Tanked

Karma stopped wiping. She set the glass down. She leaned forward, her face a mask of profound, professional concern. “How much?”

“You look like someone who lost a fight with a ceiling fan,” Karma said, not looking up.

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

“Actually,” said a new voice, “we heard about the kidnapping.”

“Tanked” was the only bar in a three-block radius that opened before 10 a.m. It was a dim, sticky-floored haven for off-duty carnies and day-drinking plumbers. Behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that was dirtier than the glass, was Karma. Karma stopped wiping

Chet lunged. It was not a strategic lunge. He tripped over a box of single-use ramekins and went sprawling. The aquarium net flew from his hand. In that split second, Barn saw his chance. He didn’t go for Chet. He went for Reginald.

“Because you’re the only person I know who has a key to the storm drain system,” Barn whispered. “Chet keeps his backup lobster tank in the basement of The Gilded Grouper. The drain access is right outside. I need you to let me in.” “How much

They emerged through a rusty grate into the basement of The Gilded Grouper. It was a fluorescent-lit horror show of canned goods and dust. And there, in the corner, was the tank.

“My shrimp has been kidnapped,” Barn blurted.

Barn couldn’t pay. He had exactly $47.32 and a heart full of desperation. So he did the only logical thing: he got Tanked.