You enter the crime scene. It is a mess. Nothing is where it is supposed to be. In the room, you see what appear to be two or three Rube Goldberg machines. Two or three, because you cannot see where one starts and another ends; they seem intertwined somehow, but it is hard to tell how.

And it is hard to tell why.

Around the room, you find confusing comments. Verbosely written. Rewritten. Confused mess.

You realize: this is the work of the Stochastic Parrot. Your nemesis.

He has struck again.