The next morning, the chaos outside the Washoe County Detention Facility made it abundantly clear that Juan and Brenda’s influence had reached a new level of absurdity. Plushie collectors from all over the country had converged on the prison, transforming the otherwise quiet facility into the epicenter of a bizarre riot.
From my vantage point in the holding cell, I could see the scene through a narrow, grimy window. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people waved plushies above their heads like revolutionary flags. There were teddy bears, unicorns, dragons, and even a few QAnon Shaman plushies. Someone had set up a makeshift stage in the parking lot, where a man dressed as a giant plush lion was leading the crowd in chants of “FREE JUAN! FREE BRENDA! PLUSHIE RIGHTS MATTER!”
“This is insane,” I muttered, watching as a line of riot police tried unsuccessfully to contain the mob. “How do these people even know about this?”
“Social media,” Brenda said smugly, lounging on the bench like she was royalty. “I’ve been networking in the plushie community for years. They’re loyal to the cause.”
“What cause?” I asked, incredulous. “You tried to smuggle lasagna under the table and Juan threw a smoke bomb at a federal building.”
“Details,” Brenda said, waving her hand dismissively. “What matters is that the Plushie Army has our backs. Isn’t that right, Juan?”
Juan, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a plush octopus in his lap, looked up and nodded solemnly. “The plushies have always been more than toys,” he said. “They’re symbols of freedom, comfort, and unity. And now, they’re the future.”
Before I could respond to this nonsense, a guard walked in, looking both baffled and irritated.
“You’ve got visitors,” he said.
“Who?” Brenda asked, perking up.
“Everyone, apparently,” the guard replied. “But right now, there’s a guy outside demanding to see you. Says he’s your spiritual advisor.”
We exchanged confused glances as the guard unlocked the cell door. Moments later, we were led into a visitation room, where none other than Agent Hargrave was waiting.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an infuriating smirk. “I see you’ve managed to rile up half the country’s most niche collectors. Congratulations.”
“You’re behind this, aren’t you?” Brenda accused, pointing a finger at him. “You’re trying to take down the Plushie Party.”
“I don’t need to take down the Plushie Party,” Hargrave said, his tone dripping with amusement. “You’re doing a fine job of that yourselves. But I have to admit, I didn’t expect your cult-like following to reach this level.”
“It’s not a cult,” Juan said indignantly. “It’s a movement.”
Hargrave snorted. “Call it whatever you want, but right now, your ‘movement’ is creating a national security headache. We’ve got plushie collectors blockading highways, throwing plushies at government buildings, and starting hashtag wars online. The President is asking questions, and let me tell you, I’m not in the mood to explain why grown adults are rioting over stuffed animals.”
“Maybe you should let us go, then,” Brenda said smugly. “The people want their leaders back.”
Hargrave leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “Let me be clear,” he said. “You’re not leaders. You’re a couple of grifters who’ve stumbled into a following by accident. And if you think this ends with a plushie parade through the streets of Washington, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Brenda opened her mouth to retort, but before she could speak, a loud crash echoed from outside. We all turned to look out the window as a giant plushie hot air balloon—yes, a hot air balloon shaped like a teddy bear—descended into the parking lot.
“Is that…?” I began, unable to finish the sentence.
“The Plushie Queen,” Juan whispered reverently.
Sure enough, the balloon bore the name of their old yacht, emblazoned in glittering letters.
“This is it,” Brenda said, her eyes alight with determination. “The Plushie Army is here to rescue us.”
Hargrave groaned, rubbing his temples. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.
The balloon landed with surprising precision, and a group of masked plushie enthusiasts poured out, wielding oversized stuffed animals like weapons. The guards outside scrambled to respond, but it was clear they were outmatched by the sheer absurdity of the situation.
“What do we do now?” I asked, torn between panic and disbelief.
Brenda grinned. “We join the fight, of course. It’s time to show the world what the Plushie Party is made of.”
As chaos erupted outside, I realized there was no escaping this madness. One way or another, I was stuck in the middle of the weirdest revolution in history.
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