Max Mercer arrived in the Arctic with a replacement door gasket, two emergency sandwiches, and a promise to touch nothing electrical. This funny Svalbard seed vault adventure would test all three. Before lunch, a criminal mastermind would threaten agricultural research, a fox would steal the instructions, and Max would discover that “portable heater” described something considerably more portable than he intended.

For once, however, he had a sensible plan.

Fix one door. Keep his mittens away from the machinery. Go home.

Even the sandwiches thought he was being optimistic.

One Door and Absolutely No Heroics

“You understand this is a maintenance job?” asked Leif Nilsen.

Their snow vehicle crawled toward the fictional Aurora Research Annex, a seed storage facility tucked into a Svalbard mountainside. Max sat beside the driver, wearing ski goggles, mismatched mittens, and enough scarves to qualify as an upholstered chair.

“Absolutely,” Max said. “I’m here as technical support. If a hero arrives, I’ll hold his bag.”

Leif glanced at the scorched boots beneath Max’s winter trousers.

“What happened to those?”

“Previous support.”

At the loading entrance, vault engineer Ingrid Solberg waited with a clipboard. She handed Max a gasket, a tool case, and a laminated instruction manual.

“The service door leaks cold air into the work corridor,” she explained. “Replace the seal. Don’t touch the conveyor controls.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Don’t touch the temperature sensors.”

“A personal policy.”

“And keep food inside the vehicle. We have a fox.”

Something white slipped behind Max’s boot.

He looked down just as an Arctic fox seized the manual. Earlier, Max had used it as a plate for his egg sandwich. Apparently, the fox considered this a binding ownership agreement.

“That’s government-adjacent paperwork!” Max shouted.

The fox disappeared around a snowbank.

Ingrid closed her eyes.

“There’s another copy inside.”

“Good,” Max said. “I think that one had a typo anyway.”

“You read it?”

“No. But it said this would take twenty minutes.”

Inside, Ingrid showed him the insulated sample cases awaiting inventory. Each held sealed seed packets destined for research collections. Beyond them stood a recently installed transfer conveyor and a decontamination chamber for incoming equipment.

Max admired the spotless machinery.

Somewhere deep in his utility belt, a broken gadget began to beep.

He sat on it until it stopped.

The Frost Baron Makes His Entrance

Max had removed precisely half the old gasket when six people in silver parkas marched into the annex.

Their leader wore a white cape, mirrored goggles, and boots so polished they seemed personally offended by snow.

“At last,” he announced, “the future of agriculture lies within my grasp.”

Max held up the gasket.

“This bit?”

“The seeds, you imbecile.”

“Right. I’m just on doors.”

The man swept back his cape.

“I am the Frost Baron.”

Leif, who had returned carrying Max’s second sandwich, studied him.

“You were on the ferry yesterday.”

“Many powerful men use ferries.”

“You complained that your soup was cold.”

“It was gazpacho,” snapped the Baron. “They should label these things.”

His thieves drew weapons and ordered everyone against the wall. Two began stacking sample cases onto wheeled transfer carts. Another attached magnetic labels marked FROZEN FISH to the lids.

Ingrid stared at the labels.

“That’s your smuggling plan?”

“People rarely question fish.”

The Baron raised a tablet displaying a ransom demand.

“Research institutes will pay millions to recover these rare crop samples. When I control their future, the world will kneel!”

“Other collections still exist,” Ingrid said.

“Then the world will kneel regionally. We can expand.”

Meanwhile, one thief examined Max’s unfinished door.

“Boss, this won’t close.”

The Baron looked from the dangling rubber to Max’s tool case.

“Finish your repair. Then join the hostages.”

Max nodded gratefully.

“Thank you. I hate leaving a job worse than I found it.”

Leif gave him a long look.

“Is that something you achieve often?”

“I prefer to measure enthusiasm.”

The Baron resumed his speech. Behind him, his crew rolled the stolen cases toward the conveyor.

Max reached for the new gasket.

It had become as flexible as a frozen bicycle tire.

A Funny Svalbard Seed Vault Adventure Heats Up

Max spotted a portable maintenance heater beneath the workbench.

Perfect. A little warmth would soften the rubber. He could complete the repair, satisfy the armed gentleman, and return to being somebody else’s responsibility.

He positioned the heater beside the door and plugged it into a nearby socket.

Unfortunately, the socket belonged to the conveyor’s maintenance carriage.

Its bright orange warning label read MOVING SUPPLY.

Max interpreted this as encouragement.

When a thief started the conveyor, the carriage jerked forward. The heater’s cable tightened, pulling the little wheeled unit away from the door.

“Excuse me,” Max said, following it. “My warmth is leaving.”

The heater rolled directly beneath a corridor temperature sensor.

An amber light flashed.

THAW WARNING. TRANSFER ZONE.

Ingrid checked the display.

“The storage rooms are stable. It’s a local sensor alarm.”

“Can you stop it?” Leif whispered.

“From the control station. Currently occupied by a man holding a weapon and a fish label.”

Max lunged for the heater. His right mitten snagged a yellow lever.

He tugged.

The lever moved.

Across the floor, the powered cart restraints released with six cheerful clicks.

“That sounded helpful,” Max said.

Then the first loaded cart began rolling down the gently sloping transfer lane.

The second followed.

The third collected the Baron’s abandoned luggage.

Within seconds, an orderly queue of stolen research samples became an extremely determined luggage parade.

“Stop those carts!” shouted the Baron.

Max chased them, one mitten still hanging from the lever.

“I’m trying!”

The heater rattled behind him on its stretched cable.

For the first time in his career, Max had brought a warm front to a foot pursuit.

The Getaway Loses Its Grip

Outside, three snow vehicles waited nose-first beside the loading ramp. Their drivers watched the approaching carts with the expressions of men reconsidering a cash-only employment arrangement.

Leif seized the distraction. He ducked behind a support pillar and called for help.

Meanwhile, Max grabbed a wall-mounted hose.

He intended to loop it around a railing and catch the leading cart.

This might have worked if he had grabbed a loose hose.

Instead, he yanked the hose from an industrial de-icer station. Its handle caught beneath his utility belt, directly between a broken flashlight and a packet of cheese crackers.

The trigger squeezed open.

A pressurized stream swept across the getaway ramp.

“Why is the rope wet?” Max cried.

He spun around, searching for the shutoff. The hose sprayed a second generous arc.

Slush, de-icing fluid, and the ramp’s smooth surface made an excellent argument against standing upright. Two thieves stepped forward to stop the carts. Their boots continued forward while the rest of them reconsidered.

They landed together in a shallow collection trough.

The first cart struck the bumper of the nearest snow vehicle. The second wedged across its skis. Behind them, the remaining carts tangled wheel to wheel, forming a steel barricade across the loading bay exit.

One driver revved his engine.

The vehicle moved four inches and crushed the Baron’s suitcase.

A cloud of monogrammed thermal underwear drifted into the wind.

Ingrid reached the controls, stopped the conveyor, and shut off the de-icer pump. Then she activated the loading platform’s retention barrier, keeping the carts safely inside the bay.

“Cases intact!” she called.

Max lay face down beside the hose.

“Me too,” he said, after a brief internal audit. “Mostly.”

Across the bay, the Frost Baron stared at his blocked escape route.

“You sabotaged my operation.”

Max lifted his head.

“I was aiming for the railing.”

The Baron Enters the Spin Cycle

The Baron snatched the last sample case from a worktable and backed toward the equipment decontamination chamber.

Its outer exit opened onto a separate service path.

“You fools,” he said. “I always maintain a second escape route.”

“That’s sensible,” Max replied. “I usually lose the first one.”

The Baron stepped inside. His cape swept grandly behind him, catching on a trolley handle.

Max hurried forward.

“Hang on. You’re caught.”

“Stay back!”

“You’ll tear the expensive bit.”

Max pulled the cape free. Unfortunately, his utility belt hooked the chamber’s exterior emergency isolation handle.

He turned to offer the Baron the rescued fabric.

The handle turned with him.

Both chamber doors slammed shut.

For a moment, the Baron stood behind the observation window, holding his case and the expression of a man whose second escape route had become a cupboard.

Then the automatic air-cleaning cycle began.

Filtered jets inflated his cape around his head.

“I AM THE MASTER OF WINTER!” he roared.

The intercom crackled.

“Please remain still,” said a soothing recorded voice. “Loose debris detected.”

Max pressed his palm against the window.

“Sorry! I was trying to save your cape.”

“RELEASE ME!”

“I don’t think I’m qualified.”

Ingrid reached the chamber panel and disabled the cleaning jets. She checked the status lights, then left the secure hold engaged.

“Ventilation normal. He’s safe. And he’s staying there until the authorities arrive.”

Outside, the remaining thieves found themselves trapped between the cart barricade, the raised barrier, and Leif, who had appropriated their vehicle keys.

“You can wait in the heated vestibule,” he told them.

One thief nodded toward Max.

“Does he control the heating?”

“No.”

“Then we surrender.”

Behind the glass, the Baron lowered his cape.

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

Max considered the carts, the hose, and the heater lying on its side.

“I’m hoping someone took notes.”

Every Seed Gets a Friendly Welcome

After the authorities took the thieves away, Ingrid inspected the recovered cases. Their seals remained intact. The storage rooms had stayed cold throughout the commotion.

Nothing had thawed except the Baron’s professional confidence.

While Ingrid completed her checks, Max volunteered to arrange the sealed packets from the scheduled inventory batch. He promised to leave every identifying label untouched.

When she returned, she found three new handwritten signs.

SOUNDS NICE.

PROBABLY NICE ONCE YOU KNOW THEM.

NEEDS SUPERVISION.

“Max.”

“I’ve made the system more welcoming.”

Ingrid picked up a packet from the first tray.

“Little Marvel peas?”

“Very friendly. Encouraging without bragging.”

“And these?”

“Broad beans. Seem open-minded.”

She looked at the final tray.

“Why is the rocket under supervision?”

Max lowered his voice.

“Given my history, I thought we should be careful.”

Ingrid stared at him. Then, against her better judgment, she laughed.

Together, they restored the proper inventory order. Every packet returned to its assigned place. Max even installed the replacement door gasket, although Ingrid supervised that operation with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert.

As Leif loaded the tools, the Arctic fox reappeared beyond the entrance. It carried the instruction manual, now decorated with tooth marks and a faint trace of egg.

The fox dropped it.

Max retrieved the booklet and opened it to the first page.

STEP ONE: REMOVE MITTENS BEFORE OPERATING EQUIPMENT.

He looked at his surviving mitten.

“Well. That feels judgmental.”

Leif opened the passenger door.

“You stopped an international theft and saved the samples. How does that feel?”

Max glanced back at Ingrid, who stood beside her repaired door.

“Wait… did I just save the day again?”

Inside the departing police vehicle, the Frost Baron shouted something muffled and deeply unseasonal.

Max gave him an apologetic wave.

“Seed you later!”

He immediately winced.

“Sorry. That wasn’t supposed to happen either.”

Behind him, the fox climbed into the open tool case and stole his last cheese cracker.

For once, somebody’s plan had worked exactly as intended.

The Misfire — Every plan backfires… into success.

Which assignment should Max spectacularly misunderstand next? Leave your suggestion in the comments.

Fiction note: The Aurora Research Annex, its equipment and security systems, and all characters and events in this story are invented.

The post Seed You Later, Svalbard: A Funny Svalbard Seed Vault Adventure appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Max Mercer had twenty-three minutes to return a rental bicycle. That should have ruled out another funny Amsterdam superhero adventure. Unfortunately, a criminal mastermind, twelve robotic cargo bikes, and a goose with no respect for traffic signals had other plans.

His phone vibrated.

RETURN REMINDER: Additional charges may apply.

Max studied the message with the expression usually reserved for bomb countdowns.

“Not this time,” he whispered.

After Scotland, his travel insurance company had added a question specifically about bagpipes. He could not afford another financial setback.

He tightened his borrowed rain poncho over his scorched utility vest. Then he checked his supplies: one broken signal detector, half a cheese sandwich, and a bicycle lock thick enough to restrain a small submarine.

All he needed was the rental office.

Across the street, a banner read:

VAN BLOOM INTERNATIONAL FLOWER AUCTION — RETURNS AND DELIVERIES AT REAR.

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

Baron Bulb Plants a Very Expensive Scheme

Inside the auction hall, Anika Van Bloom raised her gavel over a room full of wealthy collectors.

“Our next lot is the Midnight Empress collection. Six exceptionally rare tulip bulbs.”

At the back, Baron Bulb adjusted his purple velvet jacket. His lapel held a fresh tulip. His expression suggested he charged admission to smell it.

“Begin the bidding,” he murmured into his cuff.

Three hired bidders raised their paddles. Fake overseas accounts joined them on the screen, pushing the price higher. Across the room, an unsuspecting collector leaned forward.

The Baron smiled. By closing time, genuine buyers would have paid enormous sums for ordinary bulbs in impressive boxes. The rare originals already sat inside his cargo fleet behind the building.

False bottoms concealed a second prize: stolen hardware wallets and recovery records belonging to the auction’s international clients.

His autonomous bicycles would carry everything to a canal warehouse. From there, a private boat would take him away.

“Quiet transport,” he told his assistant. “No getaway drivers. No witnesses who demand a percentage.”

Outside, Max looped his rental lock around the nearest sturdy metal rail.

The rail belonged to the lead cargo bicycle.

Its screen lit up.

TRAILER ATTACHMENT DETECTED.

“Very welcoming,” Max said.

He went inside to find someone who could process his return.

Meanwhile, a goose crossed against a red light. Bicycle officer Bram Bell stopped and pointed at the signal.

The goose stared at him, then entered a one-way lane going the wrong way.

Bram opened his notebook.

“You again.”

The Wrong Desk and the Wrong Destination

Max reached the auction floor just as Anika announced, “Do I have ninety thousand?”

He raised his rental receipt.

“Ninety thousand to the gentleman in the emergency poncho.”

Max lowered his hand so quickly that he punched himself in the sandwich.

“No. Sorry. Bicycle return.”

Every head turned.

Baron Bulb noticed the ski goggles, mismatched gloves, and duct tape. He recognized Max from a security briefing titled UNPREDICTABLE INTERFERENCE: DO NOT PROVIDE MACHINERY.

The Baron immediately spoke into his cuff.

“Move the fleet. The Misfire is here.”

Anika leaned toward Max.

“Sir, this is a flower auction.”

“That explains the prices. I thought your late fees were ambitious.”

An assistant hurried toward the rear exit. Max followed, assuming someone had finally found the bicycle department.

Outside, the lead cargo bike rolled forward. His rental bicycle lurched after it, still chained to the rail.

“Oh, good. Automated returns.”

Max jumped onto his saddle before it could scrape along the ground. The cargo bike stopped at the loading gate, its navigation screen asking for confirmation.

He leaned across and entered the address from his receipt.

Unfortunately, he typed 18 Bell Yard instead of 81 Bell Yard.

The screen offered BELL YARD — SERVICE ENTRANCE.

Max tapped it.

CONVOY DESTINATION UPDATED.

Behind him, eleven cargo bicycles rang their bells in perfect unison.

“Lovely,” he said. “They’ve accepted the return.”

Baron Bulb burst through the loading doors.

“Stop those bicycles!”

Max glanced back.

“I’m trying to! That’s the whole transaction!”

The loading gate opened. The fleet accelerated.

The Baron lunged for the final bicycle, landed across its cargo box, and departed with his expensive shoes pointing at the sky.

A Funny Amsterdam Superhero Adventure Takes a Wrong Turn

The convoy followed a route through the auction’s canal-side demonstration grounds. Ahead stood a restored windmill beside a new automated delivery checkpoint.

A sign read:

SMART LOGISTICS FOR A GREENER TOMORROW.

Max’s tomorrow was already looking expensive.

His rental bicycle wobbled beside the leader, tethered by the heavy lock. He rang his bell politely.

“Excuse me. Could we downgrade to a less urgent return?”

At the checkpoint, a waist-high sensor arm reached toward the convoy. A yellow device clipped to the lead bike blinked in response.

Max ducked beneath the arm.

His poncho did not.

The fabric caught on the sensor housing, stretched tight, and pulled Max backward. He grabbed the yellow device for balance. Its clip snapped.

The poncho tore free with a noise like an angry parachute.

Max shot forward clutching the device. Meanwhile, the trailing fabric slapped the checkpoint’s large demonstration button.

FOLLOW-BEACON MODE ENABLED.

Every cargo bike turned toward him.

He looked at the blinking gadget in his glove.

“Is this my receipt?”

The lead bike swung across his front wheel. His rental lock slid off its open-ended rail, freeing him with a metallic clank.

For one glorious second, Max thought the problem had solved itself.

Then twelve cargo bicycles pivoted together.

FOLLOWING LEADER.

“I’m fairly sure I’m the customer!”

At the rear, Baron Bulb hauled himself upright and stabbed at his remote.

MANUAL OVERRIDE REQUIRES STATIONARY VEHICLES.

“Then make them stationary!”

PLEASE STOP THE CONVOY TO CONTINUE.

The Baron made a sound normally associated with garden equipment swallowing a fork.

Max pedaled harder. Every cargo bicycle followed.

Above the checkpoint, one surviving scrap of poncho fluttered from the windmill sensor like a tiny flag of surrender.

The Goose Has Right of Way

Officer Bram Bell heard the bells before he saw the convoy.

Max rounded a corner with his torn poncho flapping behind him. Twelve cargo bicycles followed in a precise line. A purple-clad man clung to the last one.

Bram lifted his radio.

“Possible theft in progress. Multiple bicycles. One extremely distressed aristocrat.”

Before dispatch could answer, Anika called the police. She had opened a presentation box and found a supermarket bulb with its discount sticker attached.

“Baron Bulb has stolen the collection,” she said. “And something is wrong with our clients’ secure storage cabinet.”

Bram watched the Baron slap at a bicycle that refused to acknowledge his social standing.

“I believe I have your suspect.”

Ahead, Max approached an intersection. The light turned red.

He braked. So did the fleet.

The Baron finally raised his remote in triumph.

Then the goose stepped into the crossing against its signal and bit Max’s shoelace.

“We discussed boundaries!” Max shouted, kicking his foot free.

The light changed. He accelerated before the goose could renegotiate.

The fleet moved. The Baron’s override screen vanished.

He stared at the bird.

“You feathered administrative obstacle!”

The goose took this personally.

It ran after the last bicycle, briefly overtook it on the wrong side, and attacked the Baron’s dangling cravat.

Meanwhile, Max’s phone announced, “Your destination is ahead.”

A blue sign pointed toward a courtyard. Beyond the open gate stood bicycle racks, uniformed staff, and a service window.

At last. Professionals.

Bram rode alongside him.

“Sir, take the next entrance.”

“Is that the return desk?”

Bram looked at the stolen cargo, then at Max.

“Today it is.”

Special Delivery for the Amsterdam Police

Max coasted into the police courtyard and stopped beside the service window.

The lead cargo bicycle parked behind him. Eleven more arranged themselves in two neat rows, each keeping its sensor pointed at the beacon in his hand.

Officers closed the gate.

Baron Bulb dropped from the final cargo box, straightened his jacket, and tried to look like a man attending a charitable luncheon.

“I would like to report a kidnapping.”

The goose squeezed through the closing gate.

The Baron climbed back onto the box.

Bram approached Max.

“May I have that device?”

Max surrendered the beacon.

“Absolutely. I don’t want the premium package.”

The officers secured the bicycles and opened the cargo compartments. Inside sat labeled trays of rare tulip bulbs. Beneath them, the false bottoms held the missing digital valuables and the Baron’s auction records.

Anika arrived as an officer lifted out the Midnight Empress collection.

“They’re all here.”

She turned toward Max.

“You recovered the entire shipment.”

“I was told to use the rear entrance.”

Baron Bulb pointed an accusing finger at him.

“He sabotaged a transport network worth millions!”

Bram examined the open cargo box.

“And delivered the evidence in numbered containers. That was considerate.”

Anika folded her arms.

“You replaced my rare tulips with bargain bulbs?”

“The packaging was exceptional,” the Baron said.

Two officers led him away. He tried to maintain his dignity until the goose tugged his cravat through a gap between their legs.

Max winced.

“Sorry about your scarf.”

“It is a cravat!”

“Sorry about your cravat situation.”

Behind them, a cargo bike chimed.

DELIVERY COMPLETE.

The Most Expensive Free Bicycle Ride

An hour later, Max stood outside the correct rental office beside Anika and Officer Bell.

Anika had explained the recovered tulips. Bram had explained the arrests. Max had explained that the scratch on the bicycle was probably already there.

The clerk checked his screen.

“You’re late.”

Max closed his eyes.

“He brought an international criminal to justice,” Anika said.

“That’s very nice. Six euros.”

Bram cleared his throat.

The clerk sighed and waived the fee.

“But the promotional poncho was company property.”

Max looked down at the two strips of plastic hanging from his shoulders.

“How promotional was it?”

“Twelve euros.”

Anika paid before he could negotiate himself into a mortgage.

Outside, a local photographer asked how he had identified the Baron’s escape route.

Max considered the question.

“I entered the wrong address.”

The photographer nodded appreciatively.

“Misdirection.”

“Mostly direction problems.”

Bram handed him the heavy bicycle lock.

“You forgot this.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Max said, looking back toward the police station. “But I’ll take it.”

Across the street, the goose stepped past a NO ENTRY sign and boarded a sightseeing boat.

Bram reached for his notebook.

Max gently lowered his hand.

“Let it go. That one has international connections.”

The Misfire — Every plan backfires… into success.

Missed Max’s previous disaster? Read Chapter 4, The Loch Ness Mess, then explore more International Man of Mischief adventures on The Misfire Comics.

The post Tulip Bubble Trouble: A Funny Amsterdam Superhero Adventure appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Every funny Loch Ness monster adventure needs three things: cold mist, questionable evidence, and at least one tourist willing to mistake a floating log for a prehistoric reptile.

Max Mercer supplied a fourth thing.

An international incident.

He had come to Scotland for the Great Loch Ness Folklore Festival, a three-day celebration of legends, local food, traditional music, and gift-shop merchandise depicting Nessie in hats she had almost certainly never worn. Max wanted a quiet holiday. His last several trips abroad had involved explosions, secret organizations, and one customs officer who still believed Max had tried to smuggle a grappling hook inside a fruitcake.

This time would be different.

He had rented a kilt, bought a festival pass, and promised himself that he would not touch anything labeled EXPERIMENTAL, CLASSIFIED, or DO NOT INFLATE INDOORS.

By eleven that morning, he had broken two of those promises.

The third was waiting for him beside the loch.

The Cow Had Already Reached a Verdict

Max’s rented kilt came with six pages of instructions.

He had read the first page, which explained that the pleats went in the back. The other five pages appeared to concern prohibited activities, security deposits, and what the rental shop called “reckless ceremonial use.” Max folded them into a small square and used them to stabilize a wobbly table at a tea stall.

The kilt itself was green and blue tartan. It hung slightly crooked because Max had fastened one buckle through a belt loop on his utility vest. His mismatched gloves, scorched boots, ski goggles, and duct-taped shoulder pad completed a look that was less “Highland hero” and more “lost luggage assembled into a person.”

Festival visitors loved it.

They kept asking to take photographs with him.

“Are you one of the performers?” asked a little boy wearing a foam Nessie head.

“Only accidentally,” Max said.

Near the livestock enclosure, an enormous Highland cow watched him through a curtain of copper-colored hair. A wooden sign identified her as MORAG — FESTIVAL AMBASSADOR AND THREE-TIME BEST FRINGE WINNER.

Morag chewed slowly.

Max waved.

Morag stopped chewing.

It was the most judgmental silence Max had experienced since his last government performance review.

“I know,” he told her. “The boots don’t match the kilt.”

Morag continued staring.

“One of them is waterproof.”

The cow looked away as if the explanation had made everything worse.

Across the festival grounds, a cannon boomed. A dark object sailed over the crowd, trailing oats and onion.

It struck a hay bale with a wet, triumphant thud.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

“Six hundred and twelve feet!” shouted an announcer. “A new festival record for Angus Thundercheeks, Highland haggis-hurling champion!”

On a nearby field, a massive man in a tartan athletic sash raised both arms. His beard was braided into two handles, possibly for safety. Behind him stood a siege engine constructed from timber, steel springs, and what appeared to be part of a tractor.

Angus bowed to the crowd.

“Distance is temporary!” he roared. “Thundercheeks is forever!”

The cannon had not been a cannon. It had been Angus releasing the catapult.

Max applauded. Morag did not.

She had apparently seen better.

Professor McCracken Loses a Buoy

At the water’s edge, Professor Fiona McCracken was preparing a public sonar demonstration titled LISTENING FOR LEGENDS: SCIENCE BENEATH THE SURFACE.

She wore rubber boots, a red raincoat, and the expression of a woman who had spent twenty years explaining that sonar could not identify a monster’s species, intentions, or preferred souvenir mug. A row of monitors displayed the underwater contours of Loch Ness. Beside them sat cables, speakers, and several bright yellow buoys.

One buoy was missing.

“Nobody leaves the dock,” Fiona announced. “My research unit has disappeared.”

The tourists froze.

“Is it dangerous?” someone asked.

“Only to my department’s budget.”

Fiona pointed toward a small yellow dot drifting several hundred yards offshore. The buoy bobbed near a patch of mist where a dark, curved shape occasionally rose from the water.

The crowd gasped.

Camera shutters clicked.

A souvenir vendor immediately changed a sign from POSSIBLE NESSIE SIGHTING SHIRTS — £15 to CONFIRMED NESSIE SIGHTING SHIRTS — £25.

Fiona adjusted her glasses.

“That shape is mechanical,” she said. “It has a regular propulsion rhythm, a metallic echo, and absolutely no respect for restricted research equipment.”

Max had stopped to listen because the word “missing” triggered his sidekick instincts. He did not consider himself the hero in most situations. Heroes arrived with plans, matching gloves, and insurance. Max mostly held things while other people shouted.

“I can retrieve it,” he offered.

Fiona looked him up and down.

Her gaze paused at the taped shoulder pad.

“Are you certified for water rescue?”

“I watched half of a safety video.”

“Which half?”

“The credits.”

Fiona opened her mouth to refuse. Then the dark shape turned toward the buoy. A narrow metallic neck rose through the mist, dipped beneath the yellow float, and pulled it underwater.

Her monitor filled with static.

For half a second, another image appeared beneath the interference: a long, smooth hull resting over a cable trench on the bottom of the loch.

Fiona’s expression changed.

“That isn’t a festival prop,” she said.

She enlarged the sonar image. Mechanical arms extended from the hull and clamped around a thick underwater line.

“That is the North Caledonian Financial Link. It carries encrypted market traffic between data centers. Someone is physically tapping it.”

Max nodded as if this made perfect sense.

“So Nessie has gone into banking.”

“Nessie is a submarine.”

“That seems harder to put on a T-shirt.”

A Funny Loch Ness Monster Adventure Gets Complicated

Far below them, Captain Kelp watched Max on a periscope monitor.

Captain Kelp was not a real captain, and Kelp was not his real name. He had chosen both because “Mr. Barnaby Sproat, freelance infrastructure criminal” lacked menace. His uniform featured brass buttons, seaweed-green epaulets, and a peaked cap decorated with a silver squid.

He commanded the Silent Dividend, a compact stealth submarine built to intercept financial data before it reached the market. With a few seconds of advance knowledge, Kelp’s partners could buy, sell, and vanish with millions before anyone discovered the physical breach.

The submarine’s greatest defense was its camouflage generator. Flexible panels distorted its outline, while a telescoping periscope wore a mechanical Nessie head. If anyone glimpsed it, they saw exactly what they expected to see: a monster, a shadow, or an excellent reason to purchase a commemorative tea towel.

Kelp’s first officer enlarged the image of Max.

“Sir, facial recognition found a match.”

Onscreen, Max was attempting to tighten his kilt and had accidentally attached himself to a folding chair.

“Who is he?” Kelp asked.

“Max Mercer. Alias: The Misfire. International reports connect him to collapsed criminal networks, exposed covert operations, and an improbable number of damaged vending machines.”

The first officer opened another file. Its threat assessment contained only four words:

DO NOT PREDICT HIS BEHAVIOR.

Kelp leaned closer to the monitor.

Max stood, dragged the chair three feet, noticed the problem, and apologized to it.

“A calculated performance,” Kelp whispered. “He wants us to underestimate him.”

Onshore, Fiona unlocked a red equipment case.

Inside lay what looked like a set of bagpipes made from orange emergency fabric. Reflective strips covered the bag. The pipes were hollow plastic, and the mouthpiece carried a warning label.

Max read it aloud.

“Inflatable Emergency Bagpipe. For maritime deployment only. Pull drone, inflate bladder, and—”

“Pull cord,” Fiona corrected.

“The print is smudged.”

“It is not.”

The device had started as a student engineering joke. Fiona had improved it into a compact flotation system with a waterproof radio, emergency beacon, and directional hydrophone. Once deployed, it could carry two adults or one adult plus an irresponsible amount of equipment.

“Take the small rescue boat,” Fiona said. “Paddle to the buoy, clip this bagpipe to it, and tow it back. Do not inflate the bag unless the boat sinks.”

Max repeated the plan.

“Boat. Buoy. Bagpipe. No inflation.”

“Correct.”

“Simple.”

Morag mooed from behind them.

Max looked over his shoulder. The Highland cow had escaped her enclosure and now stood beside the equipment table.

She stared at the orange bagpipe.

Then she stared at Max.

Fiona followed her gaze.

“Does that cow know you?”

“She has concerns about my process.”

The Emergency Bagpipe Becomes a Boat

Max pushed the rescue boat into the water, placed the bagpipe in the bow, and climbed aboard.

The boat remained tied to the dock.

He paddled vigorously for nearly a minute before noticing that the scenery had not moved. Fiona untied the rope without comment. Morag watched from beside her, radiating vindication.

On his second attempt, Max made steady progress across the loch. The festival music faded behind him. Mist wrapped around the boat. Ahead, Fiona’s yellow buoy surfaced, disappeared, and surfaced again as something below dragged it through the water.

Max leaned over the bow with a retrieval hook.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Totally normal buoy situation.”

The mechanical Nessie head rose six feet from the water beside him.

Its black eyes contained cameras. Water streamed from metal teeth. A speaker hidden in its throat emitted a roar assembled from a lion, an elephant, and what sounded like a malfunctioning leaf blower.

Max startled backward.

His boot landed on the rescue boat’s inflation valve.

The boat had an inflation valve because it was not, as Max had assumed, made of rigid rubber. It was an emergency inflatable, and the valve had not been properly secured.

Air escaped with a long, disappointed hiss.

The boat folded inward.

Max grabbed the orange bagpipe.

“Boat sinking,” he said. “Now inflation.”

He pulled the emergency cord.

Nothing happened.

He pulled one of the plastic pipes.

The bagpipe exploded into a raft.

Orange fabric burst around Max, lifted him into the air, and swallowed the collapsing boat. The drones became oarlocks. The chanter extended into a paddle. Two emergency pipes shot upright behind him and began producing a continuous bagpipe note powered by the inflation canister.

The sound rolled across Loch Ness like a goose declaring war on the moon.

Festival visitors turned toward the water.

Angus Thundercheeks lowered the haggis he was autographing.

Morag closed her eyes.

On the submarine, Captain Kelp gripped his command chair.

“Acoustic attack!” he shouted.

“Sir,” said the first officer, “I believe those are bagpipes.”

“There is no difference at this range!”

Kelp ordered evasive action. The Silent Dividend accelerated. Its mechanical neck swept past the raft just as Max stood to untangle the paddle.

The silver pin on his rented kilt caught the periscope.

The tartan tightened.

Max looked down.

The periscope moved away.

So did the front half of his kilt.

Max grabbed the fabric with both hands.

“Excuse me!” he shouted. “That has a deposit!”

The submarine dragged the raft into the mist.

Captain Kelp Catches a Kilt

Captain Kelp watched the towline form on his exterior camera.

The Misfire’s kilt had wrapped around the mechanical monster’s neck, covering its cameras and binding the periscope at a crooked angle. Behind it, the inflated bagpipe raft skipped across the water with Max clinging to the tartan.

“He has boarded us without boarding us,” Kelp said.

“Should we stop?” asked the first officer.

“That is what he expects.”

“Should we continue?”

“That is also what he expects.”

“Perhaps he would like the kilt back.”

Kelp glared at him. “No elite operative risks his life for a rental deposit.”

Outside, Max risked his life for a rental deposit.

The raft bounced over the wake. Each impact made the emergency bagpipes change pitch. Max tried to free the fabric with a broken multipurpose gadget from his utility belt. Its scissors folded the wrong way and cut through the strap holding Fiona’s waterproof radio.

The radio dropped into the raft and activated.

“Max?” Fiona’s voice crackled from the speaker. “What is happening?”

“Good news. I found the mechanical Nessie.”

“And the buoy?”

“Emotionally, I feel we’re getting closer.”

Fiona tracked the raft on sonar. The submarine was turning toward the center of the loch, where it could dive beyond the range of the festival’s rescue boats. The stolen buoy remained fixed to its stern.

“You are attached to the submarine,” she said.

Max looked at the stretched tartan in his hands.

“That explains the resistance.”

“Let go.”

“I signed a rental agreement.”

“Max, they’re tapping a financial cable. These are cybercriminals.”

Max considered the mechanical monster, the hidden submarine, and the men who were stealing market data beneath a folklore festival.

“So they’re not performers?”

“No.”

“That makes the roar machine feel dishonest.”

Fiona told him to activate the emergency beacon. Max pressed the largest button on the radio. Instead of the beacon, he switched on the raft’s directional sonar transmitter.

His next words blasted through the water and struck the submarine’s hull.

“Hello? Criminal submarine? Could you slow down, please?”

Inside the Silent Dividend, Max’s voice erupted from every acoustic-monitoring speaker.

The first officer went pale.

“He’s inside the communications system.”

Kelp stared at the ceiling.

“Of course he is.”

Angus Thundercheeks Fires for Glory

Onshore, the festival crowd had decided the chase was part of the entertainment.

The announcer stood on the reviewing platform with a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the mysterious orange piper has engaged Nessie in single combat!”

The crowd cheered.

Fiona grabbed the microphone.

“It is not Nessie. It is a criminal submarine.”

The crowd cheered louder.

“This is not a reenactment!”

Someone shouted, “Very immersive!”

Fiona pointed to her sonar monitor, which now displayed the submarine’s full outline and the illegal cable tap. A uniformed police sergeant assigned to festival security finally understood that the professor was not contributing dramatic narration. He called for marine support and ordered the parade route cleared.

Unfortunately, the grand Nessie procession had already begun.

Decorated boats moved along the shore. A pipe band marched onto a temporary floating causeway. Children carried green sea-serpent puppets. The festival queen rode on a wheeled papier-mâché monster with eyelashes, a crown, and better posture than Max.

Angus Thundercheeks climbed onto his haggis catapult.

“The beast has challenged our festival!” he declared.

“Do not fire food at the submarine!” Fiona shouted.

Angus placed his championship haggis in the launch cradle.

“This is not food,” he said solemnly. “This is sporting equipment.”

He turned the catapult toward the loch.

Fiona stepped in front of it.

“You cannot hit a moving periscope from this distance.”

Angus smiled.

“You have never seen the Thundercheeks Invitational.”

Before Fiona could stop him, Morag wandered behind the catapult. The Highland cow had followed Max’s scent, or perhaps the smell of oats. She leaned against the aiming lever to scratch her shoulder.

The catapult rotated seven degrees.

Angus released the trigger.

The machine boomed.

The haggis rose over the festival in a majestic arc.

Every camera followed it.

Out on the loch, Max finally loosened one fold of his kilt. The freed fabric snapped across the mechanical Nessie head and turned it sideways. The submarine veered.

The haggis descended.

It missed the periscope.

It struck a small fin behind it—a fin that housed the camouflage generator’s external cooling array.

The haggis burst.

Oats, spices, and criminal engineering entered into a brief but decisive disagreement.

Blue sparks raced down the hull. The optical panels flickered. For several seconds, the Silent Dividend alternated between invisible submarine, giant monster, floating gift shop, and what appeared to be a sixty-foot image of Captain Kelp adjusting his socks.

Then the camouflage failed completely.

The sleek black submarine became visible beneath Max’s raft.

The crowd fell silent.

Angus raised one fist.

“Personal best,” he said.

Morag looked at him with mild approval.

It was more than she had ever given Max.

Max Says the Most Expensive Apology in Scotland

The failed camouflage triggered alarms throughout the Silent Dividend.

Captain Kelp ordered an emergency dive. Ballast tanks filled. The submarine began to sink, pulling the periscope, the kilt, the raft, and Max toward the dark water.

“I believe they’re diving,” Max said into the radio.

“Cut the kilt!” Fiona shouted.

Max unfolded his broken gadget. The scissors opened, spun loose, and flew into the loch.

“Working on a second option.”

Fiona studied the submarine’s sonar signature. Something about its command pulses looked familiar. Then she recognized the timing pattern.

“They stole my autonomous-research control software,” she said. “The emergency acoustic protocol is mine.”

Years earlier, Fiona had designed underwater drones for universities. After an intern accidentally sent one beneath a ferry, she had added a spoken safety command that forced every compatible vessel to empty its ballast and surface. The phrase was deliberately polite so ordinary conversation would not trigger it.

“What is the command?” Max asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Kelp will have removed it.”

“But what is it?”

Fiona told him.

Max pressed the radio button.

“Captain?” he called through the sonar transmitter. “I’m terribly sorry about damaging your monster, and I’m even sorrier about whatever the haggis did. If it isn’t too much trouble, could you please surface immediately?”

The submarine’s computer chimed.

LEGACY SAFETY PHRASE ACCEPTED.

Captain Kelp looked at his first officer.

“What legacy safety phrase?”

Every ballast valve opened.

Compressed air thundered through the tanks. The submarine stopped descending, shuddered, and shot upward.

Kelp lunged for the controls. They locked him out.

EMERGENCY SURFACE IN PROGRESS. THANK YOU FOR ASKING POLITELY.

“Override it!” he shouted.

“We can’t. The command has professor-level authorization.”

Kelp stared at Max’s profile on the monitor.

“He knew we stole the software.”

“Did he?”

“He apologized in the exact sequence needed to seize control of the vessel. Of course he knew!”

Above them, Max heard the raft’s bagpipes change from a battle cry to something closer to a kettle experiencing doubt.

The water beneath him bulged.

“Fiona,” he said, “I think the apology worked.”

The submarine erupted from Loch Ness.

The Monster Joins the Parade

The Silent Dividend breached directly beneath the festival’s floating parade route.

Hinged sections of the causeway lifted harmlessly aside as the submarine surfaced between the pipe band and the crowned papier-mâché Nessie. A wall of water soaked the marchers, spun three decorated boats in circles, and deposited a green sea-serpent puppet across the submarine’s bow.

Max’s bagpipe raft slid down the hull and stopped against the hatch.

His kilt remained attached to the periscope, where the torn tartan fluttered like a heroic banner with unresolved billing information.

For one perfect moment, nobody moved.

Then the emergency system blew the submarine’s hatch.

Captain Kelp climbed out, coughing and covered in haggis fragments. His seaweed-green epaulets had wilted. Behind him came three crew members with their hands raised.

They found themselves surrounded by police officers, festival security, two television crews, forty-seven camera phones, a pipe band, Angus Thundercheeks, and one Highland cow whose stare suggested that crime represented a serious decline in personal standards.

The police sergeant stepped forward.

“Captain Kelp?”

Kelp straightened his cap.

“You will address me by my maritime rank.”

“You don’t have a maritime rank.”

“Then I invoke the ancient laws of salvage.”

“You’re standing in the middle of a parade.”

“A maritime parade.”

The sergeant handcuffed him.

Fiona climbed onto the hull and recovered her buoy. Its memory contained a complete sonar record of the cable tap, the submarine’s identification signal, and Captain Kelp repeatedly ordering his crew to “steal faster.”

“This is enough to prove the entire operation,” she said.

Kelp turned toward Max.

“You calculated every variable,” he said bitterly. “The acoustic assault. The fabric entanglement. The ballistic haggis. Even the bovine targeting adjustment.”

Max looked at Morag.

Morag looked at Max.

“We had a difficult working relationship,” he admitted.

“Who are you?” Kelp demanded.

Max climbed off the raft and tried to straighten what remained of his kilt.

“Max Mercer. Some people call me The Misfire. I’m mostly here on holiday.”

Kelp’s face hardened.

“No one is that incompetent.”

Max smiled apologetically.

“That’s very kind of you.”

The Clearest Nessie Photograph in History

The news photograph appeared online before Captain Kelp reached the police van.

A festival photographer had been tracking Angus’s airborne haggis with a long lens. She pressed the shutter at the exact instant the submarine breached. In the image, the flexible monster head rose above the mist, Max’s tartan streamed from its neck, green parade puppets curled around its black hull, and water glittered in the afternoon light.

The angle concealed nearly every mechanical detail.

It looked alive.

Within an hour, the picture had been labeled THE CLEAREST NESSIE PHOTOGRAPH IN HISTORY.

Fiona spent the afternoon telling reporters that it showed a submarine.

The reporters agreed, thanked her, and asked whether the submarine might have frightened the real monster into appearing.

Angus received a special medal for “precision haggis deployment in defense of national infrastructure.” He insisted that Morag share the honor. Morag tried to eat the ribbon.

Captain Kelp and his crew faced charges for cybercrime, cable interference, reckless navigation, theft of research equipment, and operating a mechanical monster without a festival permit. Authorities recovered the data tap before a single stolen transaction could reach Kelp’s partners.

Professor Fiona McCracken received funding for a new underwater-security program. She named its emergency protocol MERCER, which officially stood for Maritime Emergency Recovery Command and Expedited Resurfacing.

Unofficially, it meant asking nicely and hoping for the best.

At sunset, Fiona found Max beside the livestock enclosure. He was trying to complete an online damage report for the rental shop.

The form asked him to select the cause of loss:

• Normal wear
• Weather
• Animal interference
• Ceremonial combat
• Other

Max selected all five.

“You stopped an international financial crime,” Fiona said.

“The haggis did most of the technical work.”

“You exposed a stealth submarine.”

“That was Angus.”

“You forced it to surface.”

“I apologized.”

“And you recovered my buoy.”

Max looked toward the dock. The yellow buoy was safely tied beside Fiona’s equipment.

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

Morag mooed.

Max nodded. “Fair. Group effort.”

By evening, every news report described The Misfire as an international operative who had infiltrated a Scottish festival, lured a cybercriminal submarine into shallow water, disabled its camouflage with a precision food strike, and captured its crew using a secret acoustic command.

The story became the most popular funny Loch Ness monster adventure the festival had ever produced.

Max knew the truth.

He had sunk the rescue boat, inflated the wrong bagpipe, caught his rented kilt on a periscope, transmitted an apology over an unsecured sonar system, and landed a submarine in the middle of a parade.

In other words, it had been a fairly restful holiday for The Misfire.

The post Chapter 4: The Loch Ness Mess appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Singapore: a city of sleek skyscrapers, pristine streets, and world-famous chili crabs. Max Mercer—known to a growing number of confused international agencies as The Misfire—was just trying to enjoy a vacation. Well, a vacation funded by his rapidly-dwindling travel rewards points and a mysterious first-class ticket he definitely didn’t purchase.

“I thought I booked a layover in Des Moines,” he mumbled to no one in particular as the Changi Airport welcomed him with robotic greeters and free Wi-Fi.

Max’s plan (if you could call it that) was simple: find food, avoid international incidents, and possibly locate a decent laundromat that wouldn’t explode. But the universe had other ideas.

Part 1: The Chili Crab Caper

It started with lunch.

Max sat down at a bustling hawker stall and ordered Singapore’s signature dish: chili crab. What arrived was a glorious mess of sauce, shell, and spice. What he didn’t know was that his table had been reserved—by the Pan-Asian Espionage Summit… and he had just taken the reserved seat of Agent Frostbite, North Korea’s most elusive undercover culinary operative.

Before he could finish licking crab sauce off his thumb, a waiter dropped a small metal case on his table with a nod. Max, thinking it was a wet napkin dispenser, opened it. Inside: encrypted launch codes, a USB stick labeled “Do Not Plug Into Anything”, and a stick of gum.

Naturally, Max plugged it into his phone.

The lights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, drones launched.

Part 2: Spies Like Us (But Mostly Hate Us)

Max was chased through a shopping mall by at least four people in black suits, two women with clipboards, and one oddly aggressive barista. His escape route included:

• Tripping into a cosmetic demonstration booth.
• Being mistaken for a rogue influencer.
• Accidentally live-streaming classified intel to 3.7 million followers.

As fate would have it, the nearest hiding spot was a press event for the hottest new K-pop band: 7EVEN SYNC. Mistaken for their new “international wildcard member,” Max was handed an in-ear mic, glitter jacket, and pushed onstage.

Part 3: The Dance of Diplomatic Immunity

Max had no idea what he was doing. But in a twist of fate (or muscle memory from a long-forgotten college Zumba class), he managed to keep up with the choreography. Mostly. At one point, his shoe flew off and hit an overhead drone, causing it to spiral into a government security hub—just as Agent Frostbite tried to escape with the stolen launch codes.

Boom. Mission failure for the spies. Mission accomplished for Max.

Epilogue: Crabs, Chaos, and K-pop Fame

By the end of the night:

• The Espionage Summit was canceled “due to unforeseen pyrotechnics.”
• Max had a standing invite to tour with 7EVEN SYNC in Seoul.
• And the chili crab stall was awarded a Michelin star, thanks to the viral footage of Max’s improvised “Crab Shuffle.”

As he stood outside the Marina Bay Sands, still wearing eyeliner and glitter boots, Max muttered:

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

Need to reach us? Slip us a note under the chili crab plate or send a message the old-fashioned way—just don’t plug anything labeled “Do Not Plug Into Anything” into your phone.

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The post Chapter 3: Trouble in Singapore — Chili Crabs, a Spy Convention, and That One Time Max Joined a K-pop Band appeared first on The Misfire Comics.

Max Mercer, a.k.a. The Misfire, had no real reason to be in Tokyo—unless you count a wrong ticket purchase, an allergic reaction to wasabi-flavored peanuts, and a train conductor named Kazuo who insisted he was someone named “Professor Mayhem.”

Still jetlagged and carrying nothing but a half-melted protein bar, a novelty fan shaped like a sumo wrestler, and a rental translator earpiece that occasionally whispered romantic poetry in Spanish, Max stepped off the Shinkansen and into the chaos of Tokyo Station.

Chaos, Naturally

As he adjusted his goggles (held together by chewing gum and optimism), a sudden tremor rattled the ground. Everyone paused. The locals, seasoned and calm, braced quietly. Max?

Max accidentally flung a yakisoba bun into the air, which arced gracefully and hit a maintenance bot on patrol. It sparked, wheeled in a circle, then activated “emergency alert mode,” loudly declaring:

“¡Peligro sísmico! ¡La apocalipsis ha comenzado!”

Max frowned.
“…That can’t be right.”

And that’s when Pancake arrived.

Enter: Pancake

Pancake was a security prototype—an autonomous robotic dog designed to sniff out explosives, contraband, and bad attitudes. Due to a programming glitch and an unfortunate naming contest at the tech lab, Pancake had developed a vendetta against anyone carrying unauthorized snacks.

Max, of course, had three.

As sirens wailed and tremors continued, Pancake locked onto him, tail whirring like a buzzsaw.

“ILLEGAL SNACK IDENTIFIED. PREPARE TO BE DISARMED.”

Max bolted.

Vending Machine Vengeance

Tokyo’s famed vending machines loomed like chrome soldiers on every street. Max ducked between them, inadvertently bumping a button. The machine whirred—and instead of a drink, launched a canned coffee at Mach 2 directly into Pancake’s faceplate.

CLANK!

The robot dog reeled, rebooting. Max seized the opportunity to escape… straight into an alley where a quake-triggered gas leak ignited behind him. Debris rained down—except for the one vending machine still operational.

Max pressed every button in panic.

Suddenly, the machines spat out a barrage of snacks, energy drinks, and… a collapsible umbrella.

Max blinked. “What the—?”

The Collapse

As the quake intensified, an old overpass cracked above a daycare center.

People screamed.

Max, flailing for footing, slipped on a spilled pudding cup—launched backward into a pile of recyclables—only to accidentally yank a support cable that whipped up and triggered a safety mechanism on a nearby crane.

The crane’s cargo net of steel beams swung—precisely—to reinforce the crumbling overpass just before it gave way.

The children beneath cheered.

The parents cried.

The emergency responders stared in disbelief.

Max, stuck in a tangle of soda bottles and chewing gum wrappers, gave a weak thumbs up.

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

Post-Credit Chaos

Later, as Tokyo news stations dubbed him “The Clumsiest Savior,” Pancake was found chewing on a copy of Snack Law Digest, now demoted to “Emotional Support Security Dog.”

And Max?

He boarded the wrong monorail… headed straight for Singapore.

Have a tip, a theory, or a malfunctioning robot dog to report? Drop us a line before Pancake finds us first

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Maxx Mercer had never been on a plane longer than the TSA had allowed. Yet here he was, flying across the Pacific with an aisle seat, a carry-on full of melted granola bars, and a strong sense of optimism that bordered on willful ignorance. After all, how much trouble could he possibly get into on vacation?

He was headed to Hawaii to visit his cousin Lani, a volcanologist with a fancy Ph.D., a pet gecko named Carl, and enough skepticism to fill Mauna Loa. Maxx hadn’t seen her since the family luau where he accidentally set fire to a tiki torch stand (which, in his defense, did lead to the discovery of illegal fireworks being stored under the buffet table).

This time, he promised himself, would be different. No gadgets. No hero stuff. No accidental explosions.

Just flip-flops, shaved ice, and not a single—
BOOM.

The plane shook.

Maxx clutched his tray table. “Okay, that wasn’t me!”

A voice came over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just experienced a mild turbulence caused by volcanic activity below. We’ll be landing soon. Mahalo for choosing Air Hula.”

Later… at Lani’s research outpost on the Big Island

Maxx was greeted by a very sweaty Lani, wearing a hazmat suit and the expression of someone who knew exactly what kind of chaos her cousin attracted.

“Maxx,” she said flatly. “Why are you here?”

“I come bearing gifts!” Maxx grinned, pulling out a half-melted chocolate bar and something that looked suspiciously like a walkie-talkie made from a repurposed karaoke mic.

Lani ignored the offerings. “Kilauea’s acting up. The caldera’s swelling. We think a major eruption’s imminent.”

Maxx blinked. “You think it waited until I got here?”

Carl the gecko blinked twice. Lani didn’t.

That Night

Maxx was not supposed to touch anything. And yet…

Left unsupervised near Lani’s equipment, Maxx attempted to heat up leftover spam musubi using a “harmless” prototype geothermic sensor pod.

The pod slipped. Bounced. Hit the ground.

And triggered a self-deploying seismic stabilizer drone.

It shot into the caldera with a cheerful beep-beep and promptly wedged itself into a lava vent like a cork in a shaken soda bottle.

The volcano hiccuped.

Then… quiet.

“Uh-oh,” Maxx muttered. “That wasn’t supposed to happen… but I’ll take it?”

The Next Morning

Scientists were baffled. The pressure had stabilized. Eruption: averted. No one knew how. Except Lani, who stormed into Maxx’s room with a clipboard in one hand and Carl on her shoulder.

“You plugged the vent with my million-dollar drone,” she said.

Maxx smiled sheepishly. “To be fair, I thought it was a portable grill.”

“You saved the island, Maxx.”

“I what?”

“You saved the island… completely by accident.”

Maxx threw his arms up. “Totally part of the plan. Yep. That plan.”

Carl nodded in what might have been reluctant approval.

Back at the airport, boarding his flight out

A news broadcast blared in the terminal:

“Local authorities are still unsure how the catastrophic eruption was halted. Sources report a mysterious ‘tourist in cargo shorts’ may be responsible. We may never know who he is…”

Maxx boarded the plane with a fresh lei, a sunburn shaped like a ukulele, and a bag full of broken electronics.

As the engines roared to life, he smiled and muttered under his breath—

“Wait… did I just save the day again?”

Got questions, comments, or just want to share your own heroic misfires? Drop us a line—we’d love to hear from you!

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