The Worst Thief in Galactic History
Copyright© 2025 by Datuner
Chapter 3
Episode 215: “Operation Napkin Swipe”
It was 0930 hours Terran Time on Proxima Centauri Station, and Jorl Vantoo was hard at work in his “training facility” also known as a blanket fort constructed from two chairs, a hover crate, and half of his mother’s laundry.
Commander Squeeb, ever the loyal co-conspirator, had been promoted overnight to “Senior Intelligence Operative.” His new uniform consisted of a sock tied around his middle and a sticker that read Top Sekrit.
Jorl crouched beside him, drawing a crude schematic of Zog’s Stellar Subs in crayon on the floor.
“Okay, Squeeb,” he whispered. “They’ve upgraded defenses. Cameras. Motion sensors. Probably lasers. Definitely lasers.”
He nodded sagely, eyes wide with determination. “We’re goin’ after the napkins today. They’re hoarding ‘em, Squeeb. Nobody needs that many napkins.”
He pointed dramatically at the crayon map, which showed a giant sandwich and something that might have been a duck labeled Zog.
“This time,” he whispered, “we go full stealth.”
And then, because no hero’s journey is complete without proper nutrition, he shoved half a cookie in his mouth and declared, “For glory!”
Meanwhile, across the station, Zog was pouring himself a cup of extra dark plasma roast and reviewing yesterday’s highlight reel.
“Camera three, enhance,” he said, and the screen zoomed in on Jorl tripping over the chair leg in glorious high definition. The fart replayed in slow motion, complete with dramatic orchestral sting added by Nix-4 in post-production.
The audience metrics were staggering. Thirty-two billion views. Dozens of sponsorship offers. A movie deal rumored. Merchandising requests from twelve systems.
“Morning, boss,” said Nix-4, his voice chip pitched somewhere between cheerful and existentially exhausted. “We’ve already sold out of Stellar Spy Subs. Again.”
“Perfect,” Zog said, sipping his coffee. “Push the limited edition napkin collection next. Let’s see how many people want to buy paper squares with crayon doodles.”
Nix blinked. “Projected revenue: more than the Proxima Defense Budget.”
Zog chuckled. “Kid’s a one-boy media empire.”
He leaned back, watching the replay of Jorl’s delighted face as the boy believed himself unseen. “Doesn’t even know he’s famous.”
At precisely 1400 hours, as if obeying some cosmic ritual, the blue blur reappeared.
“Stealth mode: ultra-activated!” Jorl hissed.
He’d upgraded. His towel-cape now had sparkles. His sunglasses were decorated with stickers shaped like lightning bolts. And strapped to his wrist was a device he called the upgraded “Invisomatic 3000” which, upon close inspection, was a spoon taped to a broken flashlight.
“Target in sight,” he whispered into his straw-communicator. “Engaging Phase One: napkin neutralization.”
The audience, now spread across twenty-two systems, held its breath.
He ducked behind a display stand, and crawled toward the counter. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even efficient. But it was glorious.
Zog leaned toward the monitor. “There he goes, the little genius. Wait for it...”
CRASH.
Jorl had attempted to “barrel roll” over a chair and was now tangled in it, legs flailing.
The crowd roared.
Zog didn’t even blink. “Classic Jorl. That’s commitment.”
Nix sighed. “Should I assist him?”
“Nope,” Zog said. “He’ll ninja his way out. Eventually.”
Sure enough, Jorl extricated himself, gave the chair a stern talking-to (“You didn’t see nothin’, buddy”), and continued crawling toward the sandwich counter.
He reached the counter and froze, peering over the edge like a covert operative surveying enemy territory. His reflection blinked back at him from the sneeze guard, which he took as confirmation that Zog had installed clones.
“Nice try, mirror people,” he whispered. “But I’m smarter than you.”
He unspooled a length of string from his “Top Sekrit Spy Kit,” looped it around the same ham-and-pickle sub as always, and began slowly reeling it in.
Zog, watching from his monitor, couldn’t help grinning. “That’s right, little bandit. Get the hero shot.” He nodded to Nix. “Camera three, tight focus on the sandwich.”
The feed zoomed in as Jorl leaned close, eyes huge and serious, tongue sticking out in concentration. The sub slid inch by inch across the counter like a dramatic escape pod in a bad holo-drama.