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| Mysterious Monument | The Missing Left Sock |
Mysterious Hiccup Island |
| Secret of the Doldrum Mill | Mysterious Escalator | Buried Bubblegum |
| Unbelievable Bungalow | Mystery at Pansy Palace | Spooky-Spur Ranch |
The House of Clucking Doom
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| Frankie
and Joey Hardly, the Not-So-Great Detectives, were bored out of their
minds. Frankie, the genius (or so he told everyone), was trying to solve a Rubik’s cube with his eyes closed, while Joey, the brave one (mostly when snacks were involved), sat by the window, binoculars in hand, spying on the neighbor’s cat. It was an ordinary Saturday until they heard the shrillest, most horrifying noise ever—a scream? No. A shriek? Close. It was a chicken, clucking at the top of its feathery lungs. “Looks like that old house on Clucker’s Cliff has gone all poultry-geist again,” Frankie muttered. The decrepit mansion on the cliff was known for two things: its crumbling walls and its resident chicken, Henley, who was rumored to have pecked its last owner right off the cliff. “Time to investigate!” Joey declared, grabbing a flashlight, some trail mix, and a frying pan for protection. Arriving at the house, the boys noticed something was off. The door, which was usually barely hanging on its hinges, was wide open. Inside, feathers were everywhere—stuck to the ceiling, the walls, and even the ancient chandelier that swung precariously. Henley the chicken strutted around the room like it owned the place, which, in a way, it did. “Looks like someone’s been... egging Henley on,” Joey quipped. Frankie groaned. “Seriously? We’re dealing with a rogue rooster and puns are your weapon of choice?” But the clucking wasn’t the only sound. From below, they heard what could only be described as the world’s worst karaoke performance. Someone was singing “Jailhouse Rock,” terribly off-key. “Either Elvis has risen, or we’ve got ourselves a smuggler with an ego problem,” Frankie whispered, creeping down the dusty steps to the basement. At the bottom, they found a secret room filled with crates labeled "Chicken Feed." Frankie tapped one open. It was full of cassette tapes and, weirdly, glow-in-the-dark fidget spinners. “What kind of operation is this?” Joey asked, perplexed. “Smuggling vintage junk? This is like a 90’s kid’s nightmare.” Before Frankie could reply, the door slammed shut behind them, and the off-key Elvis impersonator revealed himself. It was their father, Felonious Hardly, wearing a sequined jumpsuit and holding a microphone. “Dad?! What are you doing here?” Frankie yelled. “Kids, I’ve been undercover. I’m working on a case to bust this illegal nostalgia smuggling ring.” He gestured dramatically to the crates. “They’re trying to make 90’s trends cool again! It’s criminal!” Joey blinked. “But why the Elvis outfit?” Felonious shrugged. “I lost a bet. Anyway, the real mastermind is... Henley!” He pointed dramatically at the chicken, who squawked evilly and began pecking at Felonious’s boots. “This bird has been running an underground ring, smuggling retro fads and selling them to the highest bidder.” Henley clucked in affirmation, flapping its wings in a display of authority. It was then that Frankie noticed the old house wasn’t just a hideout; it was perched on a massive chicken coop. Beneath the cliff, a network of tunnels connected to every retro shop in town. “We’ve got to stop this,” Frankie said, grabbing a random fidget spinner and waving it at Henley like a weapon. But Henley was too fast, dodging Frankie’s desperate attacks and pecking the flashlight out of Joey’s hand. In a last-ditch effort, Joey tossed his trail mix onto the ground. Henley, true to its greedy nature, went after the snacks, giving Felonious just enough time to shut the secret chicken coop trapdoor. “You’ve been cooped up for too long, Henley,” Felonious quipped, locking the trapdoor with a padlock shaped like a rubber chicken. The Hardlys escaped the basement, taking the glow-in-the-dark spinners as evidence of the bizarre smuggling operation. Henley was sent to a farm for “retirement,” though rumors persisted that the chicken had pecked its way out. As for the old house, it fell off the cliff during a particularly windy night, leaving nothing but feathers and a strange clucking echo that could be heard whenever the wind blew just right. “Well,” Joey sighed, “guess that’s one mystery scrambled.” Frankie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but laugh. “Next time, let’s stick to solving crossword puzzles.” And with that, the Hardlys went home, hoping their next case wouldn’t involve any more poultry-powered crime sprees. |
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