By Jacqueline Brace, Illustrated by Annika Smits

I was in too deep the moment I stepped into that trash pit of an office. My assignment was simple: find out what the “Gargoyle Humor Magazine” was up to. We’d been onto them for a while, tracking their nefarious outings and far-too-humorous publications. Something just didn’t add up; how could they produce such quality content and just give it away for free? I was certain there was something in their quarterly issues that would lead me to the answer—a code, or a hint. I spent countless nights toiling over sticky pages full of top-tier humor, to no avail. We finally decided our only way to the bottom of this tantalizing mystery was to infiltrate the source.
I entered the Stanford Lipsey Student Publications building at 4:58 pm on Wednesday, September 4th. I made it into the Gargoyle Office with little trouble, though due to the mounds of crap and piles of wannabe comedians, I was forced to sit inside a stolen shopping cart full of old magazines and unmentionable objects. At 5:00 sharp, an eerie bell tone rang through the office until the initiates fell silent. There was a plume of smoke in the far corner of the room, and from it emerged The Orchestrator. He gazed out at the wide-eyed newcomers, assessing them wordlessly. He demanded each of us tell our best joke on the spot. I cringed as each knock-knock joke earned the innocent pledges a one-way ticket out the door. When it came to my turn, I blacked out. Whatever I said must have been funny enough, because I came to in an office empty but for me and The Orchestrator. He offered me a position on the publication, a lengthy contract in hand. I signed.
The next few weeks were indescribable. Each day, I sank deeper into the enigmatic swamp of the Gargoyle operation. First, I helped push mattresses out the window and onto the bed of a logging truck. Then, I stuffed dirty mattresses with counterfeit money. I alerted my handler, but he told me to hold out a little longer. Finally, I was brought to the laundromat. Massive washing machines towered over me. A conveyor belt of Gargoyle staffers fed them mattresses full of falsified currency. At last, certain we had uncovered the root of the scheme, my crew decided to act. They decided to raid one of the trucks the next night, while I kept The Orchestrator distracted. When I arrived at my shift, he told me I was ready to see the crown jewel of the operation. I tried to call off the ambush, but it was too late. Just as The Orchestator was about to open the door to his private office, an alarm blared. In a great plume of smoke, he and the entire operation disappeared.
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