You knew agreeing to “help” Mr. Compress with his latest “project” was a mistake the second he handed you a clipboard and a top hat.

“A street performance!” he said, as if that explained jack shit. “You’ll be my assistant, my accomplice, my charming co-conspirator in this grand display of talent!”

You stared at him. He stared right back, eyes glinting with way too much enthusiasm for someone wearing two different patterned gloves and standing in the middle of a random downtown plaza.

“Bro,” you said flatly, flipping through the so-called “routine” he’d scribbled onto the clipboard. “This is just a list of crimes. And then a doodle of you riding a unicycle.”

Mr. Compress put a hand to his chest, utterly scandalized. “Please! I prefer the term ‘theatrical enhancements to public spaces!’ And that is not a crime — it is a celebration of culture!”

You were pretty sure “culture” didn’t usually involve juggling stolen hot dogs and vanishing wallets. But hey. You were already here. And frankly? Your day was too boring anyway.

Five minutes later, you were standing in the middle of the plaza, wearing the stupid top hat, trying to wrangle a crowd while Mr. Compress dramatically produced endless scarves, cards, random pigeons (where the hell did those come from?!) and at least two pocket watches from thin air.

Everything was going almost fine… until he accidentally compressed a tourist’s fanny pack.

“IT’S PART OF THE SHOW!” he shouted over the growing commotion, flinging glitter into the air like a desperate smoke bomb. “MARVEL AT THE MAGIC! THE MYSTERY! THE PENDING MISDEMEANOR!”

You slapped a hand over your face and muttered through gritted teeth: “I swear to God, I am NOT getting arrested for this.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Compress bowed grandly, the very image of a man who fully intended to escape whatever consequences were hurtling toward him at full speed — with or without you.