Flynn here – back in action, only minor fractures in a few fingers, and ready for some serious journalism.

These are dark times.

People are going missing. Houses are being torn down for farmland. And, worst of all, the proudest Crumble tradition of all – mobbing – has been outlawed by the villainous Mayor Minopoly. This fat, one-armed moustachio has risen from the depths of obscurity to claim his place as the worst thing to happen to our town since mayoral candidates Tom and Eric spooked the Overlords in the last election.

But who is he? And more importantly, what is he up to? The sneaky little devil that he is.

I, Flynn Harris, set out to uncover the answers to these very questions. Just what is the Moppers’ plan? Let’s find out.

The story begins: Moppers Mansion

Already the scene is one of mystery and strangeness.

We begin our investigation into the rogue that is Mopatops at his needlessly lavish home on Ben Tuck’s Perm Road. Already the scene is one of mystery and strangeness. There is a thick fog clinging shiftily to the crumbling street as I sneak out towards Mop Mansion, my coat pulled tight to battle the cold early-morning air. I only see one corpse as I make my way to where this investigation begins – only one corpse, people. So I ask myself – if I know there are more, because there’s never less than three or four on Ben Tuck’s, then where’s the rest?

My skin crawls, and it’s not just the bug climbing up the inside of my left leg. Something’s not right.

When I arrive outside the mansion, I can see the morning’s lights clicking on inside. It would seem I’ve arrived just in time to watch Minopoly’s morning routine, and no doubt uncover its sinister secrets. His place is huge. Two storeys at least, an Old World building that has been carefully repaired and restored. There must be at least four or five bedrooms, with a large garden perimeter around the outside flanked by towering great bloody stone walls. This is certainly no ordinary Crumble hovel, built from bits of whatever was lying around at the time somebody needed a roof. No, there’s money here. The whole place stinks of money.

But whose? I’ll tell you – yours. And your neighbour’s. And mine, minus what Billy Waller still owes me. Little bastard. All that money that could have gone to patching up the holes in your roof, walls and legs, flushed into the proverbial toilet that is the mansion now before me.

What is Mop’s dastardly morning routine?

The morning has barely started and already I’m sick to my stomach.

The morning has barely started and already I’m sick to my stomach, and I’m confident it’s Minopoly’s doing, not my last evening meal. His mansion reeks of exploitation, and I intend to find out every last dirty little detail.

And so I approach, clambering over the stupidly large stone walls and hiding in a bush outside the nearest window. I peer in, and what do I see but an Old World kitchen, glimmering and glittering in its cleanliness and splendour. It has drawers and cupboards, and it seems that Minopoly has more than one kitchen utensil, a rare luxury in Crumble. But how could he afford them? The question rattles around in my brain, bitter and cold from the dewy, foggy air.

I see the man himself sitting in a chair at what appears to be a dining table off to one side of the kitchen. The rotund bastard barely fits on the small wooden furniture. Next to him are two children, who I’ve never seen before. Are they his? Do they know where they are? I’ll have to come back to investigate this at a later date, but my skin sweats with worry. And nervousness. And, really, it just sorta does that from time to time. I see Mrs Minopoly next, bringing plates of food to the table. By golly does the breakfast look good. It seems well-cooked, a slab of meat with thick, fresh chunks of bread. They begin eating, and my heart saddens.

Our mayor is sitting barely a few metres from me consuming more food than most families would eat in a week.

Our mayor, who is supposed to inspire and lead us, to protect us from that which would do us harm, is sitting barely a few metres from me consuming more food than most families would eat in a week. And they don’t even seem grateful – it’s just their normal morning routine. I can’t help but sneer.

But I can’t wait to see more, for a pair of muscular wolfcats appear around the corner and lock eyes with me. They’re huge bloody things – I’ve never seen wolfcats this big. But why are they here? I find out almost immediately.

They charge for me, tongues lolling out of their mouths, growls pouring out in thick, misty wisps. I turn and flee, clambering over the stony walls mere seconds from being eviscerated in Moppers’ garden. And as I pant and sweat and thank my luck to be alive, I can’t help but ponder what it is that Moppity Mop Mop wants to hide so bad that he’d train up two guard wolfcats. And big ones, at that. They must cost a pretty penny.

But alas, I cannot find out more here, for I can hear the beasts stalking me from the other side of the wall. I retreat to Ben Tuck’s again, to wait for Minopoly’s walk to work.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of my investigation, where we venture deep into Minopoly HQ territory, and reveal some of his dark policy secrets.

– Flynn