By: Ian Vestigate, Debutante Detective
Having lost one of our finest storytellers, and with no adequate replacement forthcoming, the editor-in-chief has put me (the rookie reporter) in charge of picking up the trail of the sports editor’s disappearance. It’s been two years. They only thought to care now? When they realized they needed FIFA coverage? My only clue is a mysterious message graffitied on the wall of The Peak offices on the night our sports editor vanished, which read:
Dear liberal losers — I have your sports editor and will be keeping them in the bowels of a secret stadium until my mission is complete. No more reputations shall be tarnished by your despicable diatribes in the sports section of your paper until my legacy has been secured. Keep quiet now, and you will have your friend back at the end of next summer. G.
That “next summer” was last summer. For some reason, nobody wondered where the editor was . . . until now. Having dropped out of my summer courses to try to solve this riddle and bring our sports editor back home, I found myself staring down the dark tunnel of despair, lost for any leads, until a chance encounter sparked an epiphany in the dusty recesses of my mind. Mulling over the mystery at Terry Fox Field, a varsity soccer player slumbered over towards me. Recognizing me from The Peak, he inquired about the fate of the sports editor. Someone who he was familiar with.
“Whatever happened to the old scribe?” he asked, “I haven’t seen them since they interviewed the team for that piece about the announcement that the World Cup would be in Van.”
He told me that during the interview with the soccer team about the detrimental impact of the FIFA World Cup on the sport as a whole, the sports editor received dozens of texts from a contact named “G.” After the last barrage of texts, looking distressed, my new friend said our missing maestro had apologized and left, muttering under their breath something about getting a slurpee at a SkyTrain station.
Very interesting. I knew EXACTLY where they went. I caught the 145 bus down the mountain and arrived at Production Way-University Station, where the shirt of a 7/11 attendee caught my eye. On it, below a picture of a stadium, were the words “No more reputations shall be tarnished” in blood red. After inquiring about the origin of the t-shirt, I learned that it was purchased at BC Place. On its back were the signatures of four players from the Canadian men’s team. However, something caught my eye. “Help me,” a scribble read. “I sign shirts — but I used to write.” Ah-HA! I immediately commandeered a random Uber with my press pass (I don’t know if this is a thing, but I want it to be one!) downtown and rushed to the stadium.
Scaling the stadium fence (and ripping my pants and underwear in the process), I descended the stairs to the basement, and set out in search of the darkest, dungiest room I could find. Finally, I came across a door marked “WC,” the bowels of the stadium! After kicking down the door, I was greeted by the back of a grotesque figure. With the words APPEASE tattooed across his chest, and a photo of him and Donald Trump on a ferris wheel together sticking out of his pocket, I would have recognized Gianni Infantino anywhere. Behind him was indeed our former sports editor, frantically signing t-shirts. The FIFA boss laughed and handed me a sharpie.
Everything then turned to black.
