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, waving a spatula like it might actually defeat the flames.
Travis rolled off the couch with 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, '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 signature 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 had merged with a raccoon nest. Dishes piled up in the sink like a ceramic Jenga tower. The only clean surface was the microwave door—because Travis enjoyed watching himself while microwaving noodles.
"Rent's due tomorrow," Carlton said, just as the toaster gave up and coughed out a curling, smoking wad of what used to be a Bounty Select-A-Size.
"I'm aware," Travis muttered, opening the fridge like he hadn't memorized its barren contents. Leftover soy sauce packets. A sentient yogurt. A single carrot he'd named Harold. No food. No hope. Just Harold.
"You gonna pay your half?"
Travis raised a hand. "Technically, I always intend to pay rent. It's just… capitalism hasn't caught up to my vibe yet."
"You've been unemployed for six months."
"I'm a freelance philosopher now."
"You post conspiracy theories on Reddit."
"Exactly. Freelance."
Carlton sighed and turned back to salvage breakfast. Travis flopped onto the couch like a Victorian widow. And then—like fate wrapped in a $3.99 coupon flyer—he had an epiphany.
"Wait," he said, sitting upright. "You know that bagel shop on Belmont? The one with the eternal line?"
"Yeast of Eden? Yeah. Why?"
Travis's eyes lit up. "What if I told you… I could get us a week's worth of bagels. No money. No morals. No prison time."
Carlton's face immediately shifted into his I hate this already expression. "I feel like prison is definitely going to be involved. And probably gluten intolerance."
"Relax. We're not stealing. We're conducting a field inspection."
"You're what now?"
Travis pulled out a crumpled badge from his hoodie pocket. A Burger King toy glued to a CVS receipt. It read: Federal Bagel Authority. Below it: In Gluten We Trust.
"You printed this on the back of a Taco Bell coupon."
"That's what makes it authentic."
---
Operation Bagelstorm
Two hours later, Travis strutted into Yeast of Eden wearing aviator sunglasses, a Goodwill trench coat, and holding a clipboard with one page: "WARNING: GLUTEN ZONE."
He walked the tightrope between confident and questionable—the kind of presence that said I should stop this guy, but lunch is calling.
Alan, the manager, looked up from his coffee with the weary eyes of a man who once fought a goose over a cinnamon roll.
"Morning," Travis barked. "FBA. Level 2 Yeast Check. We've had complaints."
"About what?"
"Carb density. Crumb bias. Seed irregularity. Take your pick."
"I've been running this place for twelve years."
"And yet… here we are," Travis said, pulling out a tape measure and solemnly examining a sesame bagel. He nodded. "Just as I feared. Non-standardized poppy spread."
"That's not a thing."
"Not with that attitude."
The barista—Jess, already exhausted by weirdos before 10 a.m.—whispered, "Should we call someone?"
Alan just sighed. "You want a bagel or something?"
"This is a government operation. But… yes. One of each. For testing."
---
Back at the Apartment
Travis kicked the door open like a war hero returning from gluten combat, arms overflowing with bagels.
"You robbed them?" Carlton asked from the couch.
"I inspected them. Thoroughly," Travis said, tossing an asiago cheese bagel like a grenade. "We're heroes."
"Did anyone believe you were legit?"
"I got a Yelp review: 'Passionately aggressive about gluten integrity.'"
Carlton shook his head and bit into the bagel. "Damn. This is actually good."
"I only steal the best."
"I thought you said it wasn't stealing?"
"I lied," Travis said, mouth full of blueberry bagel.
---
Enter the Bark Side
Later that afternoon, Travis sat on the stoop, nibbling leftover bagel bits from his hoodie pocket like a depressed squirrel. The hoodie now featured a third cream cheese stain. He wore them with pride.
Across the street, a girl in capital-Y Yoga Pants walked a poodle so fluffy it looked like a cloud that drank kale smoothies. She stopped to tie her shoe. The poodle looked bored. Travis fell in love instantly.
With the dog, obviously.
Carlton joined him, sipping instant coffee from his "World's Okayest Roommate" mug.
"You're drooling."
"I'm dreaming. Of opportunity."
"You hate dogs."
"I love free income. That girl's walking a money printer."
"...What?"
"Dog-walking, Carlton. It's the perfect hustle. You get paid to pick up poop. I do that already—just with more existential dread."
"You've never owned a dog."
"Exactly! I'm emotionally detached. It's all profit."
Carlton groaned. "Is this like your plant-sitting business?"
"They were mostly alive when I returned them."
"One was cactus soup."
---
By the next day, they had it all:
A name: Pawffice Professionals
A tagline: We walk. We wag. We wow.
A logo: clip art dog in sunglasses
Travis posted a Craigslist ad featuring a stock image of him kneeling next to a golden retriever. He didn't own the dog. Or the kneepads. He photoshopped himself in with MS Paint.
The ad promised "exercise, enrichment, and discreet poop handling."
He listed Carlton as Senior Canine Fitness Specialist without telling him.
Within hours, five emails arrived. One asked, "Do you bathe turtles?" (Travis replied: Only on Tuesdays.)
The real jackpot came from a woman named Linda in Lincoln Park. Three corgis. Butterscotch, Macaroni, and Supreme Commander Tater.
"She's offering $40 per walk," Travis said, holding up his phone like it was scripture.
Carlton rubbed his face. "We don't even have leashes!"
Travis pointed to a pile of tied-together shoelaces. "We do now."
"That's not a leash. That's a cry for help."
---
Chaos Unleashed
Linda's house screamed disposable income and designer throw pillows. She greeted them in a tracksuit worth more than Travis's net worth.
"These are my babies," she said, opening the door and unleashing chaos. "Macaroni gets anxious. Butterscotch bites. Tater hates bikes."
Carlton whispered, "This is a trap."
Travis nodded. "But it pays $40."
The first block was fine. Until a squirrel appeared.
Tater screamed. Not barked. Screamed.
All three dogs bolted.
"Hold the leashes!" Travis yelled.
"I am!" Carlton cried as the shoelace-leash snapped like overcooked spaghetti.
The dogs split. Macaroni dove into a bush. Butterscotch peed on someone's yoga mat. Tater chased a guy on a scooter into traffic.
"This is how we die," Carlton muttered, sprinting after them.
---
Somehow—somehow—they wrangled the dogs back.
Macaroni was bribed with peanut butter.
Butterscotch lured with a piece of Carlton's sock.
Tater trapped with a chalk-drawn decoy bicycle.
They returned to Linda's door: Travis with grass in his hair, Carlton with a shoeprint on his chest, the dogs smug as kings.
"How was it?" Linda asked.
Travis flashed a thumbs-up. "They're angels."
"Macaroni's covered in peanut butter."
"She's expressive."
"And Tater smells like… chalk?"
"Creative expression."
Linda smiled. "Same time tomorrow?"
Carlton opened his mouth, but Travis elbowed him. "Absolutely. In fact, we offer weekly packages."
---
Later That Night
Travis dumped $40 in singles on the table.
"We made money today."
"We nearly got arrested by a park ranger."
"But we didn't. That's profit, baby."
Carlton sat down, bagel in hand, exhaustion on face. "You think this could work?"
Travis leaned back, chewing on leftover carbs.
"Carlton, today we conned a millionaire into paying us to exercise with adorable chaos gremlins. This isn't a scam—it's the American Dream."
Carlton eyed the flyer. "You know this ends with one of us getting mauled, right?"
Travis grinned. "And when that day comes… we raise the rates."