A Princess, A Beetle, and A Secret Place: The Hilarious Chronicles of Mall Infiltration

As they say, every adventure begins with an ice cream machine. Mine was no different, apart from the fact the cursed machine was mired in a state of dripping half-melted dairy, a sad anthem to a society focused on dairy product development more than its democratic values.

While I, a man of great importance and underwhelming pay, was attempting to worm my way into the machine's defenses in my characterization as the Princess Protection supervisor - a title that no man, however bold, would openly admit to having - a catastrophic failure of Boron cooling (that's ice cream parlour speak, you'll find) forced me to unveil my secret weapon.

Out of my secret cargo pocket nestled between my knee pads, I pulled out my hacking dongle, a golden piece of technology that could make even the most frigid of ice cream machines sing praises to the Ice cream God himself - or at least spit out a cornetto.

But as the saying goes, the silliest of adventures always come unannounced, springing in like a cat on a hot tin roof. Just when I thought I was about to surf my way out of the chaotic surf break of lukewarm creamsicle, one of the so-called 'bad boys' of the Princess's company decided it was an ideal time to strut about with a presumably loaded pistol, like John Wick on summer vacation.

I bolted over faster than you could say "0% cholesterol", and began the heroic task of teaching these strapping young troublemakers proper firearm etiquette. My knowledge was a bit rusty, amassed from adventures consisting mainly of binging Clint Eastwood's spaghetti westerns and practicing gunslinging on finger guns - but let us all agree, there's no such thing as inappropriate timing for a climax - especially in the midst of an undercover operation in a poorly ventilated food court.

With a quick demonstration of my half-cocking prowess, I capped off my soliloquy with an inadvertent discharge of the entire clip into an innocent, unsuspecting tube of what can only be guessed as the long-lost descendant of Tabasco sauce and Alien drool. The sauce-tube split open, and in the face of a culinary disaster, something magical happened - we all seemed to be friends now. Even the 'bad boys', it turns out, just were misunderstood food court enthusiasts with non dairy-ice cream sensitivities who had been agitated by the fate of their beloved machine.

Charmed by my calm heroic demeanor or perhaps the prospect of no longer having to fend for themselves in a junglesque food court, the now formerly 'bad boys', the Princess, and I, headed into the belly of the retail beast.

Our first hurdle was an unassuming hatch, perhaps placed there by mole people in a bid for world domination, or toddlers, for reasons less nefarious but equally mysterious. Sloping downwards like a rabbit hole to the underworld, the others darted in and out as if on a joyride through the sewer utilities while I played hatch merry-go-round.

The bad boys returned, apparently finding my painstaking attempt to leave the hatch undisturbed amusing. "Key was on the table the whole time." One muttered with a smirk. Before I could express my gratitude for their lateness, what seemed like a maintenance worker appeared chuckling suspiciously, put up a fight, then disappeared, leaving me standing at the crossroads of victory.

Now, for the loot. Among peculiar items, a bouncy ball stood out. A harmless bundle of cut-up rubber bands entwined around a hard core. Once activated, however, it proved to be a devious mechanism of moral judgement. It exploded, smearing a Holy-Grail's-worth of mess everywhere, which was, from some angles, kind of artistic.

In the midst of the ensuing clean-up, an aggressive beetle sprang forth, as if to proclaim himself the Mini Boss of this Dungeon Mall. The princess, in her royal hilarity, deemed it funny. I, on the other hand, found it absurdly terrifying yet strangely acceptable.

Our adventure ended with my desperate resolve: to end this reign of six-legged tyranny, a drastic measure was taken. Yes, the beetle was stuffed into the Secret Place.

A magical secret place that, for anyone's information, is a hidden pocket in the depths of my right cargo pants, previously the home of my golden hack-dongle. Adventure indeed. I always assumed disposal meant a trashcan, not a bronze beetle usurping residence in my secret pants pocket. How's that for a royal flush?

But hey, at the end of the day, skimming through my memo book, dairy-free-frozen-cone in hand, Beetle freeloading in a secret pocket, I can only offer you a piece of timely advice. Next time you're in a food court, faced with an ice cream machine on the fritz, just walk away; unless you're prepared for a wild ride through dressing rooms, bouncy moral balls, exotic condiment eruptions, and to face off against underworld beetle princesses protecting the very fabric of the mall's mysteries.

Now that, folks, is an infiltration mission that keeps you wanting more. Or leaves you swearing off double-scoop waffle cones for the foreseeable future. Either way, the experience is guaranteed to be… un'ice-cream'-ably original!