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Useless Thread MMI: “Rare” Plushie Appreciation Thread

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The Plushie Conspiracy Deepens​

Hargrave tucked his phone away, his expression unreadable. Meanwhile, Juan was still trying to bargain for factory ownership using an assortment of crumpled rubles, expired Chuck E. Cheese tokens, and a plushie eagle he called Mr. Freedom.

“Juan, mate,” Brenda sighed, rubbing her temples. “You can’t just buy a Russian factory with a bloody Beanie Baby.”

Juan crossed his arms. “It’s a symbol of American strength! Surely that’s worth something!”

Putin smirked. “It is worth amusement.”

Trump clapped Juan on the shoulder. “You know what? I like your spirit. You remind me of a young me. Except fatter, and with worse hair.”

Juan beamed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!”

Hargrave stepped forward. “Alright, fun’s over.” His tone was serious, which was a rarity. “We need to talk. In private.”

A Secret Meeting​

Hargrave led me, Juan, and Brenda to a dimly lit back room in the factory. Plushie bears stared down from the shelves like silent witnesses.

“I just got a call from my superiors,” Hargrave said, lowering his voice. “There’s a bigger game at play here.”

Brenda leaned against the wall. “What kind of ‘bigger game’?”

Hargrave exhaled. “The U.S. government has been monitoring this factory for months. It’s not just some weird plushie operation. It’s a front.”

“For what?” I asked.

Hargrave looked around, making sure no one else was listening. Then he dropped the bombshell.

“Weapons.”

Silence.

Then Juan gasped dramatically. “Plushie bombs?!”

Hargrave blinked. “No. Real weapons. The kind that explode.”

Brenda whistled. “So, you’re tellin’ me some bloke’s been smuggling missiles in teddy bears?”

“Exactly.” Hargrave nodded. “And guess what? Because you three have been running around like lunatics, drawing waytoo much attention, now you’re in the middle of an international arms investigation.”

Juan pumped his fist. “So you’re saying we’re spies?”

“No,” Hargrave said, exasperated. “I’m saying you’re idiots who are about to get arrested if we don’t play this carefully.”

Brenda frowned. “So what’s the play?”

Hargrave hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he said, “We help them take the factory down.”

Juan’s face fell. “But… but my Plushie Republic of Snuggleslovakia!”

“Do you want to go to prison?” Hargrave shot back.

Juan thought for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. But I get to keep my tank.”

Hargrave pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. Just don’t drive it into a McDonald’s this time.”

Brenda clapped her hands together. “Right! So we’re taking down a plushie cartel. That’s a banger of a pinched log if I’ve ever heard one!”

I sighed. “Can we please stop saying that?”

Hargrave pulled out a dossier and spread some documents on the table. “We’re going to need a plan. A real one. No plushie armies, no weird catchphrases, no lasagna-related schemes. This has to be done right.”

Juan immediately raised his hand. “Question: How much does Putin know?”

Hargrave hesitated. “More than he lets on.”

Brenda whistled. “Welp. We’re proper stuffed, then.”

Hargrave nodded grimly. “Welcome to international espionage.”

To Be Continued...
 
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The Plushie Sting Operation​

Hargrave laid out a rough plan. It involved undercover work, subtle sabotage, and just enough plausible deniability to keep us from getting shipped to a Siberian gulag.

“So,” I said, rubbing my temples, “let me get this straight. We’re infiltrating the plushie factory, exposing its weapons smuggling operation, and somehow surviving?”

“Exactly,” Hargrave said.

Juan raised his hand. “Follow-up question: Can I still run my plushie business after this?”

Hargrave stared at him. “You are not opening a plushie empire in Russia.”

Juan sulked. “Fine.”

Brenda clapped her hands. “Alright, mates, what’s our plan?”

Hargrave tapped the factory blueprint on the table. “Tonight, we break in and find the storage room where they’re hiding the weapons. We get evidence, leak it to the authorities, and hope we don’t get executed.”

Brenda grinned. “A banger of a pinched log in the making.”

Juan nodded sagely. “This is just like Mission: Impossible.”

Hargrave exhaled. “It is nothing like Mission: Impossible.”

The Break-In​

That night, we donned black clothing and snuck through the factory’s side entrance. Well, most of us did—Juan wore a full-body plushie suit shaped like a bear because he thought it would help him “blend in.”

“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done,” I whispered.

“Correction,” Brenda muttered. “One of the dumbest.”

Hargrave ignored us and led the way to the restricted storage area. Using a stolen keycard (courtesy of Hargrave’s actual competence), we slipped inside.

The room was stacked floor to ceiling with plush toys—bears, dogs, weirdly off-brand versions of American cartoon characters. But when Hargrave cut open a teddy bear, instead of stuffing, a compartment full of rifle parts spilled out.

“Holy crap,” I muttered.

Brenda let out a low whistle. “Well, bugger me sideways. That’s a proper black market plushie racket.”

Juan picked up one of the compromised bears and frowned. “Mr. Cuddlekins is packing heat.”

Hargrave snapped photos. “This is the proof we need. Now we just need to get out of here before—”

The door swung open.

A group of burly Russian men stood there, and at the front of them was Vladimir Putin.

The Confrontation​

Putin looked at the rifle parts in Hargrave’s hands, then at Juan, still dressed in a plushie bear suit. A long silence filled the room.

Juan cleared his throat. “Uh… I can explain.”

Putin slowly raised an eyebrow.

Hargrave muttered, “Do not try to bribe him with a plushie.”

Juan, of course, immediately pulled a plushie eagle from his pocket. “Would you like a limited-edition Mr. Freedom plushie?”

Putin sighed deeply. “You Americans are exhausting.”

Brenda crossed her arms. “Oi, I’m Australian.”

Putin ignored her and motioned to his guards. “You will all come with me. Now.”

Juan gulped. “Are we going to a nice place?”

“No.”

Brenda sighed. “Ah, piss.”

To Be Continued…​

 
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Juan’s Skibidi Plush Disaster​

Putin’s guards surrounded us, their expressions a perfect mix of boredom and mild irritation. Juan, still wearing his full-body plush bear suit, was sweating bullets.

“Alright, folks,” Juan said, cracking his knuckles. “I got this.”

Hargrave muttered, “No, you don’t.”

Before anyone could stop him, Juan launched into what he would later call the Skibidi Plush Dance.

The Skibidi Plush Dance (A Spectacle in Failure)​

Step one: He wiggled his arms like a malfunctioning animatronic.
Step two: He kicked his legs out in a bizarre fusion of tap dance and seizure.
Step three: He spun in a circle, smacked himself in the face with his own plushie-covered arms, and fell over.

Silence.

Putin stared at him. His guards stared at him. We stared at him.

Hargrave whispered, “I want to die.”

Juan, still lying on the floor, groaned. “Okay, that part was unintentional.”

Putin exhaled sharply through his nose. “What… was that?”

Juan popped back up, grinning. “The Skibidi Plush Dance! I made it up just now. It’s gonna be the next big thing.”

Putin rubbed his temples. “Is this an escape attempt?”

Juan thought for a moment. “Uh… no?”

“Good,” Putin said. Then he turned to his guards. “Take them to the holding room. We will decide what to do with them later.”

Juan gasped. “Wait! One more dance move?”

Hargrave slapped a hand over Juan’s mouth. “No.”

Brenda sighed. “Banger of a pinched log, this one.”

As the guards dragged us away, Juan mumbled, “It would’ve been so viral.”

To Be Continued…​

 
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Chapter 57: The Plushies Must Be Avenged​

We sat in a dimly lit holding room somewhere in the plushie factory, surrounded by stacks of unsold Snuggle Czar™bears. Juan had already made himself comfortable, leaning against a pile of plushies like some kind of deranged king.

Brenda paced back and forth, muttering about Putin ruining her business prospects. Hargrave sat quietly in the corner, calculating all the ways his career had just gone down the drain.

“I’m just saying,” Juan said, stretching, “if they’d let me finish my dance, I think we’d be free right now.”

Hargrave stared at him. “I think we’d be dead.”

Juan shrugged. “Details.”

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and two Russian guards entered. Between them stood Dmitri Plushenkov, the factory’s grizzled manager, with an eye patch and a permanent scowl.

“You idiots,” he muttered in thickly accented English. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Juan beamed. “Started a dance revolution?”

Dmitri ignored him. “You have angered Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump. That is… unwise.”

Brenda folded her arms. “Listen, buddy, we’re just here to sell plushies and eat lasagna. And we’re almost out of lasagna.”

Dmitri sighed. “I am going to do something very stupid.”

Hargrave perked up. “You’re letting us go?”

“No.” Dmitri pulled out a large keyring. “I am helping you escape.”

Juan fist-pumped. “I knew my charm would—”

“No, I am helping you escape because I do not want my factory to be bombed when Putin realizes how much money he wasted on Snuggle Czar™ plushies.”

Juan looked offended. “They’re high quality!”

Dmitri gestured to a bear missing both eyes. “Sure.”

The Escape Plan​

Dmitri led us through a series of back hallways lined with unfinished plushies, rejected prototypes (Plushie Rasputin was nightmare fuel), and stacks of paperwork labeled “Seized by the Russian Government.”

“This door leads to the warehouse,” Dmitri whispered. “Once you are there, you will find a truck.”

Juan gasped. “Can I drive?”

Hargrave and Brenda shouted, “No.”

Dmitri continued, ignoring Juan’s wounded expression. “There will be guards. You must be stealthy.”

Brenda raised an eyebrow. “And if we aren’t?”

Dmitri shrugged. “Then I never knew you.”

And with that, he unlocked the door and gestured for us to go.

Operation Plushie Getaway​

We slipped into the warehouse, which was stacked floor-to-ceiling with boxes of unsold plushies. At the far end sat a rusty blue transport truck with the words "Snuggle Czar Express" painted on the side.

Juan, naturally, tripped over a loose plushie and knocked over an entire stack of boxes.

The crash echoed through the warehouse.

“SUBTLE,” Hargrave growled.

“Blame the plushie,” Juan whispered, kicking it.

A voice shouted in Russian from the other side of the warehouse.

“Go, go, go!” Brenda yelled.

We sprinted for the truck. Brenda slid into the driver’s seat, Hargrave took the passenger side, and Juan and I jumped into the back, burying ourselves under plushies as the truck roared to life.

The warehouse doors burst open behind us, and several very angry Russian guards stormed in, guns raised.

Brenda floored it.

To Be Continued…​

 
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Chapter 28: Conversations Over Pinot Noir


The Forrester Creations penthouse party was still buzzing with industry elites, celebrities, and unexpected tensions. But as the night progressed, the guests began settling into smaller, more focused conversations—some about fashion, some about business, and some about long-standing feuds.


At one end of the room, Hope Logan, looking effortlessly elegant in a sleek white gown, stood in deep conversation with two women who commanded just as much presence as she did—Lisa Vanderpump and Sami Brady.


Sami, ever the firebrand, had a cocktail in one hand and a piercing gaze locked onto Hope. “I’m just saying,” she continued, “Hope for the Future has always been about modern, ethical fashion. But the market’s shifting. People don’t just want sustainable, they want exclusivity. If you’re not making it feel elite, you’re going to lose customers.”


Hope frowned slightly. “That’s not what the brand stands for, Sami. We want fashion to be accessible, not just for the one percent.”


Lisa, ever the businesswoman, swirled her rosé thoughtfully. “Darling, I hate to say it, but Sami has a point. Exclusivity drives demand. Even in my restaurants, you create a sense of allure—something that makes people feel like they have to be part of it. Otherwise, you’re just another label on a rack.”


Hope crossed her arms, her mind clearly racing. “So what are you both saying? That I should… turn Hope for the Future into a luxury brand?”


Sami smirked. “I’m saying give people something they can’t get anywhere else. A signature look. Limited drops. Special collaborations. You’re Hope Logan—use that name. Own it.”


Lisa nodded. “It’s not about abandoning your values, darling. It’s about elevating them.”


Hope took a slow breath. “I need to think about this.”


Lisa smiled. “Of course, dear. That’s what we’re here for.”


Sami raised her glass. “To making the future actually exciting.”


They clinked glasses, but Hope’s mind was elsewhere.



Carter Walton & John Price: Business and Pinot Noir​


Meanwhile, across the room, Carter Walton had settled into a quiet, refined conversation with John Price.


The two men sat on a plush velvet couch near the bar, a bottle of Pinot Noir resting on the table between them. Carter, always polished, took a slow sip before leaning back. “So, John—what’s your angle?”


Price smirked slightly. “Angle?”


Carter nodded. “Everyone in this room is here for a reason. Some for fashion, some for clout, some because they have a plan. You don’t strike me as the type who just shows up to mingle.”


Price took a sip of his own wine, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say I like to keep my options open.”


Carter chuckled. “A man who plays things close to the chest. I respect that.” He leaned forward. “I do a lot of work in contracts, business structuring. I’ve seen guys like you before—you’ve got an instinct for when something’s worth your time.”


Price nodded, intrigued. “And what are you looking for, Carter?”


Carter swirled his glass. “Opportunity. I love working with Forrester, but I’m always keeping an eye out for the next big thing. Something fresh.” He gave Price a pointed look. “You ever thought about stepping into the business world? You seem like the type who could make things happen.”


Price chuckled. “I’m not the corporate type.”


Carter smirked. “That’s what they all say—until they find the right opportunity.”


The two men clinked their glasses in a silent agreement—whatever the future held, it was full of possibilities.


And across the room, Hope Logan was beginning to wonder if it was time for a new vision for Hope for the Future.


To be continued...
 
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Chapter 58: The Safe House and Slick Willie​

Brenda swerved the Snuggle Czar Express through the empty Russian streets like she was trying to qualify for a Formula 1 team. Hargrave kept checking behind us, muttering under his breath about how his life had become a never-ending fever dream.

Juan, still buried under plushies in the back, popped his head out and gasped. “Did we lose them?”

Hargrave rolled his eyes. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

We were very much still being chased by a convoy of blacked-out Russian SUVs. But Brenda, fueled by equal parts panic and delusion, took a sharp turn down an alley so narrow that the SUVs couldn’t follow. She slammed the brakes, and the truck came to a skidding halt.

Silence.

“…I meant to do that,” Brenda said.

Juan peeked through the back window. “I think we’re safe.”

Hargrave let out a deep sigh. “Great. Now what?”

Brenda reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a crumpled note that looked like it had been written on the back of a Hooters napkin.

“Dmitri gave me an address,” she said. “It’s a safe house.”

Hargrave groaned. “I don’t even want to know why he had that ready.”

The Safe House​

An hour later, we arrived at an abandoned-looking building on the outskirts of Moscow. The moment we stepped inside, the scent of stale cigars and cheeseburgers hit us.

Then came the voice.

“Well, well, well. If it ain’t a buncha troublemakers.”

Standing in the center of the room, wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a saxophone, was none other than Bill Clinton.

Juan’s jaw dropped. “Slick Willie?!”

Bill smirked. “The one and only.”

Hargrave blinked like he was having a stroke. “Why… why are you here?”

Bill took off his sunglasses. “Look, man. I got friends in high places. And some in low places. Russia’s got both. I like options.”

Juan pointed at the saxophone. “Do you… do you still play?”

Bill nodded. “Only when the time is right.”

Brenda folded her arms. “And when is that?”

Bill took a deep breath, then solemnly said, “After a good bowl of chili.”

Silence.

“Anyway,” Bill continued, “you folks are in a real pickle. But lucky for you, I got connections. You just gotta do one thing for me.”

Brenda narrowed her eyes. “What kind of thing?”

Bill leaned in, lowering his voice. “There’s a secret plushie black market in Moscow. I need you to help me get my hands on a very rare, very cursed Beanie Baby.”

Juan gasped. “A rare plushie?! Say less.”

Hargrave rubbed his temples. “Why is this happening?”

Bill put his sunglasses back on and grinned. “Because life’s just a big ol’ banger of a pinched log.”

Brenda’s eyes lit up. “Oooooh, I like that one.”

Juan cracked his knuckles. “Alright, Bill. We’ll get you your haunted Beanie Baby.”

And just like that, we were back in the plushie business.

To Be Continued…​

 
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