavourtopians. The Blandvillians had become a bogeyman of sorts to every child born in Flavourtopia, and every last one knew that the preferred method of execution was a hanging from the most cliché of nooses.
“Wait, hold on,” declared a second worker, “the first thing you noticed in this room was the
“We’ll have time to celebrate later,” snapped the first, “once we’ve figured out who killed him.”
The workers eyed each other suspiciously. They should have been able to tell who among them was new and unfamiliar, but let’s just say that some kind of memory-altering gas leaked out of the quantum space-time thing. This is Flavourtopia; stuff like that happens all the time.
“We should call the police!”
“The police? No, that would be far too bland.”
“Don’t say that word!”
“Quiet down, all of you!” One worker shouted above the rest. “We wouldn’t be true Flavourtopians if we didn’t come up with an unnecessarily strange and complex solution to this problem! We’ll simply have to decide who among us is most likely to be…” – his voice became softer – “a Blandvillian.”
“And then what?” cried out a worker near the back of the crowd.
“And then we’ll give him a taste of his own medicine… only porcupine-flavoured or something.”