Chapter 51: Balloon Warfare
[Lopez's Apartment — July 15, 2019, 6:04 AM]
Something was wrong with the door.
I'd grabbed my keys, ready for my morning run, but the lock resisted more than usual. When I finally got it open, I understood why.
Balloons.
Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. Every conceivable color, filling the apartment from the entrance to the far wall. I couldn't see the furniture. Couldn't see the kitchen. Couldn't see anything except an ocean of latex spheres.
A note was taped to the nearest balloon, the handwriting unmistakably Tim's:
This is for the glitter in my shop car. -TB
The glitter incident had been six months ago— during the original prank war skirmish. I'd filled Tim's vehicle with enough sparkle to make it look like a unicorn had exploded inside. He'd been finding glitter in unexpected places for weeks afterward.
Apparently, he'd been planning this revenge the entire time.
I stood in the doorway for a full minute, processing the scale of what Tim had accomplished. Thousands of balloons. He must have recruited help—no way one person inflated this many alone. The logistics alone would have taken days.
My phone buzzed. Nolan: Tim just texted the group chat. "Check on Mercer if he doesn't show up for shift. He might be lost."
I typed back: I can't find my couch.
Another buzz. Jackson: PHOTOS. WE NEED PHOTOS.
I snapped several pictures, sent them to the group chat. The responses came fast:
Lucy: HOW Lopez: He asked for my spare key "for emergencies" Nolan: This qualifies as an emergency Jackson: An emergency of EPIC PROPORTIONS
My stomach growled. Breakfast was somewhere behind the balloon wall. I pushed forward, disturbing the sea of latex, trying to navigate toward the kitchen.
A balloon popped against my shoulder. Then another. Each step created minor explosions, the rubber shrieking as it burst.
Twenty minutes later, I reached the refrigerator. Grabbed a protein bar. Ate it standing in a pocket of cleared space, surrounded by balloons on all sides.
This was war now. Real war.
Nolan arrived at seven with a trash bag and a safety pin.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said, surveying the damage.
"You live next door to my actual house. That's across town."
"I was in the spiritual neighborhood." He began popping balloons systematically, working from the door inward. "Tim really outdid himself."
"How did he even get this many balloons?"
"Party supply warehouse. Lucy drove him there yesterday. She sent me pictures of the rental van." Nolan cleared a path to the couch. "They were up until 3 AM inflating them. Used an electric pump."
"Lucy helped?"
"Lucy orchestrated. Tim provided the concept, but Lucy handled logistics." Another balloon popped. "She feels you're winning the war. This was an attempt to level the playing field."
I should have felt betrayed. Instead, I felt something closer to pride. A prank of this magnitude required coordination, planning, commitment. My team had come together to inconvenience me spectacularly.
"That's actually impressive."
"That's Tim's love language." Nolan popped three more balloons in quick succession. "He couldn't say 'I'm proud of you for saving my life,' so he filled your apartment with balloons instead."
"That tracks."
We worked for three hours, filling seven garbage bags with latex remains. By the time we finished, my arms ached and my ears rang from the constant popping.
But I found something among the debris. A single balloon, slightly deflated, with a tiny stick figure drawn on it in permanent marker. The figure wore what looked like a badge, and underneath, Tim had written: Boot.
I set it aside. Kept it.
That Evening — Planning Session
Lucy arrived at eight, ostensibly to "check on my recovery." The traitorous gleam in her eye suggested other motives.
"Offering your services as double agent?" I asked.
"I'm a woman of many loyalties." She settled onto the cleared couch. "Tim thinks he's winning. He's not wrong—that balloon thing was legendary. But I happen to know his vulnerabilities."
"And you're sharing because?"
"Because watching you two try to destroy each other is the most entertainment I've had since the Halloween heist." She pulled out her phone, scrolled through notes. "Tim's car is sacred ground. He washes it every Sunday, waxes it monthly, and has a specific parking spot at the station that he defends aggressively."
"I already know about the car. Glitter, remember?"
"Glitter was amateur hour. You need to think bigger." Lucy leaned forward. "Tim is mildly phobic of rubber ducks. Long story involving a childhood incident and a bathtub full of them. He pretends it's not a thing, but it absolutely is a thing."
"Rubber ducks."
"Rubber ducks. Hundreds of them. In his car, on his desk, hiding in his gear bag—everywhere he looks, duck faces staring back."
My recall immediately began calculating logistics. Rubber ducks were cheap. Bulk ordering was simple. Express shipping could have them here in days.
"How many ducks are we talking?"
"Enough that he can't escape them. The psychological impact is more important than the quantity, but quantity helps." Lucy grinned. "I'll provide alibis. Just tell me when you need the parking lot clear."
"Sunday morning. During the shift overlap when everyone's inside for briefing."
"Consider it done."
After she left, I placed an order. Two hundred rubber ducks. Assorted sizes. Express delivery.
Some even came with tiny accessories. Sunglasses. Hats. One giant duck that could sit in the driver's seat like a passenger.
Tim Bradford had started this war with balloons.
I was going to end it with waterfowl.
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