“Unless, of course, my dear Delancy, you would care to drink to our health, right here, right now.” Delancy stretched languidly on her new perch. Vaughn, with his usual engineering flair, had mounted her favorite woven rattan recliner onto a set of low-friction maglev rollers, allowing her to glide effortlessly across the gleaming showroom floor. It was a mobile nap station, complete with a built-in snack chute and a tiny, perfectly silent fan that kept her bangs from sticking to her forehead. She gave a little shrug, a movement barely perceptible beneath her billowy silk blouse. “Aunt Hestia, darling,” Delancy’s voice, amplified by a discreet lapel mic Vaughn had fastened onto her, purred through the immense outdoor speakers, echoing across the newly paved courtyard. “I appreciate the thought, truly. But you know how I am about… *vintage* beverages. They always taste a bit… stale. And frankly, that thermos looks like it’s seen better days. Is that… rust? Oh, dear.” Murmurs rippled through the assembled crowd. Mayor Thaddeus Holloway, a portly man whose face was perpetually flushed, stroked the pristine white fur of his prize-winning miniature pup, the crowned champion tucked under his arm. The creature, bred for blue ribbons, let out a delicate, almost imperceptible sniff of disdain. “Stale?” Hestia’s voice, a brittle crackle over the PA, sharpened with a dangerous edge. Her grip tightened on the thermos, knuckles bone-white. “This is a family tradition, Delancy. A toast to prosperity! To the Vance name!” Delancy yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “Oh, right. The special family brew. The one that smells vaguely of radiator fluid and regret. No thanks. I’m quite content with the artisanal sparkling water Kip brought me. It’s got a delightful hint of passionfruit. Much less… *lethal*.” The word ‘lethal’ hung in the air like a poorly aimed frisbee. A few nervous titters broke out. Mayor Holloway cleared his throat, his gaze flicking between Hestia and Delancy. Hestia’s face contorted. The maternal mask dropped entirely, revealing a raw, furious desperation. “You ungrateful, lazy wretch!” she shrieked, her voice tearing through the speakers, no longer modulated. She lunged, a blur of expensive tweed and manicured nails, the metal flask arcing through the air like a silver missile, aimed squarely at Delancy’s face. Vaughn, who had been tensed like a spring-loaded trap, started to move, a low growl rumbling in his chest. But before he could even take a full step, a low hum vibrated through the ground. Kip, perched precariously on a scaffolding pole high above the stage, his face smeared with yesterday’s chocolate bar, slammed his palm onto a large, red button. *WHANG!* A colossal industrial magnet, one of Vaughn’s latest, slightly-over-the-top inventions designed for crushing old engines into artistic scrap, whirred to life directly above the podium. It let out a sound like a hungry metal beast. The canister, yanked by an invisible force, rocketed from Hestia’s hand, spinning wildly through the air. It flew with startling precision, not towards Delancy, but directly towards… *SPLOSH!* The container slammed into the mayoral pet, spilling its murky, reddish-brown contents all over the prize canine. The little beast, startled and sodden, let out a single, bewildered yip. Then, with a comical sigh, the champion's eyes glazed over. He swayed on his tiny paws, legs buckling, and flopped bonelessly onto the polished floor, snoring softly. A ripple of horrified gasps swept through the crowd. Mayor Holloway gaped, his face turning eggplant purple. “My champion!” Hestia froze, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning horror. The tea, the *poisoned* tea, was now soaking the mayor’s poodle. Then, a realization dawned on the faces of the onlookers. Drugged tea. The Vance sisters. The whispers of the family’s strange history. The comically inert purebred was undeniable evidence. From the corner of the courtyard, Sterling, Pru’s former wealthy suitor who had been trying to discreetly edge towards the exit, decided this was his cue. He muttered an almost inaudible apology to a potted fern and began to slink away, hoping to vanish into the thinning crowd like a particularly awkward shadow. He didn’t make it two steps. Pru, having watched the entire spectacle with a simmering fury that only Pru could achieve, saw the young heir's attempt at escape. Her eyes narrowed. This was her chance. With a guttural cry that sounded suspiciously like ‘Justice for my ruined yacht party!’, Pru launched herself across the courtyard. She tackled the fleeing snob from behind, a whirlwind of furious limbs and designer denim. The snobby heir shrieked as they collided, a cascade of dominoes, into a towering display of Vaughn’s new miniaturized circuit boards and prototype microprocessors. Boards shattered, wires tangled, and tiny, delicate components flew like confetti as the pair tumbled amidst the wreckage, a heap of flailing limbs and indignant curses. Pru, emerging victorious from the pile, pinned his face into a blinking prototype LED screen, leaving a perfect impression of his nose. The crowd erupted in a mix of gasps and incredulous laughter. Hestia, her face blotchy with rage, watched her meticulously planned public humiliation crumble into a chaotic spectacle. Her eyes darted around, wild and desperate. Her hand dove into the hidden pocket of her expensive tweed blazer. She pulled out a small, chrome-plated flare gun. It glinted ominously under the bright neon stage lights. A gasp went through the audience, quickly silenced by the click of the safety being disengaged. “The land deed!” Hestia’s voice, ragged and strained, echoed. She pointed the flare gun, not at Delancy, but at a cluster of sleek, black cylinders positioned at the edge of the stage. Vaughn’s prototype high-capacity battery station – a volatile, highly flammable collection of chemical cells, providing power to the entire outdoor setup. “Sign over the estate, or I’ll blow this entire… *enterprise*… to the scrapyard it belongs in!” Vaughn, seeing the very real threat to his life’s work, and more importantly, to his wife’s comfort, didn’t hesitate. He dove, a desperate, protective blur, throwing himself in front of Delancy’s mobile recliner. Just as he cleared the path, Hestia’s finger tightened on the trigger. *BLAM!* The flare gun roared, spitting a fiery orange projectile. It streaked across the stage, missing Vaughn by inches, ricocheted off a shimmering neon sign that read ‘MERCER TECH: BRINGING COMFORT TO THE FUTURE’, and arced directly towards the volatile, explosive batteries.

Magnets and Mayor's Poodles