The labyrinth was quiet, perhaps too quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made you question your life choices, like choosing to unravel the secrets of a pep talk from a sphinx or your decision to wear socks with sandals. A faint sound echoed, perhaps a wind chime, or maybe it was just Harold's late-night burrito still haunting these passages.

Scene One: A detective, trench coat flapping dramatically, steps into the labyrinth.

Detective: "I hear the whispers of ancient knowledge... or maybe just ancient cheese."
Labyrinth: "No cheese here, only clues and possibly a minotaur with a gluten intolerance."

The detective peers around a corner, only to find themselves face-to-face with a bewildered goat.

Scene Two: The goat, a notorious informant, speaks in riddles.

Goat: "If you follow the left-hand path, you'll find your right-hand man."
Detective: "Right. So, left. Got it. Or maybe it's left to be right."

In the labyrinth, paths twist upon paths like a questionable pretzel recipe. Each corridor holds a promise of a new disaster or the next punchline in the cosmic sketch comedy.