What began as a funny shoe store mystery became Max Mercer’s first case involving identity theft, industrial polish, and a man pursuing justice in borrowed oven mitts. At the start, however, Max knew only two things: someone was stealing left shoes, and Lena Last had agreed to pay him.

“Half now,” the cobbler said.

Max studied the single boot on her counter.

“That seems to be a theme.”

A Case With No Right Answers

Lena Last owned Last Chance Shoe Repair, a narrow shop wedged between a locksmith and a business selling motivational soup. Her window promised REPAIRS WHILE YOU WAIT.

Someone had added: POSSIBLY LONGER IF MAX IS HERE.

He hadn’t even started.

“Thirty-six left shoes,” Lena said. “Gone in four days. No broken locks. No missing cash. Just left shoes.”

Max opened his notebook.

“Have you considered someone with two left feet?”

“Have you considered writing down something useful?”

He crossed out dance instructor.

Beside the fitting bench stood a barefoot man in a charcoal suit. He held a numbered claim ticket with the quiet fury of someone preparing to mention it in court.

“Gordon Blister,” he said. “I came for a heel repair. She took both shoes. Now one’s missing.”

“Why not wear the other?”

“Because limping home in one shoe suggests I lost a fight with a duck.”

Lena pointed toward her newest appliance: a chrome shoe polisher beneath a sign reading COURTESY OF DR. TREADWELL.

“He installed that last week. Said he was studying customer comfort.”

“And the thefts began afterward?” Max asked.

“Yes.”

Max nodded gravely and wrote suspicious timing.

Then, underneath: do not accept complimentary polish.

The bell jingled. A thin man entered carrying a briefcase marked ARCHIE SUPPORT — SECURITY CONSULTANT.

“I traced the missing footwear to customers with access to the Meridian Depository,” Archie said. “Its new vault checks walking patterns.”

Max looked down at his scorched boots.

“Mine mostly indicate distress.”

“Pressure, stride, balance,” Archie continued. “Treadwell designed the system. Now I think he’s trying to fool it.”

Gordon raised his claim ticket.

“Wonderful. My shoe has a career in banking.”

Max Takes the Wrong First Step

Archie opened his briefcase and produced two tracking insoles.

“Place these in your boots. Walk past the polisher. If it takes one, we follow the signal.”

“How does a polisher take a shoe?” Gordon asked.

Lena folded her arms. “That is one of several questions I should have asked before accepting free equipment.”

Max fitted the insoles beneath the counter. Unfortunately, he read the labels while holding them upside down.

His left boot immediately reported that it was his right boot.

His right boot requested technical assistance.

“Walk naturally,” Archie said.

Max had walked for most of his life without supervision. The instruction destroyed that advantage.

He crossed the shop like a flamingo attempting to conceal a stolen television.

The polisher chirped.

“UNUSUAL GAIT DETECTED. CORRECTING.”

Two padded clamps snapped around his ankles.

“Oh, good,” Max said. “Customer service.”

The brushes accelerated.

His swapped insoles transmitted contradictory movement data. The machine turned one boot inward, the other outward, then apparently decided the easiest solution involved removing Max from the premises.

It launched him across the shop.

Max hit a rolling stool, sailed beneath the fitting bench, and caught a display hook with his utility belt. A hidden panel behind the polisher sprang open.

Inside, a conveyor carried solitary left shoes through a tunnel in the wall.

Gordon stared.

“That’s my loafer!”

He lunged after it. Max grabbed his jacket, intending to help him stop.

Instead, the stool rolled forward.

Both men shot through the opening.

“I’m assisting!” Max shouted.

“You’re on my jacket!”

“That’s where the assistance is happening!”

Behind them, Archie peered into the tunnel.

“Follow the conveyor! It leads toward the depository!”

Gordon looked at Max.

“If we survive, you’re buying me socks.”

The Doctor Will See Your Feet Now

The conveyor deposited them inside an abandoned orthopedic showroom behind the bank.

Max landed in a bin marked GENTLE HANDLING.

Gordon landed on Max.

For a moment, neither considered the label accurate.

Rows of stolen left shoes covered a tall display rack. Each sat beside a right shoe fitted with wires. Together, the pairs faced a scanner feeding data into three sets of mechanical overshoes.

Dr. Treadwell stood at the controls in a spotless white coat.

Two assistants flanked him. One carried a money sack. The other carried a second money sack labeled BACKUP PLAN.

“Visitors,” Treadwell said. “How inconvenient.”

Gordon pointed to the middle shelf.

“My loafer.”

Treadwell glanced at it. “An excellent specimen. Strong heel strike. Slight outward roll. Remarkably smug arch.”

“That’s Italian leather.”

Archie’s voice crackled through Max’s tracker.

“Those right shoes are reference models. He’s combining them with the wear on the stolen lefts to build fake walking profiles.”

“Thank you,” Treadwell said. “Finally, someone appreciates the work.”

He gestured toward a steel door at the far end of the showroom.

“Three senior custodians must enter the vault together. My adaptive overshoes will make us walk exactly like them.”

Max climbed out of the bin.

“Couldn’t you just ask nicely?”

“For access to forty million dollars?”

“You’d want a good tone.”

Treadwell indicated the scanning rack.

“The profiles refresh continuously. Every correction makes the imitation more precise.”

Gordon cautiously lifted two quilted fitting mitts from a workbench and slipped them over his bare feet.

Treadwell frowned.

“Those are for heated boot molds.”

“Then you should have stolen somebody else’s shoes.”

Through the wall came the sound of Lena hammering at the concealed entrance.

Max straightened his duct-taped vest.

“You’re surrounded.”

“By whom?”

Max glanced at Gordon.

“Mostly dissatisfied customers.”

Three Suspects and One Very Bad Knot

Treadwell pressed a switch.

A security shutter began descending over the conveyor tunnel.

“Lena!” Max called. “Duck!”

“I’m already crawling, you idiot!”

The shutter stopped an inch above her head. Archie jammed his briefcase beneath it.

Meanwhile, Treadwell’s assistants advanced.

Max reached for his newest gadget: the Lace Ace, a wrist-mounted device intended to tie his boots without bending down.

He had built it after an incident involving a utility belt, a revolving door, and a burrito that no one wished to discuss.

“Stay back,” he warned. “This has a proximity setting.”

“Is it a weapon?” Gordon whispered.

“Not according to the warranty.”

Max aimed at his own boots and pressed TIGHTEN.

A spool of reinforced lacing shot across the floor.

The cable looped around one assistant’s ankle, passed through the other’s overshoe buckles, and wrapped twice around Treadwell’s legs.

Then it tightened.

The three criminals snapped together in a furious little chorus line.

Max blinked.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen… but I’ll take it!”

Treadwell lunged for the vault door. His assistants lurched after him, unable to agree on a leading foot.

Max tried to retract the cable.

Instead, his wrist unit pulled him toward them.

“Release it!” Gordon shouted.

“I labeled the buttons before I tested them!”

Gordon seized Max’s vest.

For six glorious seconds, they formed the world’s least convincing rescue team: one barefoot customer in padded mitts anchoring a superhero attached to three fleeing criminals.

Then Gordon’s improvised footwear slipped.

They skated across the polished floor.

Max grabbed the tall shoe rack.

It tilted.

Lena emerged from beneath the shutter just in time to see every carefully arranged pair slide toward the edge.

“Oh, Max.”

“I can explain.”

The rack fell.

“Later,” he added.

A Funny Shoe Store Mystery Gets Underfoot

Thirty-six stolen left shoes tumbled into a heap of mismatched right shoes.

A hiking boot landed beside a patent-leather pump. Gordon’s loafer nestled against a bowling shoe. A steel-toed work boot bounced onto the scanner beside a tiny silver sandal.

The scanner continued working.

PAIR DETECTED.

PROFILE UPDATED.

PAIR DETECTED.

PROFILE UPDATED.

Archie stared at the screen.

“Oh.”

Max winced. “Expensive oh?”

“Potentially useful oh.”

Across the room, Treadwell and his assistants stumbled into the vault’s entrance chamber. The outer door shut behind them.

Their overshoes had already supplied enough of the original profiles to open it.

Now they needed only to cross the short verification walkway and unlock the inner vault.

Treadwell smoothed his coat.

“You see? Even your incompetence cannot defeat proper engineering.”

His right foot performed a delicate ballroom pivot.

His left foot attempted to climb a mountain.

An assistant took two brisk military steps, followed by an elderly shuffle.

The other began bowling without a ball.

“Stop refreshing!” Treadwell shouted at his wrist controller.

Max, still attached to the lacing, accidentally jerked his arm against the glass.

The controller flew from Treadwell’s hand.

Gordon watched it skid beneath the inner door.

“Lovely follow-through.”

Inside the chamber, the overshoes kept receiving new profiles from the fallen display.

“WELCOME, DIRECTOR HENSHAW,” the vault announced.

Treadwell smiled desperately.

“Exactly.”

“WELCOME, MRS. DORIS FINCH.”

His smile faltered.

“WELCOME, DELIVERY DRIVER SEVEN.”

“Now wait—”

“WELCOME, DIRECTOR HENSHAW. WELCOME, UNKNOWN BOWLER. WELCOME—”

All three men staggered as their footwear tried to obey dozens of incompatible walking instructions.

The display flashed red.

OCCUPANCY LIMIT EXCEEDED.

Archie leaned toward the glass.

“It thinks there are forty-three people in there.”

Gordon nodded.

“Charge them all for my shoes.”

Please Collect Your Footwear

Steel bolts slammed into place.

“IDENTITY CONFLICT,” the vault announced. “SECURITY HOLD INITIATED. AUTHORITIES NOTIFIED.”

The overshoes powered down, leaving Treadwell and his assistants in a tangled heap.

Max raised one finger.

“Does that mean we won?”

“No,” Treadwell snapped from the floor. “It means you’ve created an administrative error!”

Archie examined the status screen.

“A very secure administrative error.”

Then the conveyor started moving.

Treadwell sat upright.

“No. No, cancel the return cycle!”

“UNVERIFIED TEST MATERIAL MUST BE RETURNED TO ORIGIN,” the system replied.

A robotic sweeper descended over the fallen rack. It nudged the stolen shoes onto the belt, scanning their intake tags before sending them back through the tunnel.

Archie watched a loafer disappear.

“You connected your theft operation to the vault’s equipment-return system?”

“It was efficient!” Treadwell shouted.

Lena smiled.

“Finally, something you installed works.”

The machine sorted out the reference shoes and sent all thirty-six stolen lefts toward Last Chance Shoe Repair.

Max attempted a modest bow.

The lacing around his wrist tugged Treadwell three inches across the chamber.

“Sorry.”

Outside, police sirens approached.

Gordon crouched beside the return belt and intercepted his loafer.

He cradled it like a rescued pet.

“There you are.”

“That’s evidence,” Archie said.

Gordon put it on.

“Then the evidence is coming with me.”

Lena freed Max with her leather shears. Police took possession of Treadwell, his assistants, their overshoes, and both money sacks.

One officer looked at the three men tangled together.

“Resisting arrest?”

“Experimental footwear,” Archie said.

The officer nodded with the weary acceptance of someone who worked in Max Mercer’s city.

Through the glass, Treadwell glared at Max.

“You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Max considered the repaired conveyor, the recovered shoes, and the criminals waiting for handcuffs.

“That comes up surprisingly often.”

The Sole Survivor Collects His Fee

Back at Last Chance Shoe Repair, Lena reunited the stolen left shoes with their waiting partners.

Gordon reclaimed his right loafer, returned the fitting mitts, and stood still for several seconds.

Max watched respectfully.

“Taking a moment?”

“Checking whether anything else is going to abduct me.”

Lena counted Max’s payment onto the counter.

Then she removed two bills.

“The display hook.”

She removed another.

“The stool.”

She reached toward the remaining money.

Max covered it with his hand.

“Could we call the rest character development?”

She considered him.

“Fine. But you’re not developing any more character in here.”

Archie handed Max his tracking receiver.

“How did you know swapping the insoles would expose the conveyor?”

Max glanced down at his boots.

Then he looked at the door, which seemed unusually far away.

“Totally part of the plan. Yep. That plan.”

Gordon gave a short laugh despite himself.

“You know, for a man who had no idea what he was doing, you did get my shoe back.”

Max brightened.

“Would you leave a review?”

Gordon borrowed Lena’s pen.

A minute later, Max read the new testimonial aloud.

“‘Recovered stolen property. Prevented bank robbery. Would recommend from a safe distance.’ Five stars!”

“Distance matters,” Gordon said.

After everyone left, Lena discovered one scorched boot beneath the fitting bench.

Max had walked out wearing its partner and an orthopedic display clog.

She hurried to the doorway.

“Max! You forgot your left boot!”

Halfway down the block, The Misfire raised a mismatched glove.

“Keep it! We know they’re valuable now!”

Then his clog squeaked.

Across the street, a parking garage barrier rose.

Max stopped.

He looked at the clog.

He looked at the open garage.

Very quietly, he turned around.

“Archie? Small follow-up question.”

The Misfire — Every plan backfires… into success.

Have your own shoe misadventure? Contact Us and tell us about it!

The post The Sole Survivor: A Funny Shoe Store Mystery appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Max Mercer’s latest paying job began as a funny fortune cookie mystery and became a criminal investigation shortly after he ate the evidence. In his defense, nobody had labeled the plate. In everyone else’s defense, restaurant owner Mei Lin had said, “Please don’t eat the evidence,” twice.

Now she watched him chew.

“Was that the one about the jewelry store?” she asked.

Max stopped.

Somewhere beneath his scorched utility vest, his stomach accepted a promotion to evidence locker.

“How important,” he asked, “was the exact wording?”

A Prediction with a Police Report

Mei slid three paper fortunes across a booth at the Lucky Lantern.

The first read: A man with many watches will soon lose track of time.

“Henderson’s Watch Repair,” she said. “Burglarized Monday.”

The second read: Your neighbor’s silver will brighten another home.

“The Whitcomb house. Tuesday.”

The third read: A locked door is merely an invitation to someone with ambition.

Max frowned. “That one could be a motivational speaker with boundary issues.”

Mei placed the police report beside it.

“Three businesses. Same street. Wednesday.”

Outside, a delivery scooter backfired. Max ducked beneath the table, caught his goggles on a chair, and emerged wearing a napkin like a ceremonial bib.

“Good instincts,” said the rider entering the restaurant. “Usually it does that twice.”

The scooter backfired again.

Scooter Lee set down a cookie carton. His helmet bore a sticker reading I BRAKE FOR TIPS.

“Fresh batch from Carmine’s,” he said. “Also, your alley dumpster is smoking.”

“Your exhaust is pointing into it,” Mei replied.

“That would explain why it follows me.”

Max examined the carton’s invoice. Carmine’s Custom Cookies supplied restaurants, hotels, and tonight’s police charity banquet at the Grand Regent.

At last, a straightforward lead.

“I’ll follow the paper supply chain,” he announced. “Quietly inspect the printer. Find the source.”

Mei glanced at his mismatched gloves, duct-taped belt, and half-eaten evidence.

“Can you do quietly?”

“I can start quietly.”

Cookie Cutter Carmine

Carmine’s factory smelled of vanilla, warm sugar, and a business that strongly preferred cash.

Scooter brought Max through the loading entrance, introducing him as “the printer guy.” This was technically fair. During his government career, Max had stood near several printers. One had survived.

Inside, paper rolls fed a digital printer. Farther along, workers tucked the fortunes into warm cookies before folding and wrapping them. A conveyor carried the finished packets toward labeled delivery bins.

Mei followed with the suspicious slips sealed in a clear bag.

“I’m staying,” she told Max. “For chain of custody.”

She moved the bag away from his mouth.

A broad man in a spotless apron stepped from the office. He had slicked hair, a gold pinkie ring, and the expression of someone who charged interest on apologies.

“Carmine,” he said. “People call me Cookie Cutter.”

“Because of the cookies?” Max asked.

Carmine stared until the question withdrew itself.

Mei showed him the fortunes. “These arrived in my regular orders.”

“Printing mix-up,” Carmine said immediately. “Private novelty batch. I’ll refund you.”

He sounded less like a man hearing about burglaries than a man hearing about incorrect postage.

Then Max noticed two stacks of packing labels. Ordinary deliveries used blue. A smaller set used red crowns, matching a tiny symbol on Mei’s slips.

Beside them lay a routing sheet. Its columns listed locations, times, and assigned crews. Several addresses matched the police reports.

Max leaned closer.

Carmine laid a heavy hand over the page.

“Corporate team-building,” he said.

From the office, somebody shouted, “Boss, where do we put the stolen clocks?”

Carmine never blinked.

“Very competitive teams.”

The Quiet Inspection Gets Saucy

Carmine ushered the shouting employee into his office and closed the door.

Meanwhile, Mei photographed the routing sheet. Max approached the printer with the careful confidence of a man who had learned nothing from being fired.

Its screen showed three saved jobs: DAILY WISDOM, CREW RECALL, and POLICE CHARITY BANQUET.

He opened the recall job.

All crews: Report to [LOCATION] at [TIME]. Bring all tools and collected goods. Await Carmine. No exceptions.

Beneath the message sat the red crown.

“They aren’t predictions,” Mei whispered. “They’re orders.”

The restaurant deliveries provided cover. Certain customers collected marked cookie packets containing the next assignment. A few had slipped into ordinary cartons, giving Mei an accidental preview of the crimes.

“So the cookie is the envelope,” Max said.

“Yes.”

“And I ate the envelope.”

“And the letter.”

Max reached for his phone. His elbow struck a sample cup of sticky plum sauce beside the keyboard.

The sauce poured between the keys.

The screen flickered. Max grabbed a packing card to scrape it away, inadvertently dragging the banquet’s venue field into the open recall template.

GRAND REGENT — TABLE EIGHT — 7:30 P.M.

“Don’t press anything,” Mei said.

“Absolutely.”

He set down the card.

It landed on PRINT ALL.

The machine began producing fortunes with the enthusiasm of a government office discovering a new form.

Max tried to lift the sticky card. Instead, he pulled the keyboard off its shelf. His boot caught the cable, and he toppled backward onto the conveyor.

“I’ve found another problem!” he called.

The belt carried him toward packaging.

A Funny Fortune Cookie Mystery Goes to Dinner

Max traveled through the factory feet first, collecting wrapped cookies in his vest pockets.

A labeling machine slapped HANDLE WITH CARE across his forehead.

“Finally,” he said. “Clear instructions.”

Mei hit the conveyor’s emergency stop before he reached the carton sealer. Max slid another six inches and came to rest against a box marked ASSORTED NUTS.

She looked at the box, then at him.

“Don’t,” he said.

Behind them, the independently powered printer kept running. Workers filled the waiting orders with the fresh slips. Red-crown packets went into the crew delivery trays; the remaining cookies filled the banquet cartons.

Scooter appeared with his trolley.

“Seven regular stops, then the Grand Regent. Are these ready?”

Max saw the stacks gathering beside the conveyor he had just obstructed. Hoping to undo one small inconvenience, he loaded every finished tray onto the trolley.

“Ready,” he said. “Possibly ahead of schedule.”

Scooter wheeled them out and strapped the load onto his cargo scooter.

Only then did Mei catch a loose fortune drifting from the printer.

She read it aloud.

“All crews: Report to Grand Regent, Table Eight, at seven-thirty. Bring all tools and collected goods. Await Carmine. No exceptions.”

Max looked toward the departing scooter.

Its exhaust coughed.

“That’s the police banquet,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How many police?”

“It’s their banquet.”

The office door opened.

Carmine saw the screen, the sauce, and the fortune in Mei’s hand.

For several seconds, his face attempted to leave without him.

“Where,” he asked, “are my deliveries?”

Outside, Scooter backfired a second time.

Table Eight Is Expecting You

Carmine snatched his car keys and ran.

Mei immediately called Detective Pickles, sent him the photographs, and explained the altered orders. Then she drove Max to the Grand Regent.

“Shouldn’t we chase Carmine?” Max asked.

“We’re going to the same place.”

“Right. Efficient.”

Across town, Scooter completed his usual stops. At a pool hall, a pawnshop, and several other collection points, Carmine’s crew members opened their marked cookies.

Each message carried the boss’s familiar red crown and favorite closing threat: NO EXCEPTIONS.

At the pool hall, a burglar named Vince studied his slip.

“Why a hotel?” asked his partner.

“Inventory meeting.”

“With all the stuff?”

“Last time you questioned him, he made you count every stolen cuff link.”

His partner fetched the van.

Meanwhile, Detective Pickles stood near Table Eight in a suit that looked disappointed to attend. Beside him, volunteers arranged donated gardening tools and gift baskets for the charity auction.

He opened a cookie from an older basket.

Lower your expectations.

Then Max entered wearing a shipping label on his forehead.

Pickles folded the fortune.

“Ahead of you.”

Mei showed him the new message. Pickles read it twice, then quietly alerted the officers around the room. Two moved toward the exits. Others stayed seated near Table Eight.

“Let me confirm this,” he said to Max. “You redirected an entire burglary crew here?”

“I was trying to wipe up sauce.”

Pickles took a slow breath.

“Of course you were.”

The Burglars Bring Their Own Evidence

The first burglar arrived at seven twenty-eight carrying a velvet sack and a crowbar.

A volunteer pointed him toward Table Eight.

“Auction donations?”

“Depends what Carmine calls them now.”

Next came two men with framed paintings. Behind them, a woman wheeled in a suitcase that ticked with the combined anxiety of forty stolen watches.

Soon, the entire crew stood beside the auction display, comparing identical instructions.

“Lot of cops,” Vince murmured.

His partner surveyed the room. “Must be a good cover.”

Detective Pickles approached.

“Evening. What have you brought us?”

Vince opened a ledger. “Full inventory. Carmine gets particular about receipts.”

Pickles inspected a watch with an evidence photograph open on his phone.

“And these came from Henderson’s?”

“Every last one. Tell him we didn’t hold anything back.”

Across the room, Carmine burst through a service entrance.

“Nobody say another word!”

Everyone turned.

“Those are my watches!” he shouted. “And my silver! You idiots were supposed to bring them to the warehouse!”

Pickles tucked away his phone.

“Thank you for clearing up the ownership structure.”

The crew looked at Carmine. Then at their cookies. Then at approximately sixty people professionally equipped to spoil their evening.

Vince shut the ledger.

“I’d like to complain about the instructions.”

Carmine bolted for the service exit.

Max stepped backward to give the pursuing officers room. His utility belt caught the handle of an empty serving trolley and rolled it across the doorway.

Carmine struck it at thigh height, tipped into its upper shelf, and sailed three feet into a tower of empty dessert boxes.

The crash silenced the banquet.

Max winced.

“Sorry! That was supposed to help you get through!”

Pickles cuffed Carmine while nearby officers secured the crew and their obligingly labeled inventory.

From beneath a box printed A SWEET ENDING, Carmine glared at Max.

“Who trained you?”

Max considered his former government employer.

“They’d prefer I didn’t say.”

A Fortune Max Can Believe

By nine o’clock, the police had recovered the stolen goods, secured the crew’s ledger, and sent officers to Carmine’s factory.

The charity auction resumed after volunteers removed several donations whose owners had not actually donated them.

Scooter stayed for dinner.

“Best delivery shift I’ve had,” he told Mei. “Seven stops, one banquet, complimentary noodles.”

At Table Eight, Detective Pickles opened his notebook.

“For my report, what was your intended strategy?”

“Follow the paper supply chain. Quietly inspect the printer.”

Pickles looked at the sauce on Max’s glove.

“And the banquet?”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen… but I’ll take it!”

Mei handed Max his payment envelope.

“You saved my restaurant’s reputation,” she said. “And helped catch the people using my deliveries.”

Max brightened.

“So you’d recommend me?”

“I’d describe you accurately. People can decide.”

She placed one final cookie beside his plate.

Max cracked it carefully, removed the paper, and held it up where everyone could see.

“Learning,” he said.

The fortune read: Your greatest contribution is yet to come.

Pickles reached across the table and quietly moved the sauce out of reach.

The Misfire — Every plan backfires… into success.

Would you trust Max with your next mystery—or just your takeout order? Tell us in the comments, and explore more Chaos for Hire adventures on The Misfire Comics.

The post The Fortune Cookie Felony: A Funny Fortune Cookie Mystery appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Max Mercer had handled kidnappings before. Usually, he caused them by accident. However, this was the first time anyone had hired him to rescue a victim with four legs, a championship pedigree, and better hair than most movie stars.

This funny detective story with a dog began at 9:17 on a Thursday morning. That was when a white limousine stopped outside the basement office of Chaos for Hire. It blocked two parking spaces, one fire hydrant, and the only sunlight that had reached Max’s window all week.

The rear door opened. Countess Natalia Barkova stepped onto the sidewalk in a silver coat, dark glasses, and enough diamonds to interfere with local radio reception. An assistant followed her carrying an insultingly well-groomed white poodle on a velvet cushion.

The poodle looked through the basement window and sneered.

Max had never seen a dog sneer before. Somehow, this one had mastered it.

“Mr. Mercer,” the countess said as she entered his office, “I require discretion, courage, and complete competence.”

Max swept three broken gadgets and half a pastrami sandwich into his desk drawer.

“You’ve definitely come to the right building,” he said.

The countess placed a photograph on his desk. It showed a magnificent silver Borzoi standing beside a trophy taller than Max. Around the dog’s neck glittered a wide platinum collar covered in red, blue, and clear stones.

“This is Grand Duke Maximilian Volkov the Third,” she said. “Maxi to his friends.”

“Great name,” said Max.

“He disappeared from his grooming suite this morning. The Metropolitan City Dog Show begins at noon. He must be found before the championship parade.”

The poodle gave a tiny cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“And the collar?” Max asked.

“Priceless to my family,” said the countess. “Worth one million dollars to my insurance company.”

Max opened a fresh case file and wrote: Find rich dog. Avoid losing rich collar. Do not pet poodle without written consent.

Then he underlined the word dog twice. He was officially a detective.

The Experimental Scent Scanner

Max’s plan was simple. That should have worried everyone.

He removed a device from his utility belt. It resembled a television remote taped to a toaster. Three colored wires dangled from the back, while a green radar screen blinked on the front.

“The G.R.I.T. Experimental Olfactory Acquisition Tracker,” Max announced. “I found it in a box marked ‘Rejected Prototypes—Do Not Activate Near Ham.’”

The countess lowered her glasses. “Does it work?”

“It beeped at a meatball once.”

Max needed something that carried Maxi’s scent. The countess handed him a silver hair from the missing dog’s monogrammed brush. He opened the scanner’s sample chamber and carefully held the hair above it.

At that exact moment, the office radiator coughed.

The desk drawer popped open. Max’s pastrami sandwich sprang free, bounced off the filing cabinet, and slapped against the scanner. The dog hair floated harmlessly into Max’s coffee.

The scanner chirped.

SCENT ACQUIRED: PASTRAMI. CONFIDENCE: 112%.

Max wiped mustard from the display before the countess could read it.

“We have a trail,” he said.

The scanner led them through three alleys, across a flower market, and into the lobby of the Grand Regency Hotel. Every few seconds, it emitted a triumphant beep. Max followed it past the grooming suites and directly into the hotel kitchen.

There, the device pointed at a lunch cart.

“Decoy,” Max whispered.

The poodle rolled its eyes.

Its name, Max learned, was Lord Chauncey of Kensington. Chauncey belonged to the countess’s sister and held two national obedience titles. He also wore a blue bow that remained perfectly level, even when he yawned with contempt.

The scanner suddenly shrieked. A squat brown bulldog had appeared beneath the lunch cart. Before Max could react, the dog grabbed the pastrami sandwich from his coat pocket and bolted through the kitchen doors.

“Maxi!” Max shouted.

Countess Barkova stared at the bulldog’s stubby legs and enormous head.

“That is not my dog.”

“He may have changed his appearance.”

“He has changed breeds.”

“Criminals are getting very sophisticated.”

Max chased the bulldog into the street.

The Wrong Bulldog Knows the Right Way

The bulldog moved like a runaway ottoman. He barreled between pedestrians, slid under a produce stand, and sent twelve cabbages bouncing into traffic. Max followed while apologizing to everyone, including the cabbages.

Chauncey trotted behind him without disturbing a single hair.

The scanner locked onto the sandwich in the bulldog’s mouth. Its arrow pointed forward as the dog crossed Sudbury Avenue and disappeared through the swinging door of a laundromat called The Clean Getaway.

The sign beneath the name promised: We Remove Every Stain—No Questions Asked.

“That seems reassuring,” Max said.

Inside, washing machines churned along both walls. A motorized overhead conveyor carried plastic-wrapped clothes toward the back room. Behind the counter stood a broad man in a lavender suit. His shirt collar rose high enough to provide weather protection.

“No dogs,” the man growled.

Chauncey stopped at the threshold and looked offended that anyone might classify him as one.

The bulldog swallowed the final bite of pastrami and sat beside Max. A brass tag on his collar read DETECTIVE PICKLES.

“See?” Max said. “He’s with law enforcement.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the owner’s dog. Pickles ain’t a detective.”

Detective Pickles growled at the back room.

Max’s scanner growled too, although that may have been a loose fan.

“Mr. Malone, I presume?” Countess Barkova said from the doorway.

The man froze.

Max had not known his name. Nevertheless, he nodded as if this development matched a flowchart in his head.

Suds Malone owned twelve laundromats, three car washes, and a nightclub where every table required dry cleaning afterward. Countess Barkova recognized him because he had tried to buy Maxi’s collar at a charity auction the previous month.

“Sentimental collector,” Suds said. “Now take the dogs and scram.”

Detective Pickles slipped between his ankles and charged through a curtain marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Max followed. After all, the only detective on the case appeared to have a lead.

A Funny Detective Story With a Dog—and Too Much Soap

The back room did not contain laundry.

It contained money.

Hundred-dollar bills hung from drying racks. Uncut sheets covered long tables. Industrial printers hummed beside tubs of green ink, while three men in aprons fed stacks of blank paper into a machine.

“Gift certificates?” Max asked.

“Counterfeit currency,” Countess Barkova replied.

“I was going to guess that next.”

Suds Malone shoved past the curtain and slammed his palm onto a red button. Metal shutters dropped over the windows. The front door locked. Two counterfeiters advanced with laundry bags pulled over their heads like masks.

The eyeholes did not line up.

One walked into a folding table.

“Nobody leaves,” Suds announced.

“That’s all right,” Max said. “I parked in a loading zone, so my car may already have left without me.”

He reached for a smoke capsule on his utility belt. Instead, he grabbed the scent scanner. Its loose wires tangled around the overhead conveyor’s control lever.

Max stepped backward.

The lever snapped down.

Every clothes hook in the building lurched forward at once.

One caught Suds by the lavender jacket. Another hooked a laundry cart. A third snagged Max’s trench coat and lifted him off the floor.

“Totally part of the plan!” Max shouted as the conveyor carried him toward an industrial pressing machine.

Chauncey sat safely beneath a table. Somehow, his bow remained level.

Detective Pickles chased the dangling pastrami wrapper in Max’s pocket. He jumped, missed, and crashed into a pallet of detergent. Boxes toppled in a neat row toward a fifty-gallon drum labeled ULTRA-CONCENTRATED.

The final box struck the drum’s valve.

A blue stream shot across the room.

It hit a high-pressure hot-water hose, which whipped free and sprayed the detergent into every open washing machine. Foam burst from the doors. It rolled across the floor, climbed the tables, and swallowed the counterfeiters up to their waists.

Then something strange happened to the money.

The green ink began to run.

The Counterfeit Cash Washes Clean

Blue soap streaked across the counterfeit bills. Benjamin Franklin’s face stretched, frowned, and slid off the paper. Serial numbers dripped into the floor drains. Within seconds, half a million dollars had transformed into damp white rectangles.

“Water-soluble ink,” Countess Barkova said.

Suds looked horrified. “It was cheaper!”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Max said as the conveyor swung him over the foam. “But I’ll take it!”

Suds tore free from his jacket and lunged toward a small computer near the printers. He yanked a red, bone-shaped flash drive from the machine.

“Without this,” he yelled, “you can’t prove anything!”

He threw it toward an open washer.

Detective Pickles launched himself through the air.

The bulldog caught the drive before it reached the spinning drum. He landed in the foam, vanished for two seconds, and emerged with the plastic bone clenched between his teeth.

Max gave him two thumbs up. This caused him to lose his grip on the conveyor.

His trench coat ripped down the back. Max dropped into a laundry cart, which rolled downhill across the wet floor. It struck the control panel and raised the metal shutters.

Sunlight poured through the windows.

So did six police officers.

They had followed a river of green ink flowing from the laundromat into the street. Detective Pickles trotted to the first officer and deposited the evidence drive into her hand.

The drive held printing templates, account ledgers, delivery schedules, and a folder named DEFINITELY NOT CRIMES.

“Good dog,” the officer said.

Pickles sat proudly.

Max climbed out of the cart wearing only one sleeve of his trench coat. The rest had disappeared into the conveyor system.

“Case closed,” he said.

Countess Barkova crossed her arms. “My dog is still missing.”

“Case slightly ajar.”

Then Chauncey barked for the first time.

Everyone turned.

The poodle pointed his perfect nose toward a narrow service passage behind the drying racks. Silver hairs clung to the doorway.

At last, Max’s scanner displayed something other than pastrami.

SCENT ACQUIRED: EXPENSIVE CONDITIONER.

The Million-Dollar Collar

The service passage led to an alley behind the laundromat. There, Max found an empty dog carrier, a torn grooming ribbon, and several diamonds scattered beside a storm drain.

They were not decorative crystals. They were flawless, unregistered stones worth far more than one million dollars.

Suds stopped pretending he knew nothing.

His counterfeit business had served as cover for a smuggling operation. An accomplice at the dog show had replaced Maxi’s costume collar with a nearly identical one set with real diamonds. Suds planned to steal the collar after the parade, move the stones through his laundromat deliveries, and return the dog before anyone noticed.

However, the swap went wrong. Maxi escaped from the groomer. Suds grabbed him outside the hotel, but the Borzoi slipped his carrier when Detective Pickles attacked the getaway van for trespassing near the laundromat.

“Pickles has strong opinions about parking,” a police officer explained.

The countess stared at the loose stones. “I thought the collar held glass.”

“That explains why the insurance company only valued it at a million,” Max said.

The collar itself was gone. So was Maxi.

The city dog show would begin in twenty minutes.

Max followed the scanner through the alley. The signal looped around two dumpsters, stopped at a delicatessen, and directed him toward a pastrami delivery truck.

“I believe your machine is still tracking lunch,” said the countess.

“It’s very committed.”

They hurried back to the Grand Regency. Countess Barkova searched the grooming rooms. Police officers checked the loading docks. Detective Pickles inspected every catering cart with professional dedication.

Max stood beside the main arena and tried to think like a championship dog.

This produced no useful ideas, although he suddenly wanted someone to brush his hair.

An announcer’s voice filled the hall.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the championship parade will now begin!”

The Dog Makes an Entrance

Lord Chauncey entered the arena first.

The poodle floated across the carpet like a cloud with legal representation. The audience applauded. Judges leaned forward. Not one hair moved out of place.

Chauncey reached the center platform, stopped, and looked toward the emergency exit.

Then he barked twice.

The door swung open.

Grand Duke Maximilian Volkov the Third strolled into the arena.

The silver Borzoi wore Max’s missing trench coat draped across his back like a cape. One sleeve trailed behind him. Soap bubbles sparkled in his fur. Around his neck, the diamond collar flashed beneath the lights.

The crowd rose to its feet.

Maxi had followed Max’s coat after it shot from the laundromat’s conveyor vent. The garment smelled like pastrami, mustard, smoke capsules, and poor decisions. To Maxi, apparently, it smelled like home.

The Borzoi crossed the arena and stopped beside the countess. She wrapped both arms around him.

Detective Pickles arrived a moment later with a catering sausage in his mouth. He sat beside Maxi as camera flashes filled the room.

The judges held a hurried conference. Technically, Maxi had missed his scheduled entrance. Technically, Pickles was not entered. Technically, no rule covered a contestant arriving in evidence from an active federal investigation.

The head judge took the microphone.

“For extraordinary composure under unusual conditions, we award Grand Duke Maximilian the Judges’ Medal. We also present Detective Pickles with a special prize for civic service.”

Pickles received a blue ribbon and ate it.

Chauncey placed second. His expression suggested that society had collapsed.

One strand of hair fell across his left eye.

Max considered that the day’s most shocking event.

Every Plan Backfires Into Success

Police recovered every diamond from the collar. They also arrested Suds Malone and dismantled his counterfeiting network. The evidence drive led investigators to three hidden print shops, two offshore accounts, and a sandwich shop that had never passed a health inspection.

Countess Barkova paid Max his full fee, plus a bonus for recovering the dog, the diamonds, and what she called “the dignity of the Barkova name.”

She also handed him a silver lunch box.

Inside waited a fresh pastrami sandwich.

“For your next investigation,” she said.

“Hopefully, I won’t need it.”

The scent scanner beeped from his utility belt and pointed at the sandwich.

Detective Pickles lifted his head.

Max backed toward the exit.

“Easy, Detective. The case is over.”

Pickles charged.

Max ran through the dog show with the bulldog at his heels. He tripped over Maxi’s discarded grooming ribbon, ducked under a display table, and accidentally unplugged an illegal dog-tonic booth. A hidden panel fell open and revealed forty bottles of banned performance enhancers.

Security officers blew their whistles.

The vendor tried to escape. Chauncey stepped into his path, perfectly poised and magnificently smug. The man stumbled into a stack of empty kennels.

Max looked at the newly exposed evidence, the cheering crowd, and the bulldog eating his sandwich.

“Wait,” he said. “Did I just save the day again?”

Chauncey sneezed on his shoe.

Max nodded. “Fair.”

He left the arena without his coat, without his lunch, and without any idea how the police report would explain him.

Behind him, Detective Pickles barked once.

It sounded like case closed.

The post Chapter 4: The Million-Dollar Mutt: A Funny Detective Story With a Dog appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

It started with a saxophone and ended with a blackout. But somewhere in between, there was a rogue toaster cult, a karaoke machine possessed by Sinatra, and me—Maxx Mercer, the Misfire. Just another night in the city where nothing ever goes right… except when it does.

Scene 1: Missing Notes and Misplaced Plans

The rain came down like jazz—offbeat and unpredictable—as I sloshed my way into “The Blue Canary,” a dusty lounge tucked between a pawn shop and a place that claimed to fix vacuums but only sold expired cough drops. The bartender gave me a look that said “Don’t ask about the smell.” I didn’t.

I was here because of Tin Lip Johnny, a jazz legend known for blowing notes that could melt butter—or bank vaults, depending on who you asked. His prized saxophone, Lucille, had vanished, and Johnny swore it happened right after a standing ovation and a karaoke rendition of “Careless Whisper” gone horribly right.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Misfire,” Johnny rasped, lighting a match off the heel of his boot, “one second I’m packing up Lucille, next thing I know, the mic starts glowin’, the power flickers, and boom—she’s gone! Like a magician’s ex-wife.”

I nodded. I didn’t understand, but I nodded. That’s part of being a detective—nodding like the pieces make sense even when they’re shaped like toasters and duck-shaped confetti.

Scene 2: The Cult of the Chrome Crumb

I followed the only lead I had: a trail of breadcrumbs. Literal breadcrumbs—burnt, square-shaped, and suspiciously glowing. They led me through back alleys and basements until I stumbled into what can only be described as a hipster séance.

A circle of men in chrome toaster helmets chanted around a pyramid of unplugged kitchen appliances.

“May the Heat rise. May the Crumb cleanse. May we never be defrosted again.”

I accidentally stepped on a bagel.

The leader—Brother Crisp—whirled around, eyes wide behind goggles made from oven dials.

“You dare interrupt the Ritual of Golden Brown?!”

“I’m just here for a saxophone,” I offered, holding up a harmonica like it was diplomatic immunity.

That’s when the lights flickered. Then everything flickered. The toasters began to hum. Sparks flew. A single bagel launched from one like a missile and shattered a neon sign across town. The power grid groaned like a caffeinated badger.

And that’s when the city went dark.

Scene 3: Karaoke of Doom

By the time I made it back to The Blue Canary, the power was out, the bar was glowing—glowing—and someone was belting out “My Way” with all the grace of a haunted jukebox.

“I didn’t start it!” the DJ screamed, pointing to the mic. “It possessed me!”

The karaoke machine flickered with arcane symbols. Its power cord pulsed like a heartbeat. I did the only thing a seasoned investigator-slash-electrical hazard survivor could do—I kicked it.

The feedback shrieked, the lights surged, and with a puff of confetti and a blare of “Yakety Sax,” Lucille reappeared—right on stage. Dented, duct-taped, and somehow filled with breadcrumbs.

Johnny ran up, grabbed her like a long-lost lover, and blew one soulful note that knocked over three barstools and reset the breaker for half the block.

Scene 4: Aftermath and Aluminum Apologies

In the morning light, the toaster cult disbanded—most of them went back to working at a gluten-free bakery. The karaoke machine was donated to science, which promptly gave it back. And Johnny? He played a thank-you solo on the street corner that made three pigeons cry and one mime speak for the first time in ten years.

As for me?

I sat outside the bar with a soggy sandwich, a mildly electrified trench coat, and the satisfaction of another plan gone completely sideways.

“Maxx Mercer?” a voice asked from the shadows.

I looked up. A silhouette, trench coat crisp, fedora tilted just so. A new client.

“We need your help. Something’s gone wrong.”

I stood up, brushing off crumbs. “Perfect. That means I’m already ahead.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Contact Us the Maxx Way:

Got a mystery that just went off the rails? A toaster behaving badly? Or maybe a saxophone that vanished mid-solo?
Drop us a line—no plan required. We’ll trip over the solution together.

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The post Chapter 3: “The Tin Canary Job” appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

It was raining again.
Because of course it was.

The kind of rain that bounces off your hat, soaks through your socks, and makes every alleyway smell like regret and expired chow mein. I was nursing a bruised shin, a cold cup of gas station coffee, and a hangover that tasted like wet cardboard and questionable life choices.

The office was quiet, save for the rhythmic drip from the ceiling tile I still hadn’t fixed. My ceiling had more leaks than my last plan to fix a toaster with chewing gum.

That’s when she walked in.

Tall, statuesque, and covered in oil—motor oil, to be precise. She was wearing a velvet trench coat two sizes too big and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed half her face. The other half was metal. Not metaphorical-metal. I mean chrome cheekbones and glowing eyes.

“You Maxx Mercer?” she purred in a tone that sounded like broken jazz.

I stood up too fast, tripped over a stack of outdated phone books, and slammed my shin into the desk. Again.

“Totally part of the plan. Yep. That plan.”

She didn’t laugh. Bots rarely do.

The Job

Her name was Clara Nine. Model: Widowmaker-Class Companion Drone, previously owned by one Archibald Whittlespoon—retired watchmaker, amateur inventor, and now, apparently, recently deceased under mysterious circumstances.

“I think someone wound him down… permanently,” she said, sliding a photo across my desk. It was a grainy shot of a shattered pocket watch, and behind it, a man with a face like a wrinkled raisin and eyes full of secrets.

“The cops say heart failure. But Archie never did anything without precision. Even his death is three seconds off.”

I didn’t understand half of what she said, but I liked the way she said it. Also, I needed rent money.

“I’ll take the case,” I said, spilling my coffee into the drawer.

The Clues

Archibald’s workshop smelled like dust, brass gears, and overachieving cats. I poked around while Clara brooded by the hearth like a melancholic Roomba.

First clue? A blueprint torn in half and jammed behind a cuckoo clock. The other half? Missing. But the part I had was labeled “MK. VII: Temporal Delay Mechanism – UNSTABLE.”

Unstable. Just like my life.

Second clue? A broken wind-up duck in the sink. It wasn’t plugged in, but it kept tapping its beak in Morse code.

“D…O…N…T…”

Then it exploded. I lost an eyebrow and gained a clue. Not a bad trade.

The Twist

Back in my office, I tried to piece together the mystery with duct tape and expired gummy bears. That’s when the goons showed up—three suits, two cyborg eyes, and one very large crowbar.

“Give us the blueprint, Mercer,” said the tall one, who looked like a tax auditor crossed with a vending machine.

“Blueprint? I barely have blue pens.”

They weren’t in the mood for jokes. But lucky for me, my smoke detector picked that exact moment to malfunction, triggering the fire suppression system. Water rained down, short-circuiting one thug’s bionic eye and causing the other to slip on my banana peel lunch.

Chaos, 2. Goons, 0.

Clara arrived just in time to vaporize the third one with her high-frequency lip gloss. I never asked how it worked.

The Truth

Turns out Archie’s invention was no ordinary watch part. It was a time-delay disruptor meant to de-sync small pockets of time—useful for avoiding accidents or, say, making someone’s pacemaker skip a beat.

The other half of the blueprint had been stolen by a rogue AI named Tick-Tock, who wanted to stop time entirely.

But I’d already mailed the wrong half of the blueprint to my landlord by accident, thinking it was my rent check. He’d shredded it in a fit of rage.

Tick-Tock’s plan? Foiled.

Clara gave me a nod that might’ve been robotic approval—or gas escaping her shoulder port. I’ll take it.

The Wrap-Up

She left me with a firm handshake and a half-full can of WD-40.

The case was closed. My eyebrow would grow back. And the fire sprinklers were still going.

But hey…

That wasn’t supposed to happen…
…but I’ll take it.

Got a mystery that needs untangling or just wanna drop a line? Slide your message under the door—or better yet, [contact us] before the next case finds me first.

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The post Chapter 2: “The Case of the Clockwork Widow” appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. In this city, the clouds had a union and they were always on shift.

Max Mercer—alias The Misfire—sat behind a chipped desk in an office that smelled like wet trench coat and yesterday’s donuts. A flickering neon sign outside his window blinked “INQUIRIES – CHEAP” in stubborn defiance of the fire code. He didn’t put it there. It just… showed up one day. Like most of his life.

He leaned back in his wobbly chair, feet kicked up on a file cabinet labeled “Unsolvable (But Somehow Solved)”, sipping cold coffee through a cracked mug. His trench coat was two sizes too big. His fedora had a bullet hole in it (not his fault), and his tie had been in a fight with a paper shredder (also not his fault).

Then she walked in.

Tall, mysterious, and about as subtle as a saxophone solo in a library. She wore a red coat, black heels, and trouble like perfume.

“You Max Mercer?” she asked, eyes scanning the room like they were searching for better options.

“I prefer The Misfire,” Max said, trying to lean coolly against the desk and immediately knocking over a typewriter.

She didn’t flinch. This wasn’t her first rodeo.

“I need help,” she said. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

Max blinked. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I accidentally set my own pants on fire this morning, and I wasn’t even trying to kill me.”

She tossed a manila folder onto the desk, which immediately collapsed under its own cheapness.

Inside the folder—now lying among broken pencils, a partially unwrapped granola bar, and a squirrel Max swore wasn’t there ten minutes ago—was a photo. Black-and-white. Blurry. A man in a pinstripe suit with a face like a tax audit and the smile of a crocodile.

“His name’s Vinnie ‘The Vacuum’ Carlucci,” she whispered. “He’s been… erasing people. Quietly. Efficiently. Like a Hoover with mob connections.”

Max nodded solemnly, unaware that the gum he’d been chewing had somehow fused with his hat brim.

“I’m in,” he said. “Totally part of the plan.”

Cut to: Midnight. Warehouse District.

Max crouched behind a stack of leaking barrels labeled “Not Toxic (We Think)”, watching Vinnie Carlucci’s goons count money and argue over whose turn it was to feed the laser shark.

His plan was simple: distract the guards, sneak inside, rescue the dame, and avoid being vaporized. Naturally, step one went wrong.

He threw a brick. It bounced off the wall, hit a pigeon, which dropped its lunch onto the guard’s head. The guard slipped, fired his gun, which ricocheted and hit a generator, which caused the lights to explode, which started a fire that triggered the sprinkler system, which shorted out the laser shark’s containment field.

The shark flopped around, the guards panicked, the dame screamed, and Max—somehow—ended up riding a forklift backward through a wall, crashing into Vinnie’s poker table and sending everyone flying like playing cards in a tornado.

Ten Minutes Later…

Sirens wailed as the cops hauled off Vinnie and his crew. The laser shark had found a new home at the city aquarium, now rebranded as “Sharknado Survivor.” The dame was safe, albeit soaked, and Max was standing proudly under the neon glare of his still-flickering office sign.

“Was that… supposed to happen?” she asked, brushing soot from her coat.

Max grinned. “Nope. But I’ll take it.”

She kissed him on the cheek and disappeared into the mist like all good dames in stories like this.

Max turned to his office, stepped inside… and promptly fell through a hole in the floorboard.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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The post Chapter 1: “Dames, Danger, and Duct Tape” appeared first on The Misfire Comics.