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In this week’s comic strip, the gang gathers at the counter of The Candy Bar, facing a bona fide medical mystery: Doc didn’t show up for work today! Frenchy innocently wonders if he might simply be sick, but Charmy shuts down that theory with classic cartoon logic—doctors never get sick; have you ever seen a sick doctor? Weaver points out that if that were true, Charmy would have made an absolute fortune as a physician, given how thoroughly he makes everyone around him sick. Charmy’s dreams of easy wealth are instantly dashed by the punchline, but as the banter dies down, the reality sets in: Doc is unaccounted for, and Fort Hill has no physician on duty.

The morning sun reflected off the polished wooden countertop of The Candy Bar, where empty malt glasses and scattered wrappers sat in quiet testament to the crew’s breakfast debate. Charmy Packy leaned forward on his elbows, staring intensely at the door as if Doc might burst through at any second, waving a syringe and lecturing someone on eating too much sugar before drills. But the brass bell above the threshold remained motionless. In all their time stationed at Fort Hill, Doc had never failed to open the dispensary at seven sharp. He was a creature of erratic habits and questionable medical remedies, yet his punctuality when it came to tormenting the enlisted troops with tongue depressors and icy stethoscopes was legendary.

“Look, I’m telling you, something is deeply, historically wrong,” Charmy insisted, tapping his foreleg against the laminate counter. “A regular guy calls in sick. A sergeant goes AWOL on a fishing trip. But Doc? The man thrives on the smell of isopropyl alcohol and fear. He wouldn’t miss a day of work unless foul play was running loose in this camp.”

Frenchy tilted her head, her blonde locks brushing the rim of her coffee mug. “Maybe he went to a medical convention! You know, where they learn all the newest ways to wrap an ankle or tell people their funny bone isn’t actually a bone.”

“Doc doesn’t go to conventions, Frenchy,” Weaver muttered from the stool beside her, adjusting his antennae. “The last time he attended an accredited seminar, they revoked his door badge before the keynote speaker finished clearing his throat. The board said his bedside manner qualified as psychological warfare.”

Flimp the chimp scratched his chin thoughtfully, uttering a soft, rhythmic series of chirps and hoots that sounded suspiciously like a siren. He mimed looking through a pair of binoculars, pointing out the window toward the quiet, dusty trails leading back to the base clinic.

“Flimp is right,” Frenchy translated cheerfully, clapping her hands together. “Doc wouldn’t just abandon his patients! What if someone comes down with scurvy? Or sudden dance fever? Who is going to prescribe bed rest and butterscotch drops?”

“Nobody, because Doc doesn’t care about butterscotch—he cares about his schedule,” Charmy declared, jumping off his barstool. The wheels inside his mischievous mind were already spinning at maximum velocity. The soldier in him recognized a disruption in base operations; the theatrical wise guy in him recognized something far better: an opportunity for drama, mystery, and high-stakes amateur sleuthing. “Think about it! In every great detective movie, the missing person is the anchor of a massive conspiracy. Someone had to take him. Or silence him. Or maybe he stumbled onto a secret supply of contraband chocolate rations that goes all the way to the top brass!”

Weaver groaned, resting his chin on his hands. “Charmy, please don’t turn a lazy Sunday into an international incident. Doc probably slept in. Or his alarm clock battery died.”

“A dead battery doesn’t explain the creeping dread hanging over this counter, Weaver!” Charmy shouted, pacing back and forth across the plank floorboards. “If Doc is gone, the safety of Fort Hill is compromised. Chaos will reign. The enemy could strike our defenseless ant hill at any moment, knowing our frontline band-aid distributor is compromised! We cannot sit idly by while a respected—or at least technically licensed—officer of this army disappears into the ether.”

Frenchy’s eyes lit up with unbridled excitement. “Oh! Are we going on an undercover operation? Can we have code names? I want to be Agent Marshmallow Fluff!”

Charmy stopped in his tracks, turning to face his three companions with narrow, calculating eyes. He puffed out his chest, stepping into his natural role as the self-appointed mastermind of Fort Hill. “We are not just going on an operation, Frenchy. We are launching an official criminal inquiry. The Candy Bar will serve as our command center, but our jurisdiction is everywhere the shadows linger. If Doc has been taken, the perpetrator is banking on us being too oblivious to notice. Well, they picked the wrong troop of ants to underestimate.”

“And the wrong monkey,” Weaver added dryly, gesturing to Flimp, who had just managed to balance an empty sugar shaker on his nose.

“Exactly!” Charmy snapped his fingers. “A true detective doesn’t just ask questions—he embodies the truth. He blends into the gritty underworld of crime-solving. If we’re going to crack the disappearance of Doc, we need gear. We need authority. We need sharp, intimidating double-breasted outerwear.”

Frenchy gasped. “Trench coats?!”

“The very finest trench coats military surplus and thrift shop bargain bins can provide,” Charmy proclaimed. “Weaver, you’re on logistics. Flimp, you’re head of surveillance. Frenchy, you need to prepare yourself for any medical contingencies we uncover in the field. When we track down whatever syndicate is snatching our physician, they won’t know what hit ’em.”

Weaver rubbed his temples, already anticipating the catastrophic misunderstanding blooming in Charmy’s head. “Charmy, if we put on costumes, we are going to look ridiculous. Everyone in camp already knows who we are.”

“Costumes? These aren’t costumes, Weaver. They are uniforms of justice!” Charmy turned on his heel toward the exit, his antennae quivering with boundless enthusiasm. “Gather your things, soldiers. By this afternoon, the Candy Bar Detective Bureau begins its investigation. And whoever took Doc is about to learn that you don’t mess with the army!”