One brisk autumn day in Broston, Massachusetts, a highly unusual case attracted the area’s most adept detectives, corroding the city, and eventually everywhere else, with interminable paranoia that lingers to this day.
Private Investigator Burr O’Nara, called upon by the city’s police commissioner, arrived at a single-floor ranch house near the outskirts of town, apparently the residence of Mr. Fajad Ambrose. There were officers searching every inch of the home, though nothing else in the residence seemed out of the ordinary. The P.I. walked into the kitchen.
A cupboard door was wide open. O’Nara asked an officer next to him if he opened it. His response was that it was open when the team first arrived. O’Nara examined the pantry made visible by the open door. Among the plastic-wrapped brioche loaves and canned broccoli soup, it seemed as though something essential was missing, although the P.I. could not grasp exactly what. He caught the commissioner’s eye in the dining room, and disregarded this baseless feeling of abnormality for the time being to go investigate what he went to the place for. The commissioner led O’Nara down the hall and into an officer-crowded bedroom, where an unsettling sight awaited them.
A heavy-set, bearded man, clearly the victim Fajad Ambrose, was shaking heavily, curled up in the fetal position, whimpering, “Gone, they’re all gone, they were all I had...” whenever someone tried to talk to him. Clearly no information could have been gained from this man, so O’Nara went and observed the bed.
Its mattress was removed, leaving only the bed’s frame and the space usually hidden underneath said mattress exposed. Nothing seemed unusual here, until, ironically, a policeman approached O’Nara with an empty bag of cheese puffs held by metal clamps. The policeman stated that this was the only strange object found under the bed and the main piece of evidence for the case. He went on to say whenever he showed the bag to Ambrose, he would only hide his face, sobbing “all gone” repeatedly.
Trying to piece together the circumstances of this bizarre case, P.I. O’Nara’s thought process was interrupted by a man escorted by two officers. This man, who has requested to be referred to only as “Albro”, claimed to have picked up bits of crucial evidence as to what happened. Here is his witness report:
“I was walking my broder collie past Mr. Ambrose’s home around 5 a.m. on (DATA EXPUNGED), when I heard a spine-tingling noise more like a long, loud distressed moan than a scream. Startled, I looked at the house, but the moan ceased shortly thereafter, so I started to walk further down the street. However, I thought I saw movement from Ambrose’s front yard out of the corner of my eye, so I turned back quickly.
A young man with a shirt reading ‘Arcade Fire’ was standing perfectly still, boring his unblinking eyes into my own. This guy... was wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and had a pair of aviator sunglasses on top of his head that made me feel very uneasy when I so much as glanced at them.
After staring at me, standing perfectly still for what seemed like an hour, I was about to ask if I could help him with anything. However, he seemed to vanish from my sight in the blink of an eye, leaving only a small note gently falling onto the ground in his wake. I went across the street to see the note, which read: ‘To evoke the indie hivemind of righteous thievery... BROSEPH COMETH. YOUR COMMERCIALIST SUSTENANCE IS NOT SAFE. Yours insincerely, That Guy Who Waits Behind The Coffee Shop’s Wall To Screw With Your Mainstream Lifestyle (Or Lack Thereof).’”
While the intruder of the home of Fajad Ambrose (who is now ironically under constant sedatives in a rehabrolitation center) has been concluded to be the figure Albro described in his witness report, the rest of the case is up to speculation. Burr O’Nara believed the situation to be this: “Broseph” broke into Ambrose’s home at 5 in the morning, took a bag of cheese puffs from his cupboard, went under Ambrose’s bed to eat them, woke him up & traumatized the poor cheese puff addict, and escaped, briefly encountering and leaving a vaguely motive-explaining note for Albro outside before disappearing.
Although Broseph has vanished from that Broston neighbrohood most mysteriously, Broseph is all but gone from society. He is a master of disguise who can appear anywhere with only two aspects that make him stand out: a leery, unblinking look in his eyes (which are always behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses) and an uncanny ability to remain perfectly still for long amounts of time then vanish inconspicuously, reappearing in another area of his choosing.
Should one be targeted by Broseph, they will have their house invaded when they are gone (after the incident with Ambrose made the news, Broseph has made sure to be stealthy from now on), have Broseph steal and eat their cheese puffs under their own bed, and afterwards have to deal with ant problems from the crumbs left behind. If one doesn’t have cheese puffs to steal, they will receive a tirade criticizing their musical tastes and habits brobody else notices. These rants ironically make victims ramble like badly improvising voice actors for hours on end.
While Broseph is watching us all, waiting to steal our cheese puffs or send us into brolonged, unconbrollable, ironically inbroherent speaking from intense rants, we have weapons that could make it less likely for him to terrorize us. The main precaution one can take is to make sure that if they are reading an article about our elusive indie entity, they must check to see if Broseph himself has tampered with the article they are reading. If it has been hacked, Broseph will most likely steal their cheese puffs or rant at them next. This is because he is drawn to the confused mind patterns of people who see the word “bro” replacing parts of nouns & adjectives and several things described in the article being called ironic, even if they aren’t that ironic at all.