Travis McMillan woke up to the smell of burning ambition—and by that, he meant Carlton trying to make toast again.
"Bro, the toaster's on fire!" Carlton shouted from the kitchen, wielding a spatula like it was going to help him battle an actual flame.
Travis rolled off the couch with all the grace of a beached walrus. "Why are you using paper towels instead of bread?"
"We ran out of bread two weeks ago!"
Travis blinked. "And you thought, 'Hey, let me toast this tree skin and see what happens'?"
Carlton shrugged. "It had a tortilla vibe."
Travis groaned and padded into the kitchen in his usual morning outfit: boxers, a hoodie with only one sleeve, and socks that hadn't matched since the Obama administration.
The apartment looked like a college dorm and a raccoon nest had a baby. Dishes piled in the sink like a ceramic Jenga tower. The only clean surface in the kitchen was the microwave door—because Travis liked looking at himself while waiting for instant noodles.
"Rent's due tomorrow," Carlton said, as the toaster finally gave up on life and popped out a smoking, curling wad of what used to be a Bounty Select-A-Size.
"I'm aware," Travis replied, opening the fridge like he hadn't already memorized its contents. Leftover soy sauce packets. An expired yogurt that had become self-aware. A single carrot he had named "Harold." No food. No hope. Just Harold.
"You gonna pay your half?" Carlton asked, arms crossed.
Travis raised a hand. "Technically, I always intend to pay rent. It's just… capitalism hasn't caught up to my vibe yet."
Carlton rolled his eyes. "You've been unemployed for six months."
"I'm a freelance philosopher now," Travis said.
"You post conspiracy theories on Reddit."
"Exactly. Freelance."
Carlton sighed and went to salvage what remained of his dignity and breakfast. Travis, meanwhile, collapsed dramatically onto the couch, groaning like a Shakespearean ghost.
And then—like fate in a $3.99 coupon flyer—a thought hit him.
"Wait," he said, sitting up. "You know that bagel place on Belmont? The one that always has a line out the door?"
Carlton peered out of the smoke-filled kitchen. "Yeast of Eden? Yeah. Why?"
Travis's eyes gleamed. "What if I told you… I could get us a week's worth of bagels? For free. No money. No morals. No prison time."
Carlton's face contorted into his trademark I hate this already expression. "I feel like prison is gonna be involved. And maybe gluten intolerance."
"Relax," Travis said. "We're not stealing. We're conducting a field inspection."
"You're what now?"
Travis grinned and whipped out a crumpled badge from his hoodie pocket. It was made from a Burger King kids' meal toy glued onto a CVS receipt. It read: Federal Bagel Authority. Below it, in smaller font: "In Gluten We Trust."
"You printed this on the back of a Taco Bell coupon."
"That's what makes it authentic," Travis said.
---
Operation Bagelstorm Begins
Travis arrived at Yeast of Eden two hours later. He wore aviator sunglasses, a trench coat Carlton found at Goodwill, and held a clipboard that had nothing on it but a page that read: "WARNING: GLUTEN ZONE."
He walked in like he owned the place. Not confidently. Not suspiciously. But in that exact gray zone where the brain says, "I should question this… but I'm late for lunch."
Alan, the manager, stood behind the counter, sipping coffee like it was his only reason to live.
"Morning," Travis barked. "I'm from the FBA. This is a Level 2 Yeast Check. We've had complaints."
Alan squinted. "Complaints about… what?"
"Carb density. Seed irregularity. Crumb bias. Take your pick."
"I've been running this place for twelve years."
"And yet here we are," Travis said, dramatically removing a tape measure. He leaned over the counter and measured the width of a sesame bagel. Then nodded thoughtfully.
"Hm. That's what I was afraid of. Non-standardized poppy spread."
"That's not a thing."
"Not with that attitude," Travis muttered.
At this point, the barista—a college student named Jess who had seen exactly four weirdos before 10 a.m.—whispered to Alan, "Should we call someone?"
Alan, however, had been through worse. He once fought a goose in the alley over a cinnamon roll. He sighed.
"Look, man, you want a bagel or something?"
Travis straightened up. "Sir, this is an official government operation. But… yes. For evidence. I'll need one of each flavor."
Alan stared at him.
"For testing," Travis added.
---
Back at the Apartment
Travis kicked open the door like a returning war hero, arms loaded with a paper bag full of bagels. Carlton stared from the couch.
"You robbed them?"
"I inspected them. Thoroughly," Travis said, tossing an asiago cheese bagel at Carlton like it was a grenade. "We're heroes."
"Did anyone believe you were a real inspector?"
Travis grinned. "I even got a Yelp review. Said I was 'passionately aggressive about gluten integrity.'"
Carlton shook his head, then bit into the bagel. "Damn. This is actually good."
"Of course it is. I only steal the best."
"I thought you said it wasn't stealing?"
"I lied," Travis said, mouth full of blueberry bagel.
---
Later That Night
As they lay in the living room, full of carbs and devoid of shame, Carlton turned to Travis.
"You know this isn't sustainable, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"You can't hustle bagels forever."
Travis looked at the ceiling, eyes twinkling.
"Maybe not. But today, I looked gluten in the face… and it blinked first."
Carlton rolled over. "You're an idiot."
"An idiot with a garlic bagel and no regrets."