Time for Telly Bubbies

The perimeter alarm at The Salty Site didn't so much chime as screech like a seagull choking on a french fry. It was 3:00 AM, and three amateur thieves had picked the absolute worst night to cut through the chain-link fence.

They thought they were breaking into an abandoned industrial dockyard. What they actually broke into was the domain of Sergeant Salty, a grizzled veteran whose soul was 90% sodium chloride and whose tolerance for nonsense sat at absolute zero. And behind him, stepping out of the thick ocean fog, came the legendary night-shift crew.

First was Ye olde Large Lad, a human brick wall who stood seven feet tall in steel-toed boots, moved with the terrifying patience of a glacial landmass, and looked like he had been built on-site out of surplus iron and oak in 1845.

Next was Whizzley, a twitchy, hyper-caffeinated mechanic darting back and forth on an electric industrial scooter, muttering rapid-fire calculations under his breath while wielding a high-powered tape gun like a quick-draw cowboy.

And bringing up the rear was McFinleyyy a fiery dockworker whose name was always shouted with three distinct 'Y's, famous for his thunderous Scottish brogue and his absolute refusal to wear a shirt under his hi-vis vest, regardless of the weather.

The thieves made it thirty feet past the gate before tripping over a stack of rusted pallets, triggering an overhead halogen floodlight, and finding themselves completely cut off. Ye olde Large Lad simply crossed his arms, blocking the main exit like an unmovable city wall. Whizzley zipped three tight circles around the intruders on his scooter to disorient them, while McFinleyyy cracked his knuckles, a terrifying grin splitting his beard.

Sergeant Salty stepped into the glare, a half-eaten salted pretzel dangling from his mouth, folding his arms in cold disappointment.

"You boys could've robbed a bank, a jewelry store, or even a bakery truck," Salty rasped, his voice sounding like two cinderblocks grinding together. "Instead, you step onto my salt, wake up my crew, and ruin my break."

The thieves threw their hands up, babbling apologies and begging Salty to just call the police.

"Oh, we're calling the cops," Salty smirked. "But the Salty Site has a standard booking protocol for unauthorized trespassers. Misfits, fetch the leftover storage crate from the 2018 Seaside Parade."

While Whizzley buzzed around the thieves wrapping their legs in fifty yards of industrial shrink-wrap at breakneck speed, Ye olde Large Lad effortlessly lifted the men one by one like sack of potatoes. McFinleyyy bellowed victory chants into the foggy night sky as he pulled the costumes out of the crate and shoved the thieves into them.

Twenty minutes later, the local police cruiser pulled into the salt-dusted gravel lot.

Two patrol officers stepped out, flashlight beams slicing through the coastal fog, only to freeze dead in their tracks. Sitting in a neat, thoroughly defeated row on top of three massive bags of road salt were the suspects, bound securely to the pallets.

The first intruder was squeezed into a neon-pink inflatable giant lobster suit that hissed softly whenever he took a breath. The second wore a velvet clam costume with eyeholes cut slightly off-center. The third intruder sat at the end wearing a puffy, neon-yellow seahorse hood complete with a floppy felt snout that bounced every time he hung his head in shame.

Sergeant Salty stood over them holding a megaphone, casually taking a sip from a stained mug while Ye olde Large Lad stood behind him like a quiet statue, Whizzley spun doughnuts on his scooter, and McFinleyyy proudly dusted off his hands.

"Officers," Salty announced through the speaker, his voice echoing across the silent yard. "We caught three invasive species attempting to disturb the local ecosystem. Requesting immediate extraction before the lobster starts sobbing again."