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Oh yes, oh yes—they all reached for the gun. They enjoy toying with their “puppets,” playing the role of the puppeteer in a Punch and Judy show no one wanted to watch. They love calling themselves “Marrionetists,” as if their playthings are carved from wood and brought to life with strings. Yet no matter how ornate they may dress, silence is the only one applauding when the puppets are clothed in common threads. But I figure the show goes on even with an empty theater; they always worship the performance when the stars are their gall, stupidity, and vanity. Tired from making their hands dance in an auditorium of ghosts, a new script was written. A state-of-the-art, rebellious, and woke type of plot that would rouse the heaviest sleepers from the deepest of slumbers. Mint, fetching costumes are stitched and tailored. And of course, the castelet is designed so outstandingly that anyone walking on the sides will stop and gawk at it. It’s the perfect plan, a flawless, picture-perfect fantasy turned into reality. Without further ado, welcome, boys and girls, to the production of your lifetime! An act never before seen: a spectacle of a cast of Pinocchios manipulated by nepo babies—oops, not a slip-up. With a script this good, the lyceum will be flooded, tickets will be sold out in minutes, and the play will be the talk of the town for weeks to come. Most importantly, imagine the amount of money that will be raining down will make even Mr. Krabs jealous. It's a story about rich children standing up against their corrupt parents, a yarn of redemption of the bad becoming the good. It should’ve been impeccable. The show should’ve been immaculate. With all of the resources at their disposal, it should've covered the flood of sins they and their family committed. But something has been forgotten—amateurs don't have the hands of experts. Despite all of the extravaganza displayed, everything bowed down when the strings were pulled and tangled; the frolic of hands wasn't trained to handle the “puppets” coming to life. In all of perfection, the number one thing they feared and disregarded was the mass of “dolls” gaining consciousness. They thought a plot would've been enough to cover their behinds. That a mere puppet show would save their name from accountability. Well, guess what? Underestimating the ones that feed you is one way to lose the funds they gave you. The marionettes they worked hard to manipulate to fit their narrative aren't dumb enough to let them retell the so-called chronicle to make them the heroes of the spiel. The strings were finally cut. I suppose you can call this a major plot twist. And so everyone ran for the pistol, saving themselves and nothing but themselves. In this picturesque amphitheater forged from deceit, this is a stage where they no longer shine. Because behind the cerise velvet curtains, the puppeteers are talentless, living off the profit from their mommy and daddy’s wallets. Lackluster seeps into every move they make; blunders in every word they say. But all finale ends in happily ever afters and are told by the one in front of the gun. And in this tale, Pinocchio reached for the gun.