It was one of those nights when the sky looked like a poorly made painting: gray spots, senselessly piled clouds, and a wind that came from everywhere but where it was needed. The villain's lair — an old abandoned cookie factory — loomed like a third-rate horror castle. Flickering lights, leaking ceilings, and a rusty sign that said "Delights Doña Gertrudis."
Alex took a deep breath. Marta adjusted her glasses with the seriousness of a general at war. Carlos… well, Carlos was trying to pull a snack from his jacket pocket without making noise, which was completely impossible with so much aluminum foil.
"Are we ready?" — Marta whispered, in a grave tone.
"Ready for what," said Carlos, "to enter or for an indigestion with this?"
Alex let out a nervous laugh. His gaze drifted to the second-floor window of the factory. There he was. Max. Tied to a chair, with a gag made of what seemed to be a Christmas scarf. His expression was one of dog-like resignation, as if he had already been through this too many times.
"We have to go in now," said Alex.
"Wait. I have a plan," announced Carlos with the pride of someone who believes they are nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.
Marta and Alex looked at each other. Marta sighed.
"Does it involve explosives, spoiled food, or costumes?"
"Yes, no, and probably."
The plan, if one could call it that, consisted of a massive distraction at the main entrance: Carlos disguised as a gluten-free, flavorless vegan cookie delivery person, while Marta and Alex entered through the back using a makeshift pulley system made with curtain cables and clothes hooks. In theory, it was madness. In practice… also.
Carlos approached the main door carrying a cardboard box that said "Ultra Light Flaxseed Cookies: 100% disappointment guaranteed." He knocked on the door with his elbow and smiled as if he were selling happiness in small jars. One of the henchmen, a huge guy with more muscles than brains, opened the door.
— And who are you?
— Haven't you been asked for catering for this special night?
— Carlos raised an eyebrow, dramatic —. "Operation Total Villainy," right? I have a delivery for the man in the mask.
The henchman looked at him suspiciously. Then he looked at the box.
— Are they oatmeal?
— They are whatever you want, champ.
The henchman sniffed the box and, for some inexplicable reason, that was enough. He stepped aside and Carlos entered whistling the Power Rangers theme.
Meanwhile, at the back side of the factory, Marta and Alex were trying to climb the wall with the help of Carlos's gadget. Alex slipped three times, Marta once (but it was much quieter) and both finally landed inside a container full of old flour.
— Why do we always end up covered in something white? — asked Alex, spitting out a bit of flour.
— Because we keep trusting Carlos's inventions — replied Marta as she shook off her jacket.
Once inside, they moved stealthily among the shadows. The interior was a chaos of rusty machines, conveyor belts full of cobwebs, and a horn that emitted the worst remix of classical music ever created. In the center of it all, in a kind of throne made with cookie molds, was the villain: Count Biscotti.
— Welcome to my sweet empire! — he shouted, raising his arms.
— Is that really his name? — whispered Alex.
— There are things that are better not questioned — said Marta.
Max saw them and began to wag his tail frantically. The dog's eyes shone with hope, or perhaps with dust allergy. Count Biscotti stood up and pointed at them with a pastry wand.
— I knew you would come. No one can resist the aroma of revenge... and cinnamon.
Behind him, his henchmen began to surround them. Alex and Marta were left in the center, with Max a few meters away. Carlos, who was still at the entrance handing out cookies, saw the chaos through a security camera and murmured:
— Time for plan B.
Plan B consisted of releasing a swarm of homemade drones disguised as bees, programmed to buzz in the ear of anyone wearing a hat or fake mustache. Which, coincidentally, included most of the Count's henchmen.
In a matter of seconds, the factory was filled with screams and desperate claps.
— Damn bees! They sting my ideas!
— Someone bring me an insect repellent!
— My prop mustache!
Marta took advantage of the chaos to launch herself at Max and free him. Alex ran after her, skidding on the flour-covered floor as if he were on an amateur ice rink. At that moment, Count Biscotti activated his "Supreme Cookie Machine," which began to launch cookies as if they were war projectiles.
— Eat my crunchy justice!
A gingerbread cookie hit Alex on the forehead. He fell to the ground, dazed.
— They are... harder than they look! — he stammered.
Marta, with the agility of a training ninja, used a giant spatula to block the next attacks. Carlos burst through a side door, riding on a factory cart and shouting:
— Cavalry to the dough!
With a skill that did not seem like her own, she jumped from the cart and used her box of vegan cookies as a shield. She advanced among the henchmen who were still fighting against the drones and joined the battle.
What followed was a spectacle of well-choreographed chaos: Max barking as if giving orders, Alex using cocoa cans as improvised projectiles, Marta fighting with a giant spoon, and Carlos activating a high-voltage horn that played a reggaeton remix and oven sounds.
Count Biscotti, surrounded, shouted:— You will never catch me! My legacy will be eternal, like the cookies forgotten in the pantry!
But when he tried to escape through a secret door, he slipped on a patch of jam and dramatically fell onto a mountain of flour. It was a fitting end for a villain… of a sitcom.
And they all burst into laughter as they walked away, walking into the night, into new adventures... and probably into a good shower, because the smell of baked cookie would not go away in days...