Episode 2: Tailgate Therapy

The parking lot smelled like charcoal, cheap beer, and the death of productivity. Fifty thousand fans. Two rival teams. And enough folding chairs to furnish a small country.

Chillada stepped out of his Jeep and inhaled deeply. "This is what America smells like. Freedom and processed meat."

Mango Mike emerged from the backseat, lugging DJ equipment that definitely wasn't going to fit through any regulation-sized door. "Bro, I've been waiting for this all year. College tailgates are where DJs go to be appreciated. Unlike SOME people who don't understand the cultural significance of a perfectly timed bass drop."

"Mike, you've been explaining bass drops to a pelican for the last hundred miles."

"He was INTERESTED. You could see it in his eyes."

"He was trying to eat your aux cord."

Berry pulled up on her motorcycle, scanning the lot. "Hey. Anyone else notice that?"

She pointed to a light pole near the entrance. Perched on top, watching them with an intensity that made no biological sense, was a pelican.

"Okay, THAT'S weird," Chillada said. "We're six hundred miles from any ocean."

"That's the same pelican from California," Berry said. "I'd recognize that beak anywhere. He tried to steal my sandwich at the beach party."

"Pelicans can't follow people across state lines, Berry."

"Tell that to the pelican."

Mike waved at it. "Hey buddy! Want me to explain DeFi?"

The pelican didn't move. Just watched.

The tailgate scene stretched before them like a beautiful disaster. Red tents on one side, blue on the other, a color-coded cold war of college football allegiances. Grills smoked. Cornhole bags flew. Someone had already lost their shirt, and it was 9 AM.

"Perfection," Chillada whispered.

Then he saw the banner.

WELCOME TO RESPONSIBLE TAILGATE ZONE - SPONSORED BY CORPORATEFUN™

Beneath it stood a man in a polo shirt so aggressively tucked it could file taxes. His khakis had creases sharp enough to cut glass. His name tag read: "BRAD - Wellness Engagement Specialist"

But it was the pin on his collar that made Chillada's blood run cold. Small. Beige. Octagonal. The exact same one Patricia had worn on her visor.

"Well, that's not a coincidence," Chillada muttered.

Brad was handing out pamphlets. The pamphlets had bullet points. God help them all.

"Good morning, tailgate enthusiasts!" Brad announced with the energy of someone who'd never had an authentic emotion. "I'm here from CorporateFun™ to ensure everyone has a SAFE, RESPONSIBLE, and INSURANCE-COMPLIANT good time!"

A man holding a beer blinked at him. "What?"

"No drinking games! No music above conversational levels! And absolutely NO," Brad consulted his clipboard. ", 'shotgunning.' Whatever that is."

The silence that followed was the kind usually reserved for funeral homes and DMV offices.

"He can't be serious," Mike muttered.

"Oh, he's serious." Chillada watched Brad attempt to confiscate a beer bong. "He's the most serious thing I've ever seen. And I once watched a man cry at a Jimmy Buffett concert."

Berry Blaze pulled up on her motorcycle, somehow having acquired a foam finger and a concerning amount of body paint in team colors. "What'd I miss?"

"Corporate America is trying to ruin tailgating."

"Ah. So we're doing a thing."

"We're doing a thing."

Chillada approached the Red team's territory first. They were huddled around a single sad grill, cooking hot dogs with the enthusiasm of prisoners doing laundry.

"What happened to you people?"

A man in a faded jersey looked up. "Brad happened. He said our 'brisket smoke output' was creating an 'atmospheric disturbance.' Made us switch to hot dogs. TURKEY hot dogs."

"Jesus."

"There's more. He's limiting us to two beers each. TWO. And they have to be 'light' beers consumed 'mindfully.'"

"That's not drinking. That's hydrating with disappointment."

Chillada looked over at the Blue team. Same situation. Defeated fans. Confiscated cornhole boards. A woman was crying into a veggie tray that had clearly replaced whatever glorious spread had been planned.

Time for chaos.

"Listen up," Chillada addressed the Red team. "What if I told you the best way to beat the Blues today... is to out-party them?"

Eyes lit up. "Go on."

"Not out-fight. Out-PARTY. Best tailgate wins bragging rights for the entire season. And I know for a FACT the Blues are planning something big. You gonna let them show you up?"

The Red team exchanged glances. Competitive fire sparked behind eyes that had been dead inside just moments before.

"What do we need to do?"

"First, we're gonna need to un-confiscate some things. Mike, you got the distraction ready?"

From across the lot, the opening notes of "Sandstorm" erupted from speakers that definitely weren't supposed to be there. Brad's head snapped around like a meerkat sensing a predator.

"UNAUTHORIZED AUDIO STIMULATION!" he screamed, sprinting toward the source.

That was Berry's cue. She roared through Brad's "Confiscation Zone" on her motorcycle, snagging cornhole boards, beer pong tables, and what appeared to be a regulation-sized smoker.

"THAT'S COMPANY PROPERTY!" Brad wailed.

"IT'S THE PEOPLE'S PROPERTY NOW, BRAD!"

Meanwhile, Chillada had slipped over to the Blue side with the exact same pitch. Within minutes, both teams were mobilizing for the tailgate war to end all tailgate wars.

The Great Grill-Off of the century began.

Red team threw steaks on grills that hadn't been used in minutes but felt like years. Blue team countered with ribs that had been marinating in someone's trunk since dawn,because nothing says "flavor" like four hours in a hot car.

The cornhole tournament escalated to a level that probably needed referees and possibly lawyers. Someone made a shot from twenty feet while shotgunning a beer. Brad saw it and started hyperventilating into a paper bag.

"This is AGAINST PROTOCOL," he wheezed. "I need to call the REGIONAL WELLNESS DIRECTOR."

Brad stumbled away, hand going to his ear. Chillada watched him carefully. That wasn't a phone call posture. That was...

An earpiece. Brad was wearing a goddamn earpiece.

"Target confirmed," Brad muttered, thinking he was out of range. He wasn't. "The pineapple is here. Yes, he has the first fragment. I saw it in his glove box when he parked. Proceeding with containment protocol."

Chillada's hand drifted to his pocket. The paper from the bottle. Someone was tracking it. Someone was tracking HIM.

"You do that, Brad."

Chillada positioned himself at the 50-yard line of the parking lot,neutral territory between Red and Blue. He'd somehow acquired a referee shirt that was several sizes too small and absolutely nothing underneath.

"ALRIGHT DEGENERATES," he announced. "FINAL EVENT. THE GREAT GRILL-OFF."

Both sides gathered. The air was thick with smoke, anticipation, and the distinct aroma of bad decisions.

"Rules are simple. Best burger wins. BUT," he held up a finger, ",you cook for the OTHER team."

Confused murmuring.

"You heard me. Red cooks for Blue. Blue cooks for Red. You want to prove you're the best? Make your RIVALS admit it."

What happened next would become legend.

Red fans carefully crafted burgers for Blue fans. Blue fans returned the favor. There was an unspoken understanding that THIS was about more than rivalry now. This was about telling Brad's corporate overlords exactly where they could shove their "responsible fun" guidelines.

By the time the stadium whistles blew for kickoff, the parking lot was one unified party. Red and Blue fans sharing beers, trading recipes, collectively agreeing that Brad could go straight to hell.

Speaking of Brad, he was currently tied to a folding chair (consensually, he'd given up fighting somewhere around beer seven) while someone painted his face half red, half blue. His phone kept buzzing, but he'd stopped checking it around beer four.

Chillada glanced at the screen. The message read: "CONTAINMENT FAILED. YOU ARE REASSIGNED. REPORT TO SECTOR 7. -THE DIRECTOR"

Sector 7. The Director. Chillada filed that away with Patricia's phone call and the beige pins. Something bigger was happening here.

"You know what," Brad slurred, having discovered alcohol for apparently the first time in his 34 years, "football is actually pretty fun. Like, the ENERGY, you know? The VIBES."

"There it is," Berry grinned. "We broke him."

"He's not broken. He's BORN, baby."

Chillada was mixing victory drinks when Mango Mike came sprinting across the lot, face pale despite the body paint.

"CHILLADA. We have a problem."

"Mike, if this is about the pelican thing again,"

"My gear. Someone took my WHOLE DJ setup. Everything. The decks, the speakers, my limited edition Daft Punk vinyl,"

"The Daft Punk vinyl?"

"THE DAFT PUNK VINYL!"

Chillada's blood ran cold. You could mess with a lot of things. But the Daft Punk vinyl? That was sacred.

"Who?"

Mike pointed to a black van peeling out of the lot, windows tinted, speakers visible through the back doors.

"I saw the driver. He was wearing a vest. Khaki. Had a LANYARD."

"A lanyard?"

"With multiple ID badges."

Chillada's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. "That's not Brad's crew. Brad's crew doesn't have that kind of coordination."

"Then who?"

Berry pulled up, engine still running. "You two getting in or what? That van's heading for the highway."

Chillada grabbed his keys. Looked at the party still raging behind him. Made a choice he'd probably regret but definitely wouldn't apologize for.

"Brad!" he called out. "You're in charge!"

Brad, face painted, shirt mysteriously missing, raised a red solo cup. "I WILL NOT LET YOU DOWN! WE'RE DOING BODY SHOTS AT HALFTIME!"

"...He's gonna get so fired," Mike observed.

"He's gonna get so FREE."

They peeled out of the lot, van in their sights, the distant sound of Brad starting a "WHO LET THE DOGS OUT" chant fading behind them.

Berry pulled alongside the Jeep at a red light. Her face was serious, which was rare for someone who once fought three bouncers while holding a margarita.

"We need to talk. Pull over."

Chillada swerved into a gas station. Berry was off her bike before it stopped moving.

"The pelican," she said. "That's the third time I've seen it. California. The highway. The tailgate."

"Berry, it's a bird."

"I don't believe in coincidences. And that's not a normal pelican." She pulled out her phone, showing a photo she'd taken at the tailgate. Zoomed in on the bird's eye. "Look."

Chillada looked. And felt his stomach drop.

The eye wasn't organic. It was glass. With a tiny red light behind it, barely visible unless you knew to look.

"That's a camera," he said.

"That's a DRONE. A drone shaped like a pelican. And it's been following us since Sunset Beach."

They both looked up. The pelican was perched on the gas station sign, head tilted, watching them with that mechanical eye.

"Who the hell has pelican drones?" Mike asked from the backseat.

Chillada thought about Patricia's phone call. Brad's earpiece. The beige pins. The Director.

"I don't know. But I think we're about to find out."

The van was getting away. They'd deal with the pelican later. Right now, Mike's Daft Punk vinyl demanded justice.

As they pulled back onto the highway, the pelican spread its wings and followed, its camera eye recording everything.