Sweet, Sweet Oblivion.
🎵
Goooooosefingerrrrr…!
He’s the goose with the golden teaspoon…
A taste for cocoa, a hunger for doom…
He’ll steal your sweet dreams in the dead of night,
Load them in rockets and launch them from sight…
Goooooosefingerrrrr…!
The name you mustn’t say… with your mouth full of mousse.
Bewaaaare the goooose… Goosefinger!
🎵
The Briefing
The owl adjusted her spectacles.
“Chocolate has been going missing from everywhere. Shops stripped bare.”
She slid a dossier across the table: empty shelves, a distraught badger with a cake tin, a note scrawled in chocolate: MINE.
“Curiously,” she continued, “the Casino Cocoa Royale shows no shortages. Investigate. Discreetly.”
She closed the folder with a snap.
“Find out where the chocolate is going — and stop it.”
Q’s Gadgets
In the basement, the mole popped up through a trapdoor, soot on his snout, glasses fogged.
“Pay attention, please. These could save your lives.”
He set down a biscuit tin. “Pull the custard cream and—” fwip! A grappling hook shot into the ceiling. “Just don’t eat the biscuits.”
Next, a thermos. “Keeps tea hot on the inside, melts steel on the outside.” He flicked it on. A flame whooshed out, instantly setting his notes alight. He stamped them out, wheezing.
Finally, he revealed a chunky wristwatch. Pressing the dial, it folded into a small teddy bear.
The snail blinked. “Why would we need that?”
The mole adjusted his spectacles. “In case things get really bad.”
Silence. Nobody asked further questions.
Casino Cocoa Royale
The rooster strutted into the casino in a tux two sizes too big. He sipped a martini, spat it back into the glass.
“Yuck, Stirred.”
At the main table, Goosefinger lounged in velvet, golden teaspoon twirling, chocolate smeared across his beak. Before him: a pyramid of biscuits.
“Deal me in,” the rooster said, slapping down a ginger nut.
It wasn’t poker. It was Snap.
“Snap,” said Goosefinger smoothly, scooping the pile.
“Snap!” cried the rooster, half a second late, spilling martini over a hedgehog waiter.
“You lose again rooster,” Goosefinger quipped.
“Maybe I’m setting up a trap,” the rooster puffed.
“Like this? ” Goosefinger tapping the table. A panel in the floor opened. The rooster vanished with a squawk.
From below came his muffled voice: “All part of the plan!”
The Factory
Outside the snail watched the goose leave the casino and climb into his limo. “It’s him. It’s the goose.”
They trailed him to an abandoned chocolate factory. Smoke curled from chimneys, conveyor belts rattled inside.
The lion tugged the biscuit-tin gadget. “We could scale the wall—”
The snail pushed a grimy window. It creaked open. “Or just go in.”
Inside, the factory stretched like an aircraft hangar. Ducks in black boiler suits and shades marched in formation, shovelling KitKats into crates. Conveyor belts rattled, cranes swung. At the centre, a rocket towered — fuselage bulging-packed full of chocolate, its nose cone scraping the rafters.
The turtle lingered at the boosters. Then paused at a single loose screw, barely holding a panel in place. Nobody noticed. He knelt, gently brushing rummaged quietly in his pouch. Something clicked faintly.
“Maybe we use the blowtorch thermos?” said the snail
“Oh, I forgot to bring it” replied the lion sheepishly.
On a gantry high above, a figure waited.
Goosefinger.
His feathers were slick with cocoa stains, claws gripping his golden teaspoon that twirled endlessly between them. But it was the beak that caught the eye — jagged at the tip, a sharp chip that gleamed under the lights.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
He tapped it against the railing, each strike echoing through the chamber, silencing even the ducks below.
“Hello, my little friends! So glad you could come.” said Goosefinger cackling as ducks surrounded the intruders and pushed them towards the rocket.
Operation Chocopocalypse
As the ducks finished tying the turtle, snail and lion to the fuselage.
Goosefinger stood before them, spreading his wings, teaspoon raised like a sceptre, eyes glinting.
“Welcome… to Operation Chocopocalypse.
In my rocket is every morsel of chocolate — every éclair, every KitKat, every humble Bourbon.
When it reaches Mars, chocolate will be rarer than gold. Scarcity will make it priceless.
And when the world is starved of sweetness, they will crawl to me, begging for just a crumb.
“It will be…” — his eyes glinted, chocolate smeared across his beak —
“… sweet, sweet oblivion.”
The ducks stomped in perfect unison.
He looked at the animals strapped to the rocket “Bon voyage”
Goosefinger jabbed the button. The console blinked once, then spat out a message in harsh red letters:
Access Denied: User ‘Goosefinger01’ does not have permission to run Chocopocalypse.
Goosefinger’s eyes bulged. “No, no… my beautiful Chocopocalypse! My sweet, sweet oblivion!” He mashed the controls. Nothing.
The turtle looked up, calm, holding a small screwdriver . “It’s not just you that has a few screws loose, Goosefinger.”
Goosefinger froze. Chocolate dripped from his beak. “Sabotaged… Noooo! “
The rocket wheezed again, then died with a sad hiss.
“You’re grounded.” quipped the snail
“OH, SHUT UP!” screamed Goosefinger.
For a moment he just stared. His wings began to twitch.
A strangled honk tore from his throat as grabbed a bourbon and hurled it at the wall — it burst into crumbs like shrapnel.
He lurched onto the control panel, wailing, feathers flapping wildly, beak thudding against the keys in a miserable rhythm.
He slid down to the floor in a heap, sobbing, crumbs clinging to his feathers.
The ducks shifted awkwardly. One coughed.
Then, with a shuddering breath, Goosefinger pushed himself up, smoothed his feathers and forced a smile.
“You USELESS ducks! I had it all planned, every detail perfect, and you—” He caught himself, eyes darting.
“No, well, of course. This was only a trial run. A… stress test. Yes. We’ve ironed out the kinks now. Version Two will be flawless. The Chocopocalypse has simply been… rescheduled.”
He stood up straight, grabbed a packet of chocolate digestives, and briskly waddled out with the crumbs still clinging to his beak.
The ducks watched him go in silence.
One lowered his sunglasses. “So, um… do we still get paid for this?”
Epilogue
Deep in the casino cell, the rooster slumped in his tux.
He raised his wrist, pressed the button on his chunky watch. With a click, it folded neatly into a teddy bear.
The rooster stared at it.
He hugged the teddy close.
Davide la Locomotive 
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