Tanked Now

Barn watched Reginald perform a perfect, slow-motion backflip off the plastic arch. “Most people don’t have a shrimp with a better agent than they do.”

“Five grand.”

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

Two actual police officers were standing at the top of the basement stairs, flashlights in hand. One of them was holding the ransom napkin in an evidence bag. Tanked

He scooped the shrimp into the Tupperware with a smooth, practiced motion. Reginald didn’t even flinch. He simply shifted his weight, adjusted his antennae, and gave Chet a look that could only be described as smug.

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.

And now he was in the hands of Chester “Chet” Marlin, owner of The Gilded Grouper, a man who served imitation crab and called it “artisanal loaf.” She leaned forward, her face a mask of

It wasn’t a mid-life crisis. Barn was only twenty-six. It was a specific, niche, and deeply humiliating crisis: his ghost shrimp, Reginald, had been kidnapped.

“We traced the note,” the officer said, looking at Chet with pure disdain. “Your fingerprint was on the salt shaker, Mr. Marlin. And for the record? Crustacean psychics are real. My cousin is one.” Back at the Crustacean Sensation, the rain had stopped. A weak sunbeam pierced the clouds and illuminated Reginald’s tank, now back in its place of honor. Reginald was busy pushing a pebble into the exact center of his castle courtyard. A masterpiece in progress.

“Actually,” said a new voice, “we heard about the kidnapping.” He scooped the shrimp into the Tupperware with

It wasn’t a lobster tank. It was a ten-gallon terrarium. Inside, looking profoundly unimpressed, was Reginald. He was fine. He was munching on an algae wafer. A tiny velvet rope had been strung around his castle.

Chet scrambled to his feet. “The police will hear about this! Breaking and entering! Shrimp theft!”

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.

Karma stared at him for a long, slow ten seconds. Then she reached under the counter and pulled out a ring of rusted keys that looked like medieval torture devices. “I’m not letting you in,” she said. “I’m coming with you. I’ve been waiting six years for a reason to ruin Chet Marlin’s day.” The storm drain was cold, wet, and smelled like old secrets. Karma moved with a surprising grace, her boots splashing quietly. Barn followed, clutching a butterfly net and a Tupperware container.

“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.