But there he was, dead over the desk, an

But there he was, dead over the desk, an expensive pen jammed far into his vertebrae. Clutched in his cold hand was a piece of paper folded repeatedly: An unfinished story fold.

It read: Meta levels of folding stories never finish the eternal golden braid of Hofsteadter, but I know the identity of the main culprit in my own murder! her name is not unlike

that name of certain rank and dank fellow who belongs to the league of oddfellows of Slippingham just outside of Boston. That rank and dank fellow was outfitted with gelatinous

underalls. The gooey lining expanded as it absorbed the unbriddled dankness seeping into his latex pants. Mortimer was the man I was looking for, no doubt. The Slippingham Slicker

Found a pair of chili pepper pants and had an itch for jalapenos or habaneros, so he went to Joe Caputo and Sons. He was looking throughthe remnants of the red hoy chilis when

he spied a single red pepper in one of the bins. He read the label, "Naga jo-lo-kia? This'll work, I guess." He quickly paid for his peppers and headed home to make dinner.

He was making an inventive meal- spaghetti with a pasta sauce of his own invention. Tomatoes, beans, spices, and of course peppers. This special red pepper would have to suffice.

Muah. he kissed his mouth with his fingers. The dish was ready. "Your dish madam" The French cook said as he plated the spaghetti onto the queen's plate. "I have added spicy pepper

chance to go back to the palace kitchens. The queen lifted an eyebrow. The cook glanced around. Everyone seemed relieved and he allowed himself a quiet, internal "bravo!".