It all started on a strangely windy morning—strange not because of the weather, but because #@&# woke up with his hair standing in every possible direction, as if the universe were trying to warn him: "Brace yourself, chaos is coming."
If he had been a normal young man, he would have just fixed his hair and started the day.
But #@&#, as usual, believed it was a sign… a "Sherlockian omen," as he called it.
He slid out of bed dramatically—fell twice—then stood up straight, clearing his throat like a great detective preparing for another day of highly accidental brilliance. Yesterday's case with William had boosted his confidence far beyond acceptable limits. He now considered himself a professional detective powered by pure luck.
He grabbed his coat, which was definitely not his size, and rushed outside, convinced the world was waiting for him to solve mysteries it didn't actually have.
On his way to the street, he walked directly into a street vendor's cart, apologized to the cart, then continued walking as if nothing was wrong. People stared. Children whispered. A pigeon judged him.
But #@&# ignored them all, because he was on a mission:
Find a new case. A grand case. A case worthy of the future legend he was certain he'd become.
The opportunity came faster—and dumber—than expected.
As he reached the town square, a woman suddenly screamed, "MY BAG! SOMEONE STOLE MY BAG!"
And just like that, everyone panicked. People ran in all directions, some without knowing why. An old man threw his apple for dramatic effect. A dog barked at a statue.
And in the middle of the chaos, #@&# stood frozen, thinking:
This is it… the universe has chosen me again.
He dramatically pointed one finger in the air, shouted "AHA!" for no reason, and started running… in the wrong direction. After a full minute, he realized nobody was following him because he was chasing absolutely nothing.
He stopped, turned around, and awkwardly walked back as if he had been testing the wind direction.
That's when someone tapped his shoulder.
It was William, holding two cups of coffee and looking sleep-deprived enough to fall into a coma.
"You're running the wrong way," William said flatly.
"No I'm not," #@&# replied confidently. "I'm using a secret tactic… for misdirection."
"Misdirection… toward a wall?"
"Yes. Walls are important witnesses."
William blinked slowly, regretting every moment of knowing him.
Before they could argue further, the woman who screamed earlier ran toward them.
"You! Are you detectives?"
"My condolences," William muttered.
"Yes!" #@&# answered proudly. "We absolutely are!"
The woman explained everything: she had been holding her bag, turned for one second, and—poof—it vanished. But she remembered something strange: the thief had been humming a very badly played tune from a flute.
Immediately, #@&#'s brain lit up. Not with actual intelligence, but with chaotic excitement.
"A musical thief!" he gasped. "A criminal with rhythm! A villain of melody!"
William sighed. "Please don't make this poetic."
But #@&# was already on the move. He inspected the ground, pretending to search for clues. He squinted, sniffed the air, touched the dirt like a seasoned detective…
…and accidentally smudged a very important footprint.
William grabbed him. "STOP HELPING FOR ONE MINUTE!"
But something unexpected happened:
A faint musical sound floated through the air—someone butchered a tune with a cheap plastic flute.
Both boys looked at each other.
"The thief," William said.
"The melody menace," #@&# corrected.
They followed the sound through the market, past a bakery where #@&# stopped to take free samples twice, and into a narrow alley that smelled suspiciously like old socks and disappointment.
At the end of the alley, a small boy was sitting on a crate, playing a flute terribly—terribly enough to cause emotional damage.
Next to him was the stolen bag.
"Aha!" #@&# shouted, startling the boy so much he almost inhaled the flute.
The kid panicked, grabbed the bag, and ran. William ran after him. #@&# tried to run, tripped over nothing, rolled on the ground dramatically, and then shouted, "I MEANT TO DO THAT!"
William caught the boy by grabbing the back of his shirt. The bag dropped. The flute flew. The boy screamed like a kettle.
After calming him down, they discovered the truth:
He wasn't a thief by choice.
He had only taken the bag because he thought it belonged to his older brother who had promised him money for lunch—money he never gave. He didn't want to steal. He was just hungry and desperate.
William softened.
#@&# softened slightly less but pretended he knew the boy was innocent from the beginning.
They returned the bag to the woman, who thanked them with 10 coins and a hug that nearly cracked #@&#'s ribs.
On their walk home, William handed #@&# the coins.
"You earned this."
"I know," #@&# said proudly. "Justice pays."
"You tripped over justice," William corrected.
But the day wasn't over.
Because as they walked away, the woman called out behind them:
"WAIT! THAT'S NOT MY BAG!"
Both boys froze.
They turned.
Stared.
And the comedy exploded all over again.