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Frenchy froze halfway into The Candy Bar, her purse dangling from her shoulder and her expression melting into pure horror. Weaver was sitting at the bar, sipping his cappuccino like a smug detective who’d just cracked the case of the century. He turned around with that goofy grin of his and chirped, “Hello, Francy Fluhicky!”

The color drained from Frenchy’s face so fast Candy nearly reached for a defibrillator. Frenchy blinked, jaw open, and muttered, “What… what did you just call me?”

Weaver smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that not your real name? You know, the one you use for your little online dating adventures?”

Frenchy’s mouth opened wider. She looked around, making sure no one else was listening, then hissed, “You better zip it, Weav! How do you even know about that?”

Weaver shrugged like he was just discussing the weather. “Oh, I know everything. You see, Francy Fluhicky, I happen to know you recently joined the hottest new blind dating app, ‘Love at First Swipe.’ Real romantic stuff, huh? I also know that your mystery date was supposed to meet you right here last week.”

Frenchy’s eyes darted toward the floor. “You… you don’t know who the guy was.”

“Oh,” Weaver said, dragging out the word like a cat toying with its prey. “I know exactly who the guy was.”

Frenchy’s hand slapped her forehead. “No. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.”

Weaver leaned back, took a long sip of his cappuccino, and said calmly, “Charmy.”

Frenchy groaned so loud that Candy nearly spilled a drink at the far end of the bar. “I can’t believe it. Of all the people on Earth, I get paired up with Charmy? What kind of cosmic prank is this?”

Weaver laughed so hard his coffee almost shot out his nose. “Oh, it gets better! You didn’t even show up, remember? He sat right here for two hours thinking his mystery date stood him up! Poor guy was crushed.”

“Crushed?” Frenchy shot back. “He ordered nachos and told Candy he was fine! Then he tried to hit on the jukebox!”

Weaver chuckled. “Yeah, but that’s his way of coping. You don’t understand. He told me afterward he thought his date might’ve been ‘the one.’”

Frenchy gasped. “What? He said that?”

Weaver nodded. “Yep. You, Francy Fluhicky, might’ve been his soulmate, and you ghosted him before the appetizers hit the table.”

Frenchy groaned again and covered her face. “This is my worst nightmare. You cannot tell him! If Charmy finds out I was his date, I’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll follow me around quoting romantic poetry and trying to hold my antenna.”

Weaver leaned on the counter, grinning like a cartoon villain. “Well, maybe I won’t tell him… if you do something for me.”

Frenchy peeked through her fingers. “Weaver, this sounds suspiciously like blackmail.”

“Oh, it’s not blackmail,” he said, trying to sound innocent. “It’s more like… a friendship transaction.”

Frenchy crossed her arms. “What kind of transaction?”

Weaver rubbed his chin. “Hmm, let’s see. Maybe next time Candy hosts karaoke night, you volunteer me for a duet with her. I’ve been dying to sing ‘Islands in the Stream,’ but she keeps saying my voice sounds like a goat giving birth.”

Frenchy groaned. “I can’t force Candy to sing with you. She’s scarier than a tax audit.”

Weaver waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, fine. Plan B. You help me market my new invention — the world’s first self-buttering toast.”

Frenchy squinted. “Self-buttering toast? How would that even work?”

Weaver leaned forward. “That’s where you come in! You’re the spokesperson. We shoot a viral TikTok ad. You say, ‘Are you tired of cold toast ruining your mornings?’ and then boom! You hold up my self-buttering bread, and it melts hearts everywhere.”

Frenchy stared blankly. “So your idea of keeping a secret is forcing me into a breakfast infomercial?”

“Exactly!” Weaver said proudly. “Hashtag SelfButterLife.”

Frenchy pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

Weaver smiled wider. “Okay, fine, fine, I’ll sweeten the deal. If you really want me to keep quiet, maybe you just owe me… a favor in the future.”

Frenchy’s antenna twitched nervously. “What kind of favor?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Weaver said casually. “Maybe one day I’ll need someone to sneak a giant raccoon out of the barracks. Or pretend to be my lawyer. Or maybe even join me in a flash mob proposal at the base cafeteria. I’m keeping my options open.”

Frenchy slammed her palm on the counter. “Weaver, you are impossible! You’d blackmail your best friend over a stupid dating app?”

Weaver held up a finger. “Correction. Over the funniest story I’ve ever heard. Charmy and Frenchy — destined for love but separated by pride and nachos.”

“Don’t you dare make that sound romantic!” Frenchy snapped. “Charmy and I have nothing in common.”

“Oh, really?” Weaver asked, pretending to think. “You both talk too much, you both love free snacks, and you both can’t handle rejection.”

Frenchy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I’m too mortified to throw my drink at you.”

Weaver finished his cappuccino, stood up, and stretched. “Relax, Francy Fluhicky. Your secret is safe with me… for now. But if I ever need someone to test my teleporting pants prototype, I’m calling you first.”

Frenchy watched him walk away, muttering under her breath. “Teleporting pants. Great. My life has officially hit rock bottom.”

Candy, who had been listening in while pretending to clean glasses, leaned over and whispered, “So, Francy Fluhicky, huh? Cute name.”

Frenchy glared. “You too? How did you—”

Candy smiled. “Sweetheart, this is The Candy Bar. Secrets don’t last longer than a foam latte.”

Frenchy groaned again and slumped onto the counter. “I’m never dating again. From now on, it’s just me, a pint of ice cream, and Netflix documentaries about red flags I should’ve seen coming.”

Candy patted her on the shoulder. “Cheer up, honey. At least your online date didn’t turn out to be a telemarketer who sold you six timeshares.”

Frenchy’s eyes widened. “Candy. Too soon.”

The two of them burst into laughter, the kind of exhausted, ridiculous laughter that happens when life just refuses to go smoothly. Frenchy raised her glass in mock celebration. “To being single, and to never trusting algorithms again!”

Candy clinked her glass. “To bad decisions and worse apps.”

From the far side of the bar, Weaver called out, “Don’t forget to tag me in your TikTok!”

Frenchy rolled her eyes and muttered, “Hashtag over my dead body.”

Moral of the story? Never mix online dating with your real-life friends. One of them might just be the algorithm’s idea of a perfect match… and the other one will definitely blackmail you for it.

#CharmysArmy #ComedyWriting #DatingFails #OnlineDatingHumor #FunnyComics