Chief Conspiratologist & Head of Forbidden Research
If you’ve ever wandered too far into the back halls of The Wink Report, past the locked door labeled “Definitely Not a Secret Research Lab,” then you’ve already stepped into Professor Whiskertuft’s domain, and it’s advised you promptly step back out. Slowly. Without making eye contact.
Professor Archibald von Whiskertuft has long been the newsroom’s most overqualified and least trusted member. With a clipboard in one paw, a smoking beaker in the other, and an ominous glint in both eyes, he now serves as Chief Conspiratologist & Head of Forbidden Research, a position that didn’t exist until he declared it did.
Formally self-certified in cryptozoology, theoretical satire, and advanced banana theory, Whiskertuft spends his days uncovering the tangled web of secrets hiding in plain sight.
He’s convinced the barcode gods are real, Amazon warehouses are training camps for sentient tape guns, and that the original Wink Report logo contained predictive runes. He has absolutely no evidence for any of this. Which is how you know it’s true.
His office, if you can call it that, is more bunker than workspace. A dimly lit chamber filled with corkboards, red string, stacks of old printouts, mislabeled filing cabinets, and one disgruntled crow named Hugo who acts as both security and editor.
The Professor claims to have uncovered:
- The original blueprints for the Internet (written in banana ink)
- A financial trail that links every vending machine in America to a shadow corporation called SnackNet
- A confidential inter-office memo that “proves Walter isn’t just real, he’s looping”
Despite his habit of starting rumors, unsealing ancient scrolls labeled “Do Not Read,” and attempting to unionize the newsroom against the newsroom, Whiskertuft remains uncannily accurate. He predicted Tilly’s banana fax incident three months in advance. He warned us that Zippy would be given HR power. He even foresaw the Great Cratequake of Dispatch #4.
When asked about his role, Whiskertuft responded only with, “Knowledge must be protected. Misdirection is key. And the vending machine is watching.”
He then laughed quietly, vanished into a plume of chalk dust, and was later found inside a filing cabinet labeled “Fish.”
The Professor now leads all major internal investigations, satirical myth audits, and containment protocols involving truth-adjacent discoveries. He answers to no one, except possibly Hugo the crow, and files his reports in an encrypted font that only he can read.
One final note: If you receive an envelope marked “Confidential: Open Only During a Solar Eclipse,” you are legally required to contact Whiskertuft. Then deny everything.