The following are the journals of Detective Peppers Johnson as he investigates the death of the writer of the Chronicles of Creams.
I shall start with my name. It's no longer just my given name, but also the title which has preceded it for 25 years. My name is Detective Peppers Johnson. It was a fall day, the light was ricocheting off the changing leaves, when I received the call. "We have a dead man on West End Avenue, possible creaming." When I entered the apartment, I knew it was true. He had been sitting at a desk, typing on a laptop, when death came. His torso slouched forward and his head rested on the keyboard where he had been typing. Cream was everywhere.
"Jesus," I said.
"What do you make of it, Detective Peppers," said one of the officers who had initially arrived at the scene.
"I don't understand a world where a man can die like this," I said.
It was clear enough what had happened. All I had to do was become this man, experience all the creams he had experienced, bathe myself in whipped toppings and dense delights, and then I would not just know, but know. Then I could really tell the officer what I made of it.
