The Worst Thief in Galactic History
Copyright© 2025 by Datuner
Chapter 2
The Worst Thief in Galactic History, Episode 214: “Operation Sneaky Sandwich: Part Two”
It was 0930 hours Terran Time on Proxima Centauri Station, and Jorl Vantoo, galaxy’s smallest, bluest, and most enthusiastic outlaw, was already deep in preparation.
Inside his blanket fort (codename: Base Sneak-One), the air was thick with determination, cookie crumbs, and the faint smell of grape jelly.
Commander Squeeb, the one-eyed plush and Senior Intelligence Operative, was seated in a position of honor atop a stack of dirty laundry. He had been given a new upgrade: a paper cup taped to his head, which Jorl insisted was a long-range sensor array.
“Alright, Squeeb,” Jorl whispered, drawing on the floor with his favorite green crayon. “Yesterday’s op went smooth, except for the crash, the trip, and the unexpected gas attack.”
He paused dramatically, remembering, then nodded solemnly. “Note to self: knock-out gas highly effective. Almost took me out too.”
He gave a serious sniff, then giggled uncontrollably. “Heh. Still works.”
Composing himself again, he jabbed his crayon at the crude diagram of Zog’s Stellar Subs. “Phase Two is riskier. More guards, more cameras. Maybe lasers. Definitely lasers. But they’ll never see this coming.”
He held up his newest invention, the Invisomatic 2000. It was, to the untrained eye, a colander covered in stickers and straws, with a flashlight duct-taped to the top.
“With this, I’ll be 200% invisible,” Jorl said. “Nobody stops the Sandwich Bandit.”
Commander Squeeb, as always, offered no objections.
Across the station, Zog was stirring his extra-dark plasma roast and watching the morning playback metrics scroll across the holo-display.
“Thirty-eight billion views, Nix,” he said. “That’s up six percent from last week’s ‘Fart of Destiny’ episode.”
“Public response remains overwhelmingly positive,” droned Nix-4, Zog’s robot assistant. “Top comments include ‘Adorable Chaos,’ ‘I would die for this child,’ and ‘Does Zog sell the sandwich in adult sizes?’”
“Good,” Zog said, leaning back. “Keep the feed primed. My gut says today’s gonna be gold.”
Nix blinked. “Sir, the feed is always gold.”
At 1400 hours sharp, the towel-caped menace returned.
Jorl crouched just outside the shop window, peering in like a spy behind enemy lines. “Alright, Squeeb,” he whispered into his straw-communicator. “Initiating Phase One: Stealth Entry.”
He pressed himself flat to the wall, rolled sideways three times (all directly in front of the open doorway), then froze. “Too quiet,” he muttered. “They’re expecting me.”
Zog leaned toward the monitors, grinning. “Camera three, get me the ‘Sneak Face.’”
On-screen, Jorl made an exaggerated squinty expression, shifting left and right like a cartoon detective. He then crawled through the door on his elbows, humming a suspiciously loud version of the Mission Impossible theme.