The grocery store’s fluorescent lights hummed like a dying kazoo as Kevin, the cashier, slumped over his register. A single customer remained: a squirrel in a stolen bowtie, gnawing on a crumpled receipt. “This isn’t a robbery, it’s a… strategic salad acquisition,” the squirrel declared, tail flicking toward the refrigerated case. Kevin blinked. The squirrel wore a napkin as a cape, its edges stained with what might have been ranch dressing. “You got a problem with that?” the squirrel asked, holding up a head of lettuce like a scepter. The store’s alarm blared. Kevin lunged, hand closing around air. The squirrel vaulted over a display of expired soup cans, chattering indignantly. “You think this is about lettuce?” it screeched. “This is about dignity!” The doors slammed. Kevin stared at the empty register. A single cash drawer lay open, its contents reduced to a lone penny and a soggy kale chip. Outside, the squirrel sat atop a dumpster, devouring a Caesar salad as if it were a coronation. The bell jingled. No one was there. Just a note taped to the door: “Next time, try mayonnaise.”
