Disco Stu’s house was as innocent as any other. Originally a McDonald’s drive thru, now decorated with bronze robotic statues of Scarlett Johansson – it was awesome.

Except for one tiny flaw: Disco Stu was a traitor.

You see, my name is Mauso elMaco. And I am a member of the olilolo Sasquatches, a casual touch football team who plays on Wednesday evenings.

The competition is fierce. And I suspected Disco Stu of selling secrets to our arch-enemies, a ferocious team called The Monsters.

From Stu’s computer, I learned that the man was a burden on his company. The only profitable department of olilolo was the blossoming ‘stationary supplies’ department, headed up by Aaron Doyle.

In Stu’s cupboard, I found shocking evidence of his sordid life: a paper mache dong, three comically oversized pimp hats, and a solid golden crown. It was awesome.

As I headed towards the exit, I passed his computer one more time. I decided to take a final look. Leaning back in his chair and unzipping my fly, I clicked on a folder labeled ‘strippers’.

And that’s when I discovered something truly shocking. This was the only folder on Stu’s computer devoid of porn.

There were literally hundreds of spreadsheets, most of them password-protected. I had nearly overlooked this folder. The man had flooded his computer with porn to hide his true agenda.

I discovered that Disco Stu was involved with the operation of a nearby strip club called “Stuey’s Strippers”. He appeared to be the sole owner and manager of the strip club.

This was his real business, I realised. He was not loyal to olilolo. He was a scheming, devious bastard. And I was on to him.

I strode purposefully from his house, leapt into my sports car, and saluted the still-gyrating hips of Scarlett Johansson as I zoomed out of the driveway.

* * *

I roared along the streets of Oliloloville at three times the legal limit.

“Abacus!” I shouted into my cell phone. “Disco Stu owns a strip club called Stuey’s Strippers!“

“He does?” replied Abacus, excitedly. “Where is it?”

“Not far from here!” I yelled, competing with the roar of the motor. “No one at olilolo knows about it! He’s been operating in secret.”

“How could that be?” asked Abacus.

“He works in the field,” I explained. “They can’t keep track of him all the time. My bet is that he runs his business when he should be working for olilolo.”

“Is that why the blog isn’t as successful as it should be?”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed. “He’s been taking everyone for a ride.”

“Get back to me when you have more,” said Abacus.

“I’m on it.”

* * *

Stuey’s Strippers was located three blocks from a shopping mall, and two hundred metres from a church. It was opposite a school.

The queue was thirty metres long.

Men of all ages were lining up for a glimpse of Stuey’s Strippers. It was 2pm in the afternoon.

Amongst the crowd, I spotted a group of school students, some tattooed women, and an old man dressed in black robes. There was a father taking his ten year old son to see the show.

The crowd shuffled slowly into the club, each person paying the hefty cover charge without complaint.

On the main floor of Stuey’s Strippers, six dazzling stages were illuminated by an array of lights. As “The Final Countdown” began to play, a dozen gorgeous ladies emerged from behind the curtains.

It was inspirational.

But I was here on official Sasquatch business.

“I need to speak to your boss,” I told the barmaid, sliding a $50 note across the counter. If experience had taught me anything, everyone could be bribed.

She led me along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. I continued to the main office.

“I’m here to see Stu,” I told the guard, handing him a six-pack of Stu’s beer. He was a tall, muscular mountain of a man, with a permanent scowl slashed across his face.

The guard sneered and shook his head, snatching the bribe from my hands nonetheless.

“Stu’s not in today.”

“Then why is the light on in his office?” I asked.

The guard shrugged. He stared at me menacingly with a look that said: we’re done here.

“We’re done here,” he added.

We stared into each other’s eyes violently. Only one man would walk away from this confrontation victorious.

I whipped the air horn from my belt and detonated it.

The sound bomb shattered each bottle in the six-pack. Beer sprayed in every direction. I grabbed a shard of glass and held it against the man’s throat.

If experience had taught me anything, everyone could be bribed. And if they couldn’t, they could always be threatened.

Leaning in close to the man’s face, I whispered: “We’re not done here.”

* * *

It turns out the man was being honest. Stu wasn’t in today. I felt kind of bad about that, so I bought the guy another six pack.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled sadly. “I just wish the beer hadn’t gone everywhere. This was my favourite outfit.”

“I still think you look great,” I replied, optimistically.

“You really mean it?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I really do.”

The man didn’t look great, but I had not time for a lengthy discussion. The game against the The Monsters was just hours away.

“So,” I asked casually, “who’s in charge when Stu isn’t here?”

“Well, there’s a roster,” replied the guard. “Stu is here an awful lot, but sometimes headquarters sends out Aaron Doyle.”

“Aaron Doyle?” I gasped. “Headquarters… you mean olilolo? They know about this strip club?”

The guard laughed. “They run it. It’s the only thing that earns them any money.”

“But I thought… they sell pencils and staplers…”

The guard laughed even harder.

“I don’t know what they call it on paper,” he chortled. “But this brothel is the real money maker.”

And there it was. The truth at last. olilolo was just a fancy brothel, posing as a stationary supplies company… posing as a blog website.

“Oh,” added the guard. “And they also have a niche in industrial-strength protractors.”

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” said Abacus. “Stuey’s Strippers is an illegal brothel?”

“Yes,” I replied, “which is why they fudge the books.”

I roared along the streets of Oliloloville at four times the legal limit. Time was running out, and I still had no hard evidence to prove Stu was the mole.

“By attributing their profits to pencil sales?” asked Abacus.

“I… really don’t know,” I sighed. “I guess so.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know,” I said. “It really, really is.”

* * *

I squealed to a halt in front of olilolo Headquarters. This is where Disco Stu had to be. I was back at square one.

The obese security guard came running over toward me.

“Mister Mauso!” he waved.

“God damn it,” I muttered under my breath. The man been pestering me for an autograph all day.

“I tried to warn you before you left!” he panted, bending over to catch his breath. “But you ignored me…”

“What is it?” I snapped.

“Earlier, when you were upstairs talking to Aaron Doyle, a man broke into your car!” he exclaimed.

My jaw dropped. “Did you see who it was?!” I demanded.

“No,” he wheezed, “I didn’t. But he climbed into the back window of your car-”

“Why didn’t you stop him!” I cried.

“I was going to!” the man replied. “But then you returned and drove away! With the man still inside your car!“

I froze. Silence filled the air. My heart was racing.

I turned around in my seat, and peered behind me. Right there, curled up in the back seat of my car, lay a man.

Disco Stu.

Staring at me.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED in A Sasquatch Mystery: Part 5