In this week’s comic strip, the Candy Bar conversation takes an even weirder turn as the bartender points out the obvious hole in their ensemble: while Charmy, Weaver, and Flimp look like detectives, Frenchy is dressed from head to toe as a medical doctor, complete with a lab coat and head mirror. Frenchy explains with complete sincerity that she dressed that way just in case Doc needs medical attention when they find him! When the bartender gently reminds her that she isn’t actually a doctor, Frenchy proudly whips out a framed diploma as proof. Unfazed, the bartender guesses the credential came from Etsy—prompting Frenchy to gasp at her uncanny luck in guessing correctly!

The brass bell above the door jangled softly as the afternoon heat continued to bake Fort Hill, but inside The Candy Bar, the tension had pivoted from criminal conspiracy to medical accreditation. Charmy Packy stood on the lower footrail of the counter, adjusting his trench coat while eyeing Frenchy’s crisp white coat and the shiny silver reflector strapped around her blonde hair.

“You have to admit, it’s brilliant tactical planning,” Frenchy declared, smoothing down her lapels with two hands. “If Doc has been abducted by ruthless band-aid thieves, he might be injured! He might have a bruised ego, or worse, a splinter! Who is going to treat him? A detective? Detectives only have handcuffs and magnifying glasses. They don’t carry sterile cotton swabs!”

The bartender leaned over the counter, crossing her arms with an amused smirk. “Frenchy, sweetie, you can’t just slap on a reflector and start diagnosing people. You’re an army ant who works in communications. You fainted last month when Weaver got a paper cut on a requisition form.”

“That was a very deep paper cut!” Frenchy protested defensively. “The envelope was heavily glued! It could have severed a major artery in his fingertip!”

Weaver shook his head, holding up three fingers. “It didn’t even bleed, Frenchy. You splashed tomato juice on it thinking it was antiseptic.”

“And the wound did not become infected, did it?” Frenchy shot back triumphantly. “The antioxidants in the tomatoes formed a protective paste! That is advanced botanical medicine, thank you very much!”

“Okay, look,” Charmy interrupted, waving his hands to regain command of his investigative unit. “While I appreciate Frenchy’s dedication to field triage, we can’t have our lead medical specialist operating without undeniable authority. If the base provost marshal stops us, we need papers.”

“I have papers!” Frenchy announced proudly. With a flourish worthy of a stage magician, she reached behind the counter stool and hoisted a large, ornately framed document with gold filigree and a brilliant faux-wax seal. She held it high for everyone to see, her face beaming with scholarly pride. “Behold! Doctor Francine French, Doctor of General Healthiness and Bodily Well-Being!”

Flimp leaned over from Weaver’s shoulder, tapping the glass frame with his knuckles and screeching in utter admiration. To Flimp, anything framed in shiny faux-gold was undeniably authentic.

The bartender squinted through the glare of the glass. The calligraphy was swirling, printed on heavy parchment paper with delicate floral borders that looked remarkably like a wedding invitation. “Frenchy… this says you graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Sunshine and Good Vibes.”

“A very prestigious institution!” Frenchy beamed. “Their mascot is an otter holding a stethoscope!”

“And at the bottom,” the bartender continued, tracing a line of tiny print, “it literally says: ‘Crafted with love by GlitterBoutiqueUS on Etsy. For novelty display purposes only.’”

Frenchy’s jaw dropped in absolute astonishment. She pulled the frame back to her chest, clutching it defensively while staring wide-eyed at the bartender. “How… how could you possibly know that?! Are you psychic? Did you consult a crystal ball?! Lucky guess!”

Weaver pinched the bridge of his snout, groaning softly into his coat collar. “Frenchy, it has the shop watermark stamped right across the golden seal.”

“Artistic flair, Weaver! All the top medical schools use decorative watermarks to prevent forgery!” Frenchy huffed, carefully setting her diploma beside her mug of warm cocoa. “The point is, when we locate Doc tied up in some dark warehouse or stuck in a ditch, I have the legal and moral authority to prescribe two aspirin and a warm hug.”

Charmy tapped his chin thoughtfully, his sharp ant eyes darting back and forth. Despite the dubious nature of Frenchy’s credentials, he couldn’t deny the dramatic aesthetic of having a dedicated field medic. Every great task force had one: a leader, a brain, an enforcer, and a doctor. Sure, their enforcer was a mischievous chimp who only spoke in primate gibberish, their brain was an anxious dreamer in an itchy trench coat, and their doctor was certified by an online craft merchant. But in the lawless wilderness of Fort Hill’s mystery circuit, you worked with the squad you had.

“Fine,” Charmy conceded, tipping his fedora back. “The diploma stands. If anyone challenges us, we tell them you’re doing your residency. But right now, we have a bigger problem to tackle. If Doc didn’t walk out of here on his own two feet, and the bartender isn’t talking, then how exactly did he vanish into thin air?”

Flimp leaped down to the floorboards, spinning in circles and pointing toward the ceiling with wide, terrified eyes. The investigation was about to veer into truly uncharted, supernatural territory.

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