Tanked -

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.”

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

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. And now he was in the hands of

“Five grand.”

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

“Freeze, shrimp-napper!” a voice squeaked.

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.”