The Judge's Secret Snack Bar

Rain ticks the windshield like a metronome. A crumpled TREASURE MAP is taped to the dash. JUNO holds it up with a tiny headlamp like she’s reading an ancient scroll.

“Where antlers watch and silver shines, seek the judge who snacks in crimes.”

COLE drives tense, eyes scanning rearview mirrors.

That’s not a riddle, that’s a Yelp review for corruption.

In the backseat, two CREW KIDS (silent shapes) hold scavenger tools: magnet wand, lock picks, a plunger.

Antlers. Silver. Trophy room. We’re breaking into a rich person’s museum of ego.

And “judge who snacks” is...?

A hidden compartment. Rich people don’t do “drawers.” They do “secrets.”

Cole taps the taped map—there’s a small SKETCH: a deer head with a tiny rectangle behind it.

If this is the missing piece, it clears my name.

If it’s snacks, it clears my blood sugar.

Juno grins. Cole doesn’t.

No hero stuff. In, out, quiet.

Quiet. Like a snack bar.

She winks. Cole sighs, turns onto a winding driveway.

A mansion looms. Too perfect. Sprinklers hiss like snakes.

The crew approaches the side entrance, crouched, ridiculous in mismatched “STAFF” disguises: a cater-waiter vest on Cole, a valet cap on Juno.

Remember: if anyone asks, you’re “Cole... uh...”

Mercer.

No. You’re “Carl Merlot.” Works for wine, works for lies.

They reach a SECURITY PANEL. Juno pops it open with a hairpin. The panel BEEPS—

A LOUD, CHEERFUL JINGLE blares: an ice cream truck melody at max volume.

What is that?

Some alarms scream. This one... invites you to buy a cone while you get arrested.

They freeze. Lights flick on across the grounds.

JUNO (CONT'D)

Okay, plan B: sprint like guilty staff.

They run.

They burst into a glossy room packed with hunting trophies, sports awards, and framed charity photos. Everything polished. Everything watching.

A mounted DEER HEAD dominates one wall. Beneath it: a silver plaque reading “HON. JUDGE R. S. COTTER — COMMUNITY EXCELLENCE.”

Judge. Antlers. Silver. This is the snack bar.

COLE moves to the deer head, feeling behind it. His fingers find a latch.

A small panel opens—revealing a TINY, IMMACULATE COMPARTMENT.

Inside: a sealed EVIDENCE BAG. And... a neatly arranged row of MINI CANDY BARS.

Justice is delicious.

COLE ignores her, yanks out the bag. Through the plastic: a USB DRIVE labeled with a property tag: “VPD EVIDENCE — MERCER.”

Cole’s breath catches. Vindication in a sandwich-sized bag.

This is it.

Plug it in, prove it, post it, boom—your suburban detective glow-up—

We don’t have time to—

A SOFT CLAP echoes.

From the doorway: MARIS VALE, poised in a black dress like she stepped out of a gala and into a nightmare. She holds a sleek REMOTE.

Cole Mercer. Breaking into a judge’s trophy room. Again.

COLE turns, protecting the evidence bag.

Maris. You planted it.

I curated it. There’s a difference.

JUNO slides subtly in front of Cole, chewing candy like it’s armor.

So you’re the judge’s snack dealer?

I’m the judge’s... caterer.

She clicks the remote.

A section of the trophy wall WHIRS. A glass case slides open—then a NET cannon POPS, firing a weighted mesh.

The net SNAGS Cole and Juno mid-step, yanking them together like a slapstick wedding veil.

Are you kidding me?!

I’ve been to worse proms!

They stumble—CRASH—into a pedestal. A bowling trophy spins, teeters, and FALLS—

It hits a hidden pressure plate.

Instantly: the SPRINKLERS inside the trophy room erupt, blasting water in perfect arcs. Everything glistens. Everything becomes chaos.

Why are there indoor sprinklers?!

For fires. And inconvenient truths.

The crew kids dart in, trying to help—one slips, skids across the marble, slamming into a suit of armor. The armor’s HELMET flips down like a guillotine.

Okay! The house is actively trying to murder us with décor!

Maris glides forward through the spray, untouched, as if the water avoids her out of respect.

COLE wrestles his arm free just enough to lift the evidence bag.

You’re done. This is the chain. This is my proof.

It’s *your* proof... while you have it.

Maris flicks her wrist—she has a compact TASE-PRONG device. She taps it to the net’s clasp.

ZAP— the clasp RELEASES.

Cole and Juno fall forward, tangled, splashing hard.

In that half-second, Maris plucks the evidence bag from Cole’s grip like taking a mint from a tray.

No!

Maris holds it up, examines it like art.

You’re always reaching for what clears you, Cole.

She pockets it.

JUNO lunges—slips—grabs the deer head instead. It SWIVELS. The secret compartment snaps shut on her fingers.

Ow! The judge bites!

Maris backs away toward the door.

Tell your little scavengers... the map is adorable.

She pauses, tosses a mini candy bar at Juno. It hits Juno’s forehead and plops into the water.

MARIS (CONT'D)

Consider it a tip.

She exits. The door shuts with a soft, final CLICK.

The sprinklers keep blasting. The trophy room is a soaked, sparkling disaster.

Cole stares at the closed door, drenched, furious, empty-handed.

She stole it again.

Juno wrings out her valet cap, glares at the deer head.

Okay. New rule.

We already have rules.

Yeah. Add this one.

She points at the judge’s plaque.

JUNO (CONT'D)

If the house has antlers, we bring bolt cutters.

Cole exhales—then looks at the map still taped in his mind.

She knows we’re following it.

Good.

Juno picks up a soaking-wet candy bar, peels it, takes a bite.

JUNO (CONT'D)

Let her set traps. We’re really good at trespassing.

Cole’s eyes harden with a hint of hope.

Then we steal it back.

They stand in the spray, a drenched alliance, as trophies gleam like witnesses.