Delancy sat bolt upright, the walkie-talkie clattering against the polished oak nightstand Vaughn had painstakingly sanded down last week. “Arsonist?” Her voice, usually a languid purr, was sharper than a fresh razor. “Tonight? Kip, are you sure?” “Boss, I heard her! On the phone! She said ‘tonight’ and ‘make it look like an accident’ and ‘the whole scrap heap goes up in flames’!” Kip’s frantic whispers turned into a choked gasp. “And there’s… there’s a guy! He just pulled up in a beat-up Corvair with no plates! He’s got a jerrycan, Boss! A *jerrycan*!” Delancy’s eyes, usually half-lidded with blissful slumber, snapped open fully. A jerrycan. Flames. Losing the workshop meant losing her woven sling. Losing her naps. Her entire carefully constructed future of opulent idleness dissolving into smoke, forcing her to apply for a cashier position somewhere dreadful. “Stay put, Kip. Don’t move,” Delancy commanded, her voice surprisingly steady. She slid off the quilted sling, her bare feet meeting the cool, smooth concrete of her soundproofed nap-room floor. This was it. The true test of her commitment to being utterly, irrevocably lazy. She couldn’t just *ignore* Hestia anymore. She had to dismantle her scheme from her cushions, efficiently. A loud, splintering crash echoed from the main shop floor, followed by the shattering of glass. Delancy didn’t flinch. Vaughn had built her nap-room like a fortress, sealing it off from the cacophony of metalwork and engine roars. The sounds, though muffled, were clear enough to indicate a serious breach. Moments later, a high-pitched whirring began, growing louder, more frantic. It was the new automated snack-dispenser Vaughn had installed that afternoon – a sprawling contraption of chrome, copper tubing, and blinking lights designed to deliver a perfectly chilled soda and a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips directly to her outstretched hand with a single spoken command. Vaughn had called it the 'Delancy Auto-Pantry 5000.' Suddenly, a series of rapid *thwacks* punctuated the air outside her room, like a frantic drummer practicing a paradiddle on a set of steel drums. Then, a surprised yelp, followed by a heavy thud. Silence. Delancy frowned. That wasn’t right. The Auto-Pantry was supposed to be silent, its pneumatic tubes whispering her chosen snacks into existence. This sounded like a food fight in a cafeteria, only with more velocity. She padded to the reinforced steel door of her nap-room, pressing her ear to the cool metal. Faintly, she could hear Kip’s muffled voice, a mix of awe and terror. “Boss… Boss, you gotta see this. He’s… he’s out cold! And he’s covered in… frozen hot dogs!” Delancy pulled the door open a crack, peering into the chaotic expanse of the workshop. The scene was less a burning inferno and more a bizarre culinary battlefield. A burly man, clad in a dark jumpsuit, lay sprawled amidst a shower of shattered glass and a scatter of what appeared to be perfectly preserved, rock-hard mini frankfurters. His head was propped awkwardly against an oil drum, a thick red welt blooming on his forehead. The Auto-Pantry, usually a marvel of pneumatic efficiency, sputtered wildly, several delivery chutes pointed haphazardly at the unconscious intruder. A stray frozen hot dog ricocheted off a hanging wrench with a *ping*, landing neatly beside the man’s ear. Kip, wide-eyed and clutching a wrench like a medieval weapon, stood a safe distance away. “What happened?” Delancy asked, her voice calm, utterly devoid of alarm. It was hard to feel threatened when the primary weapon was a projectile wiener. Kip gesticulated wildly. "The Auto-Pantry! I guess it… sensed an intruder? Or maybe it just really wanted to get rid of the frozen hot dogs Vaughn bought for his ‘emergency protein rations’ experiment! It just… started firing them! Like missiles!” He pointed at the red welt. “One hit him right on the noggin!” Delancy stepped out, carefully avoiding a puddly patch of motor oil. The smell of singed hair and burnt rubber hung faintly in the air, but no actual flames. She bent over the unconscious man, not out of concern, but out of curiosity. Her eyes scanned his jumpsuit, then settled on a small, embossed matchbook that had fallen from his pocket. She picked it up. Its cover was a tasteful cream, featuring a stylized crest and the words: *The Azalea Bloom Country Club – Velvet Cove’s Premier Leisure Experience*. *Interesting*, Delancy mused. Aunt Hestia was certainly moving in new circles if her hired thugs were frequenting the Azalea Bloom. This was a clue, a tangible thread. Her goal had just solidified: Hestia wasn’t just a nuisance to be avoided; she was a puzzle to be solved, a challenge to her supreme laziness. She would dismantle Aunt Hestia’s scheme, piece by infuriating piece, until her beloved canvas sling was truly safe, without ever breaking a sweat. A sudden, dramatic wail pierced the night air. It wasn’t a siren, but something far more grating. Pru. Covered in mud and what looked suspiciously like clam chowder, she stumbled through the open bay doors, her designer gown torn, her styled hair matted with seaweed and salt foam. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her mascara streaked down her face like war paint. “Delancy!” Pru shrieked, collapsing onto a stack of discarded tires. “He dumped me! Rupert Castletown, the heir to the Castletown Fisheries fortune, he said I was ‘too rustic’ for his yacht! He left me on a sandbar! And then the tide came in! I’m ruined! Utterly, irrevocably ruined! I have no money! No place to go!” She looked up, her expression a pathetic plea. “You have to let me stay here! Please!” Delancy gazed at her sister, then at the unconscious arsonist, then at the sputtering snack-dispenser. Her new reality was starting to look less like a tranquil nap and more like a convoluted caper. She sighed, a deep, put-upon sound. “Fine,” she said, tossing Pru a still-sealed bag of sour cream and onion potato chips from a nearby shelf. “But you’re going to do all the legwork to put Auntie in prison. And don’t even *think* about touching my hammock.” Pru, momentarily distracted by the chips, ripped open the bag. “Prison?” she mumbled, a chip halfway to her mouth. “But how? She’s so… sly!” Delancy gave a slow, deliberate nod, the matchbook from the Azalea Bloom Country Club still clutched in her hand. “Oh, she is. But you, dear sister, are about to become very, *very* useful.”

Frozen Hot Dogs and Shifting Goals