Chapter Text
JORDAN: Log REDACTED. For my ears only.
Damp. Unkempt. This time, the Spies had a rough season but in some ways we all did. But the Spies in particular. Even by the grace o’ the gods. My pitching didn’t help enough. Well. Now there are new mysteries to solve.
I rolled up in a Charleston gloomier than ever. The _ides racked these places just as much as REDACTED. I rolled up with my face on. No. Off. These are no longer the times of hiding behind masks. Only mysteries wear masks, and I, Jordan Hildebert, refused to be solved. So now I’m on the Shoe Thieves. On the other side of the mound.
I rolled up more machine than man and more wet than machine. I hate the rain.
In the overcast I could barely follow the map they had sent me. Not that it was very good. Though perhaps that was by design. I arrived at the clubhouse unsure that I was at the right place. But lucky me, they sent the welcoming committee.
ESME: Sup.
JORDAN: Hello.
JORDAN: Well. One person does not a committee make. Only a little welcoming too. Esme Ramsey stood at the entrance of the Shoe Thieves headquarters, leaning coolly against a support pillar. She was impressive in stature, and from my research, terrifying.
ESME: Are you narrating yourself? Into a tape recorder? In the past tense?
JORDAN: Insightful as she was, Ramsey could not breach the intrepid detective’s internal monologue.
ESME: … Fair enough. Okay, so you already know that I’m Esme Ramsey, I’m basically, like, the captain of the Shoe Thieves. Ignore anyone that says otherwise. So, I’m going to show you around the clubhouse. Not everybody is here today, but you’ll meet everyone in time. Okay, Follow me.
JORDAN: Ramsey opened the front door handily and led me inside. There, in the foyer, were a decent amount of shoes. Looked kicked-off and scattered in the hall. So these were the shoes of the Shoe Thieves. I would have expected that an operation bearing such a name would have a larger scale.
ESME: Oh, there are more shoes. There’s a lot of shoes. … Esme opined out loud.
JORDAN: Don’t do that.
ESME: Oh ok.
JORDAN: You here don’t organize your shoes?
ESME: Well if you’re just going to be putting them on in a couple of hours, then I don’t think they need to be like, picture perfect, at least near each other.
JORDAN: I grumbled to myself. S’Fine. People don’t need attention or patience or pride or anything. Rarely do.
ESME: … Okay, so over here is the kitchen. I baked some cookies a little bit ago, so you should help yourself. They’re double fudge macadamia.
JORDAN: Ramsey daintily held out a cookie and this detective cautiously accepted. I did not generally need to eat. Yet, I put the item into my consumption slot for further analysis and later expungement. It was not just fudgy, but fudgy fudgy. This would require cleaning.
ESME: So this is where—
[REDACTED]
ESME: Here are the bathrooms. Technically you can use either, but we usually think of them as Howell’s bathroom and the other one. Man, can that guy shed.
JORDAN: Ramsey led me from room to room. Every room we went into had ballet flats, wellies, mary janes with the strap, and most of all sneakers piled in the corners. Like an infection trying to make its way into the building. I was having difficulty comprehending the magnitude of this thievery.
JORDAN: There is a high number of shoes, just lying around.
ESME: Well I mean, we’re not called the Shoe Sellers. We steal the shoes.
JORDAN: And they sit around the clubhouse? That seems highly unsanitary. Wouldn’t they smell? … Shouldn’t they smell?
JORDAN: Of course, this detective could deactivate their olfactory sensors, but in this instance, I hadn’t.
ESME: Oh, well, one pass through the dragon and they usually don’t smell like much.
JORDAN: What is the dragon.
ESME: This is the workout room. It used to be pretty packed a lot of the time but nowadays, it’s mostly just me and Howell. Sometimes Snyder, but they can’t lift for shit.
JORDAN: Howell and I.
ESME: Oh, you lift?
JORDAN: Forget I said anything.
JORDAN: Ramsey continued to into the other rooms of the Shoe Thieves headquarters. Perceptively, I heard an iconic “thunk-thunk”. Well, precisely, [SFX].
ESME: Hey Stu.
STU: Is that you May?
JORDAN: We entered a common area where batter Stu Trololol was watching television. Trololol was slumped into a recliner. It was as if she was melting into it. She dramatically pressed a button—a pause, presumably—on her remote and looked away from the courtroom colors.
STU: Whose the— ‘Ello, you must be Jordan ‘Ildebert! Ts’ a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
JORDAN: And yours mine…. My research states that you come from Charleston. You have an accent?
STU: Well, you know I come from a ‘ole different Charleston where we oll walk ‘round with canes and top ‘ats, but you wanna know what the craziest part was?
ESME: No.
STU: Devil Worship in the town square. Baby ‘acrifices on Chewsdays.
ESME: She doesn’t have an accent.
STU: Chew can only adam-and-eve what you ‘ear with your own two ears. Or antennas. Antennums? Antennera.
JORDAN: Antennae, which I don’t have.
ESME: She doesn’t have an accent either.
JORDAN: I can tell.
STU: Aw, come on, bro, that only works once before the illusion is broken forever!!
ESME: There’s still Zimmerman. I won’t butt in on your fun there.
STU: There is still Zim Merman, yes.
JORDAN: Almost imperceptibly, Trololol muttered under her breath “Tillman 2”. There was… sadness?
STU: Yo, don’t editorialize me.
ESME: Uh, just ignore it, it’s quicker that way.
STU: Fine, fine. Hit me up later, Jordan, so we can properly meet. Imma go back to watching my show.
JORDAN: She again, dramatically pressed a button and the show resumed.
TV: “Don’t you understand??? I’m not just a victim! I’m a special victim!!! [SFX]”
JORDAN: Ramsey led me out of the room.
ESME: So the last place we’ll head is the Games’ study. There you can chat with Corn about the logistics of your membership and all that.
JORDAN: You said that you were the captain?
ESME: I don’t do paperwork. Anyway, before we do that, are there any questions you have, about the team, or about the clubhouse? I’ve been here since basically the beginning so…
JORDAN: I paused to think. There was much that I would have to learn about the way of the Thieves. The Shoe Thieves. In particular,
JORDAN: What do you do with the shoes?
ESME: What do you mean? We steal them.
JORDAN: No, after you steal them.
ESME: Oh. Well. I mean... Well... I mean—
JORDAN: Uh... What? Ramsey’s head went limp. Hung from her neck like a bag of water. Then suddenly, a rolling shutter ripped through her body, from the pit of her stomach up to her head. Like a bird escaping a windsock. A low droning. But her head snapped up and her eyes flickered open. Her. eyes?
ESME?: … Oh hello…
JORDAN: The eyes were soulful and heavy. Not Esme’s eyes.
ESME?: … I… do not know you… Are you perhaps… my successor?
JORDAN: Perhaps. Who are you?
ESME?: Sebastian… Woodman….
JORDAN: Sebastian Woodman, the first incineration of the season—
SEB: We say… delacing…
JORDAN: Right, the first delacing of the season. A terrible blow to a team’s morale. Beyond other tragedies. The Shoe Thieves sunk straight to the bottom afterwards. The pitcher Simba Davis didn’t help either.
SEB: Glass… houses…
JORDAN: I suppose in a matter of speaking, I am your successor. Hello, I’m Jordan. I believe we last faced off in the post-season of season nine? That was a while ago. You were an impressive batter.
SEB: … Ah yes… one of the games… I hit a three-run homer… you threw that.
JORDAN: Yes, I might have.
SEB: It was a soft throw...
JORDAN: Yes, well—
SEB: Lost your team the game…
JORDAN: Where did Ramsey go?
SEB: Possessed… by me… it happens sometimes… She’ll be back soon…
JORDAN: I see. Got any advice for me, as your successor?
SEB: Don’t pitch… you're not that good at it... Besides that… hit the ball with the stick… You would be surprised… how difficult it has been for us…
JORDAN: Hum. That it?
SEB: And keep your back straight… Hey... It’s Sunday evening, yes… ?
JORDAN: Yes, it is.
SEB: ... Cookie time.
JORDAN: Woodman, in the body of Ramsey, began to shuffle towards the kitchen. Uncomfortably. Before they could get far, I shouted after them.
JORDAN: Wait, Woodman. A final question.
SEB: No… I am not related to Eduardo… We are quite like… opposites….
JORDAN: That was not the question. So we are the Shoe Thieves. Shoe thieves steal shoes. What do they do with them afterwards?
SEB: Afterwards…
JORDAN: They stirred.
SEB: Shoes make good cups.
JORDAN: … Cups?
SEB: Drinking… Mixing… Brewing… I used to make Kombucha…
JORDAN: In the shoes?
SEB: In the shoes…
JORDAN: Is that sanitary?
SEB: I’m a tree… plus… the dragon…
JORDAN: Right, the dragon, I heard. What is that?
SEB: ...Once… Vela showed me… a cactus… she had replanted in a shoe… and I wasn’t… bothered… but I thought it was kind of weird… that she showed me… in particular… like you know how... Pluto is Mickey’s pet… but Goofy is his friend…?
JORDAN: Mickey, Goofy... These are other members?
SEB: Nevermind… I'm going to go... Gotta get a cookie... before Esme comes back…
JORDAN: Oh. Guess I should thank you, Woodman.
JORDAN: Woodman hobbled off without much additional response.
TV: “We’ll have to measure in a different set of units. In the units… of special victims [SFX]”
STU: Hey Es… uh… Pine.
SEB: … Cookie time.
STU: Cookie time.
JORDAN: This detective heard the reunited thieves from the next room.
She recognized them on gait alone. They shared a common moment, a time, a cookie time. This was the fraternity to which I was to become a brother. Perhaps not the most derelict of legacies.
But really, what was the deal with these shoes?
I knew that this was the next mystery. In life, you rise to meet a challenge or fall under its heel. You breathe in the smoke, or choke on it. Come to face the gods or writhe in the dirt.
In life, you solve or are solved.
I, Jordan Hildebert, refuse to be solved.