Judith M.
Yelp
Donutville U.S.A., aka Jude the Obscure
I'm aware of the whispers. The fevered group texts. The corkboards webbed with yarn and Polaroids. Somewhere in a dim corner of a certain Woodbridge drinking establishment, someone's hunched over pivot tables labeled "LIKELY SUSPECTS," pounding Rancors the way a film noir detective downs bad diner coffee at midnight - grim, twitchy, and with something to prove.
And to that I say: Bitch, please.
You're not even close. But sure, let's play.
Since everyone seems so very determined to unmask me, here are three official clues to help you on your deranged little scavenger hunt:
1. I am currently banned from The Telway for floating a late-night trade proposal involving a dozen sliders and a light, non-binding "just the tip" situation. Apparently, they don't barter. Apparently, *I* am the problem.
2. I was briefly an understudy for Mrs. Claus during Greenfield Village's Candlenights. I was let go for "excessive improvisation" and swearing in character.
3. If you microwave a Faygo Redpop to a rolling boil while perfectly reciting the lyrics to ICP's Santa's a Fat Bitch backwards, it opens a time portal directly to the Gibraltar Trade Center, circa 1991. The air smells like vinyl dashboard cleaner and knockoff cologne. You may see yourself as a child. Don't engage.
Anyway, until the smoke clears, I've decided to take temporary refuge in pastries. Donuts don't interrogate. Donuts don't speculate. Donuts don't need to know who you are...they already understand. So let's talk about Donutville.
Donutville Review:
They had donuts. I got a dozen.
They were all good. Service was nice.
P.S. I could've revealed myself where Lex marks the spot... handed over the truth like a warm apple fritter.
But someone chose plausible deniability over decency.
So for now, I keep my distance.
And my receipts.