Neon lights everywhere. Slot machines chiming, people yelling, drinks spilling. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and bad decisions, the kind of atmosphere that smelled like a mixture of wealth and regret.

  Glitter described it like it was some kind of glamorous wonderland, spinning his hands as if painting a masterpiece in the air. “Champagne! Perfume! Desperation!” he said, like that was supposed to be appealing.

  According to him, he stood backstage adjusting his sequined cape—because of course he had to look pristine—while ensuring a strategically placed fan would catch it “just right” for his entrance.

  “Presentation is everything, Kimberly,” he insisted. “Would you walk into a room without ensuring maximum dramatic effect?”

  “Yes…because I'm normal?”

  He looked scandalized, his hand clutching his chest like I had personally insulted his entire existence. I sighed and motioned for him to continue before he launched into a lecture on aesthetics.

  The announcer stepped on stage, tapping the microphone twice before his voice boomed through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Grand Stakes Horse Race! The bets are placed, the tension is high, and soon, one lucky contender will walk away a champion! Our finest thoroughbreds, each worth more than your average penthouse, are ready to make history!"

  The crowd erupted into cheers, a few enthusiastic gamblers raising their glasses, already celebrating victories they hadn’t won yet. A rowdy group near the bar banged their fists on the table, chanting the name of their favored horse.

  The announcer raised a hand for silence before continuing, "And now, before the hooves hit the track, we have a special treat for you all! Prepare yourselves for an unforgettable performance by none other than the sensational, the dazzling, the incomparable Pauline!"

  Another round of cheers, this time mixed with excited murmurs and the flash of cameras. People leaned forward in their seats, eager for the grand spectacle promised by the casino’s beloved star.

  Instead? Glitter.

  “I strode forward,” he recounted proudly, “catching every spotlight! I yanked the microphone away—gracefully, of course—and prepared to own the moment.”

  Right. Real graceful.

  “Ladies and inconveniences,” he purred into the mic. “There’s been a slight change in tonight’s entertainment.”

  The crowd booed. Someone threw a shoe.

  “Rude!” Glitter gasped. “Hostages these days have no class.”

  I lowered my notepad and stared at Glitter. “You…called them hostages?”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “It adds flair.”

  Glitter waved a hand as if dismissing the crowd’s lack of appreciation. "Anyway! Moving on—scene change!" He snapped his fingers. Curtain up—Pauline tied to a glittering bomb. Yep. Atomic Glitter Bomb Deluxe?. I underlined that in my notes three times.

  “Unless the mayor forks over one hundred million dollars,” he declared, “I’ll redecorate this town in shimmering genius!”

  A long, awkward silence. Somewhere in the crowd, a slot machine dinged cheerfully, oblivious to the sheer stupidity unfolding on stage.

  Then: “PAULINE IS THE MAYOR, YOU IDIOT!” someone yelled.

  Glitter’s smile faltered. “You—! And how was I supposed to know that?” he started.

  “She’s literally on the wall behind you,” came another voice.

  Sure enough—giant banner. MAYOR PAULINE. Massive letters. Glitter glanced back. Frozen.

  “Okay,” he said, backing up, “let’s just…do you have a deputy mayor?”

  “No!” someone called. “We just wait for her to get rescued when she’s been kidnapped or compromised!”

  “Alright…gotta be honest—did not see that coming.” Glitter admitted begrudgingly to the crowd. He paced for several seconds before coming to a decision, “Look, this one clearly went a bit sideways. I’m just going to loot the place and call it a night.”

  With an air of acceptance, he turned to his minions, completely forgetting his mic was still on.

  “Abort the mission,” he muttered.

  A pause.

  “What do you mean you can’t abort?” His voice pitched up. “...You already started the countdown?”

  The room gasped. Someone fainted. A man dropped his drink in shock, while another clutched his betting slip as if it could shield him from the incoming disaster.

  Glitter—completely unfazed—kept whispering, “No, it’s fine—wait, what? No, this isn’t on you. This is Phil’s fault.”

  Another pause.

  “I don’t care that Phil has three wives and a kid to feed—standards, people!”

  I sighed. “Did you just…blame your first failed heist on one of your minions?”

  “Phil knows what he did,” Glitter sniffed.

  Turning back to the crowd, he straightened his cape with forced dignity. “Everyone, stay calm and we can try this again next year.”

  This is where it gets even weirder.

  Glitter clapped toward the ceiling. “Lower the ball!” he called.

  The disco ball. Like it was Times Square, but with more sparkles and felonies.

  He jumped off stage, started pushing it through the stunned crowd—grunting, apparently—and bedazzled henchmen grabbed random valuables along the way.

  And then…the moment that would haunt Glitter for years to come.

  “Excuse me, dear,” an elderly voice chimed.

  Glitter froze. Turned.

  “Dolores,” Glitter hissed.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt!” she smiled. “Just wanted to say hello. Did you know they serve complimentary tea during the race finals?”

  “I’M COMMITTING A CRIME, DOLORES!”

  “I know, dear,” she patted his arm. “Just thought it’d be rude not to say hi.”

  I had to pause the recording because I was laughing too hard.

  And somehow, against all logic, things got even worse. Because of course they did.

  Halfway to the exit—boom.

  Pink glitter everywhere. Like a unicorn exploded.

  Mayor Pauline emerged from the wreckage, drenched in glitter, looking less like an esteemed public official and more like an enraged showgirl dragged through a craft store explosion. Her expression? Murderous.

  “WHERE IS HE?!” she bellowed. “I’M GOING TO—”

  The entire crowd, as one, pointed at Glitter.

  He shoved the disco ball harder. “Nope! Bye!”

  “And that,” Glitter finished, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin, “was a masterpiece.”

  I stared at him. “You…botched a ransom, blew up a casino, got greeted by an old woman, and stole a disco ball.”

  He beamed. “Iconic, right?”

  I flubbed. "Honestly? I don’t know whether to call the cops or pitch this as a reality show."

  He winked. “Why not both?”

  God help me—I think I’m starting to enjoy this.