What Happened To Shopkins

On the seventh day after my daughter goes missing, I kidnap an entire kindergarten. I lock away all 27 students and two teachers in a classroom. I tell the police that if they can't find my daughter, I will kill a kid every 30 minutes. The principal falls to her knees, wailing and begging, "It's not my fault that your daughter is missing. Why should other children pay for it?" I glance at my watch. "29 minutes left. Find her." I know she's in this kindergarten.

When I return to my hometown for the holidays, my brother-in-law, Tyler Atwood, has completely forgotten to hide his latest social media post from me. "Ugh, Arlene is really vain! Her room is filled with useless things like figurines and dolls! They are such an eyesore! "My daughter wants to play with them, and yet Arlene claims that those figurines are limited-edition. Since she refuses to let Celeste play with them, she can forget about keeping them!" Tyler even starts chatting with the commenters in the comment section. "Once we're done with Christmas dinner, I'll lock the door and let Celeste smash everything she sees there. If they break, I'll just claim that Celeste doesn't know any better. What, is Arlene going to take what a five-year-old does seriously? "When the time comes, I'll just guilt-trip her and cry even louder. Let's see who my in-laws will help by then!" As soon as I park the car in the courtyard, I hear loud smashing noises coming from the second floor. My niece, Celeste Atwood, screams excitedly at the top of her lungs. "That meanie's things are all dead now! I'm going to break them all!" That's when Tyler welcomes me at the door with a fake smile plastered on his face. "You're back, Arlene! Celeste is helping you clean your room at the moment. She really is a nice kid. She knows that you like things clean, so she insists on cleaning your room for you."

At the company's annual dinner, I win a three-day trip to the Marosa worth 50 thousand dollars. But when I go to claim the prize, the person in charge stuffs a cheap stuffed toy into my hands instead. The price tag shows that it is worth five dollars. At the same time, the intern, Katie Thorpe, suddenly cries out in surprise, "A three-day trip to Marosa? I'm so incredibly lucky!" I step forward to question them, but the organizer blocks my way. "Katie is Mr. Cosby's girlfriend. This prize has already been decided in advance. I suggest you do not make trouble." She looks me up and down mockingly and says, "If you anger Mr. Cosby, you better watch out. You'll lose your job in this company." Not only am I not afraid, I am even tempted to laugh in her face. I immediately make a phone call. "Grandpa, I have made up my mind. I do not want to keep struggling alongside Vincent Cosby anymore. The wedding is canceled. Withdraw your investment from his company."

I had just gotten home when a parent in my son’s class group chat erupted: [Ms. Zinn, what kind of place are you running? Do you let just any random stray off the street become a teacher?] [My daughter came home, grabbed two forks, and tried to jump off the balcony. She said it was Miss Never who told her to!] The homeroom teacher panicked and denied it at once, insisting there was no such person as Miss Never at the kindergarten. She even posted the official teaching schedule in the chat to prove it. On the security footage, there was not a single trace of this so-called Miss Never. However, later, my son whispered to me in secret, “Mom, Miss Never is an old lady with a cat’s face.” “She says only kids can see her.”

My childhood friend said that he was connected with the doll. Now that he had lost it, he called me up to cry. One hand held my phone as I consoled him, while the other toyed with the doll. His voice began to take on a more interesting tone with my purposeful touches… I squeezed and pinched the toy and comforted him, “Shh, I agree with you. Whoever took your toy is a terrible person…”

I’d just left a creative meeting when a TikTok video popped up on my feed, slamming my company. The title: "Stay Away! This Austin startup is incredibly cheap. The perks are a joke." The video showed off the pour-over coffee from Austin's hottest independent cafe and pastries from a top-tier French bakery. The same ones I’d just had my assistant, Sam, hand out. I frowned. In the company's Slack channel, I tagged everyone. "@here Any suggestions for this afternoon's Happy Hour?" Leo, the new Gen-Z intern, replied instantly with a voice note. “Asher, with all due respect, these snacks with gluten and dairy are so unhealthy.” “A truly visionary company would hire a private chef to customize raw, vegan bites for everyone's dietary needs. That's what respect looks like.” I laughed. It was an angry laugh. The company's daily snack budget was $25 per person. For an Austin startup, that was top of the line. I typed back: "Since it's impossible to please everyone, the snack perk is canceled. I'll convert the budget into a cash bonus for all of you." Less than five minutes later, the TikTok caption was updated. "UPDATE: Y'all, I can't make this up. I made a suggestion about dietary inclusivity, and my toxic boss just canceled all the perks! This is how toxic bosses act. Can't handle a single piece of feedback!"