It began, as all diplomatic incidents do, with a scone hurled at someone's face during a parliamentary inquiry.
Zach, blindfolded, sat in the villa's wine cellar, hands tied to a chaise lounge with decorative fairy lights, while Rico circled ominously above like a judgmental drone.
"You stand accused," Rico announced, voice echoing from a miniature megaphone, "of high treason against the Bonsai Republic. Namely—eating the ceremonial fig jam."
Gregory loomed beside him, scales twitching with righteous fury.
Eduardo, wearing aviators and a clipboard, added, "And misusing the toaster. Again."
"I just wanted breakfast," Zach said wearily.
The bonsai leaned forward on its tiny pedestal, monocle reflecting cold, photosynthesized judgment.
Lucien, inexplicably acting as defense counsel, rose in a sequined suit. "Ladies, gentlemen, potted entities of the court—I submit that Zach's hunger is not treason. It is… fashionably misunderstood."
