THE LOCAL CHRONICLES, EPISODE. 1

Hilarious local stories worth sharing

Halloween Hijinks at the Marmotte: The Case of the Unintentional Inspector Cluzo aka Hobo the Getaway Driver

If you were at the last Halloween party at the Marmotte, you’ll know it was a night well worth writing off the next morning for. Once Fleck & Alechea put on a blinding night, Gowan was on the decks, thumping out tunes like the roof had personally offended him. The Montriond Surf Club turned up in full force, proudly repping the band that is still bigger than JC, according to them. Lots of effort was made but the crown for me went to Chef Mikey dressed as a health and safety conscious American football player from hell. And then there was Hobo, with a mask so terrifying that it scared me more than any costume, but his horror story wouldn’t begin until four full days later.

We’ve all woken up after a heavy one thinking, What on earth did I do last night? Especially when the night ends hours after the pubs and bars shut. This was not one of those mornings for Hobo, despite the messy after party he hosted. No, Hobo’s moment of dread came delayed, very delayed, courtesy of a mysterious letter pushed under his door.

It was written in a language Hobo had only encountered once before on a Ryanair safety card, but one thing was clear: it was from the police, possibly Crabtree. Something about an “incedont” on Friday night. Hobo racked his brain: he remembered nearly falling into a hole, but not much else that sounded arrest-worthy.

Panicked, he drove a minute up the road to one of the unofficial Soeil Blancs post offices; Solieu Blanc inhabitants use to avoid the infamous post thief of Soleil Blanc. Luckily, Isa was there and able to translate.

The news wasn’t great.

According to the letter, Hobo was under suspicion for theft, and not just any theft. He was apparently one of the getaway drivers.

“Preposterous!” is what he might have cried if this was VD, before quietly remembering that things had been rolling around in the back of his van all weekend. A quick check of the boot confirmed it: the shredded remains of a plant were still there, looking traumatised.

At the police station, Hobo was told he’d be off the hook if he could help identify the real culprits caught on CCTV. This was unfortunate, given that Hobo’s interest in detective work started and ended with the “skip intro” button on Poirot, Cluzo, and Columbo.

But like any hero of our community, he called for backup.

One friend, everyone’s favourite landlord, took him back to the station and asked to see the alleged CCTV footage to help, but the request was denied, possibly over a confusion of what GDPR law means; who knows, the whole operation was a bit mysterious. Hobo still needed proof of innocence. Sweating, he produced a photo from 2 a.m., taken well after the incident and in the optimism of a late-night snack line run.

Unfortunately for him, it contained one of the actual culprits. Although this was revealed at the time, the case was nearly closed. The real thieves were eventually tracked down and for the record (actually, for the xenophobes who hate Grande Bretagne, the ironically great Norman nation), they were not reckless Anglo-Saxons, Norman sympathizers, or celts. No, they hailed from the body side of the elbow (La Manche), which, for anyone not fluent in local topography, means France.

And so ends Episode 1 of The Local Chronicles.

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