by Madylin Eberstein
To the good people of Ann Arbor,
I don’t know what’s happening to me, nor do I know why. It appears that, at last, the Michigan Daily has found a way to take me down. I am being framed for a murder I know I did not commit. They must be jealous of my devilishly good looks. No matter, I know the truth.
That’s right. I, Gargoyle, witnessed the death of Phil McKraken firsthand, unbeknownst to my accuser. What poor, ugly bastards they are.
There I was, squatting apishly atop the Union late one night, as one does, wind and snow whipping against my skin. I could argue that the position simply offered a good stretch upon my hamstrings, but what can I say? I am nothing if not cliche.
Anyway, there I was, squatting, conducting business as usual: silently observing the nightlife. A troop of 18-year-old blonde women crossed the street below, each of them severely underdressed for the weather. I saw a nipple fall out the bottom of one of their shirts, the owner backpedaling hastily to pick it up and put it back in place. Down the way, an art student’s lit cigarette bobbed up and down as she walked up State.
I then shifted my gaze towards Student Publications. The stench of the Garg office, that of rotting food and–for some reason–dirty clothing, wafted down Maynard and filled my nostrils. The building, too, glowed stale yellow light from its windows, and as I basked in its late-night liveliness,I wondered who would possibly be there so late.
The light was coming from the Michigan Daily’s windows, and as I stared, I saw a shadow dart past. I focused my vision (my super high-res Gargoyle vision) for a closer look, and sure enough, there sat Phil, cracking away at something (he really puts the Phil in McKraken), but I couldn’t see what. The only words I could make out on his screen were “Harbaugh” and “found dead.”
I saw the shadow again, and that’s when it happened. Someone–a man, surprisingly slender for his profession–came up behind Phil and wrapped something around his neck. He pulled tighter and tighter, his arms shaking from the effort, until poor Phil collapsed on the floor. When he turned around, I saw his face, plain as day. It was seven-time Superbowl champion and U-M Class of ‘99 alum, Tom Brady.
Don’t trust me? Okay. Not a big believer in mythical, cryptic humor magazine mascots? Alright, fine. Not my problem.
But my story has been told, and until this all blows over, you won’t see me for a while.