“Evidence!” you shout triumphantly as you retrieve the wooden spoon from its resting place on top of a manhole cover on the sidewalk.
You bring the spoon to your face, observing a sticky, sweetly odorous stain on the end. You taste the stain for research purposes. Vanilla, you think to yourself.
“Just as I suspected!” you proclaim.
You’ve been tracking the reports of the vigilantes, whom you’ve deftly coined the Youthful Genetically Deformed Martial Artist Reptiles, for months. Every single eyewitness to their heroic efforts has confirmed through subtle eye movements meant to induce a psychic response in your brain that the YGDMARs love single-serving Blue Bell vanilla ice cream. Reasons for this are inconclusive, but you believe they may have an insatiable appetite for listeria.
Now you find a wooden spoon with vanilla ice cream on the end on top of a manhole cover! My friend, there is coincidence and there is providence.
You lift the manhole cover and descend into the sewer. Somewhere down here is the smelly truth, and you’re going to find it.