Tanked

Chet went pale. “Karma? This doesn’t concern you.”

Barn ran a hand through his already chaotic ginger hair. Reginald wasn’t just a pet. Reginald was the star. The “Crustacean Sensation” wasn’t a seafood joint—it was a mobile aquarium experience. People paid twenty bucks to sit on milk crates, eat stale popcorn, and watch Reginald, a brilliant blue ghost shrimp the size of a thumb, navigate a tiny, intricate castle diorama. Reginald was an artist. He rearranged his gravel. He posed under the tiny plastic arch. He was, unironically, a genius. Tanked

“And your over-reliance on sysco frozen scallops is yours,” Karma said, stepping into the light. Chet went pale

“And you’re here, in Tanked, at 9:47 in the morning, because…?” Reginald wasn’t just a pet

“My shrimp has been kidnapped,” Barn blurted.

“You’re holding a beloved aquatic performer for ransom,” she said. “That concerns every small business owner in this zip code.”