The Great Sandwich Heist
It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon in the small town of Butterville, and Harold Bumbleton was hungry. Not just regular hungry — dangerously hungry. The kind of hungry where you start considering if cardboard might actually taste okay with enough ketchup.
Harold worked at “BeetleCorp,” a company that did something with spreadsheets and occasionally shouted “Synergy!” for no reason. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that today was Sandwich Day.
Every Tuesday, the office cafeteria brought out a glorious array of sandwiches. Turkey and cranberry. Roast beef and mustard. Mysterious vegan option that glowed slightly in the dark. And, the crown jewel: The Mega Club Triple-Decker Supreme. Legend had it this sandwich was so magnificent that one bite would make you see into the fourth dimension.
Harold wanted it. Badly.
But there was a problem.
Jerry.
Jerry was the office “that guy.” He always took the last slice of pizza, always microwaved fish, and once sent a company-wide email with the subject line: “I think I have rabies?”
And Jerry always got to the sandwich table first.
This time, Harold was ready.
At precisely 12:03 PM, Harold slipped away from his desk, pretending to drop a pencil. He commando-rolled behind a filing cabinet and began his advance. The plan was simple: sneak past Sheila from HR (who was armed with a yogurt), avoid eye contact with Dave the copier guy (who had a tendency to overshare about his pet ferret), and reach the sandwich table before Jerry.
Harold peeked around the corner. There it was — The Mega Club Triple-Decker Supreme, glistening under the fluorescent lights like a meaty beacon of hope.
And then, disaster struck.
Jerry appeared. Wearing his usual Hawaiian shirt and a smug grin, he reached for the Mega Club.
Harold had seconds.
Without thinking, he grabbed a nearby stapler, lobbed it across the room, and shouted, “HEY! IS THAT A UFO OUTSIDE?”
Jerry, being both nosy and slightly gullible, spun around.
Harold pounced.
He grabbed the sandwich with the precision of a seasoned ninja and darted behind the water cooler. Jerry turned back, confused.
“Must’ve been the wind,” Jerry muttered.
Harold took a victorious bite.
It was glorious. Layers of turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, mysterious sauce number seven — it tasted like freedom and bad decisions.
And then he realized something.
It was the vegan one.
It glowed slightly in the dark.
From across the room, Jerry cackled. “Better luck next time, Bumbleton.”
And Harold, still chewing, gave a thumbs-up.
The Great Sandwich Heist would be remembered for years to come.
At least, until the day of Free Tacos.
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