Brenda, always full of bold (if baffling) ideas, decided Denver wasn’t sophisticated enough for her entrepreneurial genius. After bailing Juan out (again), she announced her next scheme over a greasy diner breakfast.
“I’ve chartered us a plane,” she said smugly, swirling her coffee dramatically. “We’re going to London!”
“London?” I asked, mid-bite of a limp pancake.
“Yes, London,” she repeated, as if I were daft. “The land of tea, crumpets, and Big Ben! We’re taking plushie entrepreneurship global!”
Juan, still nursing his bruised ego from Denver, looked up from his bacon. “I thought Big Ben was in Paris.”
I buried my face in my hands as Brenda waved him off. “Not important. What is important is that I’ve got a whole new product line ready: Big Ben plushies and lasagna inspired by Mussolini’s mama.”
I paused, fork frozen mid-air. “Brenda, did you just say Mussolini? As in the fascist dictator?”
“It’s a branding choice,” she said defensively. “Nobody remembers history anymore. Mussolini’s mama sounds exotic. Authentic. It’ll sell.”
It didn’t matter how much I tried to argue. The plane was booked, the bags were packed, and before I knew it, we were touching down in London.
The duo—well, trio if you count Babe Woof—set up their makeshift stand just outside the iconic Tower Bridge. Brenda had gone all out, hanging a gaudy sign that read:
"PLUSHIES & PASTA: A TASTE OF HISTORY!"
On one side were the Big Ben plushies—complete with tiny clock faces that didn’t even tell time. On the other side was Brenda’s culinary masterpiece: trays of lasagna that she proudly claimed were “inspired by Mussolini’s mama’s secret recipe.”
As tourists walked by, Brenda launched into her pitch.
“Step right up! Get yourself a Big Ben plushie! Or treat your taste buds to lasagna like Mussolini’s mama used to make! It’s a real banger of a pinched log!”
The Brits were not amused.
“That’s bloody offensive,” muttered one passerby as they hurried away.
“Did she just say Mussolini?” another whispered, aghast.
The reaction to the lasagna was even worse. Brenda, oblivious to the cultural faux pas of mixing Italian dictatorship with British cuisine, tried handing out free samples. One man took a bite and spat it out immediately.
“Tastes like war crimes,” he muttered before storming off.
Meanwhile, Juan was doing his best to move the Big Ben plushies. He chased after a group of tourists with an armful of them. “Buy one for the kids! Only £10! Babe Woof approves!”
But Juan’s salesmanship wasn’t winning hearts either. When one tourist refused, he shouted after them, “You’re missing out on the greatest plushie ever made!”
The final straw came when Brenda tried to sell lasagna to a group of actual Italians visiting London.
“This is an insult to our culture,” one of them said, gesturing angrily.
“Take it up with Mussolini’s mama!” Brenda retorted.
Things escalated quickly. One of the Italians threw a piece of lasagna at Brenda’s head. Brenda ducked, and the lasagna landed squarely on a Big Ben plushie. This triggered an all-out food fight. Lasagna flew through the air like culinary missiles, plushies were ripped from the stand and tossed into the Thames, and angry tourists shouted insults in multiple languages.
Juan, ever loyal to his plushie collection, tried to dive into the fray to save what he could. “Not the Big Bens!” he cried, clutching an armful of the squashed souvenirs.
Somehow, in the middle of the chaos, a police officer arrived. A very familiar face stepped out of the squad car.
“Agent Hargrave?!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” Hargrave sighed, clearly exhausted. “I thought I told you to stay in America.”
“You can’t prove anything!” Brenda yelled, dodging a flying lasagna.
Hargrave pulled out his phone and showed a video of the trio at the stand, complete with Brenda shouting about Mussolini’s mama. “The embassy sent me this,” he said flatly.
By the time the riot settled, the stand was destroyed, Brenda was arguing with local law enforcement, and Juan was sobbing quietly over the remains of Babe Woof, who had been stained with marinara sauce.
As we were escorted into the back of a London police van, Brenda crossed her arms defiantly. “If anything, this proves that Europe isn’t ready for innovation.”
Hargrave just shook his head. “God help me. You three are a walking international incident.”
Brenda smirked. “Maybe, but it was a banger of a pinched log, wasn’t it?”
