Alright, dumpster divers, listen up. I, Carl von Raccoon III—Certified River Therapist, Chaos Consultant, Duke of Found Snacks—am here to bless you with my questionable wisdom. Today, we’re talking about wealth management.
Even in this isolated cabin, where the only sound is waves crashing against the rocks, all I can hear are echoes of pain and gunfire — shots that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Flashes of the battlefield invade my vision at every waking hour.
“LISTEN UP, SNOW GREMLINS. I am officially declaring a SNOW DAY TOMORROW. This is NOT up for debate. I found a decree in the trash and signed it myself.” He dramatically unwraps a scarf he definitely does not know how to use.
Peppermint woke up face-down on concrete. Sirens screamed. Horns blared. A pigeon made eye contact, judged her, and walked away. "…This is not the North Pole."
Peppermint woke up first. Except… she wasn’t in Elf Jail. She was in her own bed. Her own blankets. Her own pillow. Her own candy-cane socks on the floor. She bolted upright. “What—?!”
Nutcracker boots marched in the distance. Snowmen shifted like judgment in the dark. Gingerbread security clicked their candy-cane batons together like they’d been training for this moment since October. Mitch cracked his knuckles.
MORNING PANIC: THEY WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF FAILURE Peppermint woke up with ribbon in her mouth. For one blissful second, she didn’t remember where she was. Then she smelled it. Cocoa. Real cocoa. Kitchen-adjacent cocoa.
Peppermint stood at the edge of the courtyard watching doors she’d stared at for a century finally swing back and forth as chefs, party planners, and exhausted elves rushed in and out. Her chest tightened. “This is it,” she said quietly. “This is the window.”
Peppermint bolted. Joe ran directly into Buttercup. Buttercup slipped on a roll of wrapping paper. Mason knocked over an entire display of ribbon spools, which began unrolling at alarming speed. Nutcrackers charged. Wrapping paper wrapped.
Bob showed up at their door unannounced. That alone was concerning. He stood there in full uniform, ham baby strapped to his chest, radio crackling, jaw clenched so tight it could cut glass. “Put on your coats,” Bob said flatly.
“Today, you are being punished. You will assist in the Christmas Mail Sorting Room. Quietly. Carefully. Under my supervision.” Joe sighed in relief. Peppermint nodded. Buttercup smiled weakly. Mason squinted. “…Mail?” Bob nodded. “Mail.”
The Quietest Plan They’ve Ever Had The vent entrance was tucked inside a staff hallway no one ever used because it smelled like cinnamon regret. Joe removed the grate carefully.