Paul sits hunched in the living room surrounded by grease stained wrappers, eyes glued to the flickering TV. The anchor warns of a mysterious beast terrorizing the park, paw print splashed across the screen. Paul clutches his magnifying glass and sticks out his tongue like a child tasting destiny. In his head he is already on the case, already imagining the headlines where his name eclipses the so called experts. He thinks the world will thank him. Instead, the world just waits to laugh.

Into the foggy park he goes, trench coat layered under a camouflage jacket two sizes too small. Flashlight in one hand, magnifying glass in the other, Paul creeps like a cartoon soldier stalking the enemy. The raccoon in the background is more qualified to solve crimes than he is, but Paul grins wide, convinced he is closing in on the beast. He imagines the cameras flashing, the mayor shaking his hand, the world calling him savior. All he is really doing is scaring the pigeons.

At the cracked steps of an old gazebo lit by guttering candles, Paul drops to his knees. There in the moss, paw prints. His tongue dangles out of his mouth as he squints through the magnifying glass like he has uncovered holy scripture. The prints are obvious, some local dog wandered by, but to Paul it is proof. He nods solemnly as if the case is solved, as if every doubter will now bow before his genius. The squirrel watching from a branch knows better.

The paw prints vanish near the restroom, so Paul makes his move. With a war cry stuck halfway in his throat and his tie flapping sideways, he boots the door wide open. The janitor drops his mop, staring in disbelief at the trench coated lunatic waving a magnifying glass. Paul is sure he has cornered the beast, sure the moment of glory is here. All he has really cornered is a man cleaning up vomit, and a bucket full of dirty water waiting like a trap.

A slip, a stumble, and the bucket flips. Paul ends up wearing it like a crown, mop string dripping brown filth across his face. His trench coat is soaked, his glasses smeared, his grin stretched in manic defeat. Another case cracked, another disaster. The beast still roams the park, and Paul is baptized in mop water, the king of clowns. The janitor shakes his head and goes back to mopping, while Paul convinces himself this is only a temporary setback on the road to legend.