Tanked «No Password»

“He calls himself a chef,” Karma muttered, her voice echoing. “He uses squeeze cheese as a binder.”

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

Chet Marlin stepped out from behind a pile of napkin dispensers. He was a small, sweaty man in a too-tight chef’s coat. He was holding a aquarium net like a sword. “I knew you’d come, Barn. Your emotional attachment to a decapod is your greatest weakness!” “He calls himself a chef,” Karma muttered, her

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