"The task falls to me!" you shout at the clerk, who's still standing behind the counter and yapping curses in Hindi. He's not summoning the authorities, but checking damage to the cigarette cartons! He couldn't be any less interested in your playing hero.
You charge out the door, listening closely. There's a crinkling, crunching sound somewhere in the distance. As you jog toward it, you see someone's billfold in the middle of the street. Picking it up, you notice the knot of cash inside, as well as a photo ID. Kelvin Nevels. It's the guy you're after. You could take the money and run, but the exchange back there intrigued you. Is this merely a punk, wallet fat with stolen money, or is there some stranger explanation for his behavior?
You proceed on instinct.
"Mr. Nevels?" you say, cautiously approaching. The shameless thug has seated himself at a bus stop to munch his Lay's Classic 'Family Size' bag of chips. At six dollars for fourteen ounces, there's some question of who was robbed. "You've dropped your wallet, sir. I am returning it. Hold your fire!"
"Just being impulsive," says Nevels, the gun nowhere in sight. "I always wanted to try that. Want some of these chips? 14 servings per container, they say."
"Mr. Nevels," you say, passing him his wallet, "you seem to have rather a weak grasp on reality. Have you indulged this evening? Are you intoxicated?"
"Treece," Nevels says to you, which you interpret as some preferred nickname. "I look drunk, but I don't drink. I'm a potato chip bandit, mister, and that's the truth. I don't mind paying for 'em, but it's just not the same without a little gunplay, you know?"
"I'm nearly swayed by the utter absurdity of your rationale, it's true."
"All right, have it then," says Treece, looking canny. "I'm a research flavorist, and I've developed a replacement for MSG so effective that it causes instant addiction. Never mind the complete name! It's to be marketed as KTN. Shenanigans back at the lab over patent rights led to an associate seeding bags of familiar chip brands modified with KTN among area shops, and I was sure I'd cracked his convoluted distribution scheme, this time. He always uses that store, but he adjusts the backstock and shelf order according to some algorithm based on sales volume. We're sure he has help, but we have no idea who his accessories are. More than a few people are on pins and needles, waiting for the balloon to go up when some civilian gets the first modified bag. This was just a regular bag of chips, sadly. Yes, I brought the antidote along, in case."
"And for your rather unscientific investigation, you go in blazing?"
"The clerk's harpaxophilic. He knows what I'm after, and he's promised not to bring in the authorities or notify that sneaky associate I mentioned... so long as I make every stop at the store a robbery when he's on shift. I'd promised to shoot tonight, to raise the thrill. I didn't notice you in there until the last moment, which cut short my usually thorough assay of the snack aisle."
"Treece, I have a proposal for you," you tell him, describing your own goals as concisely as possible.
"That would be torture, all right," Treece agrees. "They'd be desperate to stuff their faces at the same time they're tied up and getting tickled. Imagine trying to laugh with a gut full of potato chips!"
"It's imperative they not be physically harmed," you say, making that point again.
"No, we can manage without any violence," says Treece, sure of himself. "That one kid, Ashley? I know her dad. He's on the city council. That guy's been a real thorn in our side straight along... flagrant corporate disregard for municipal bylaws, tighter oversight of R&D, all of that. And his kid raised a stink a few months ago, running for student council, trying to organize some 'socially conscious' protest against the company. I guess all the apple-polishing backfired, since she didn't get elected. Why not start with her?"
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