Case Files — Swamp P.D. Major Scores Unit
The Jobs
The rap sheet lists the charges in three terse lines apiece. These are the stories behind them — the scores that built the empire, told the way only the guilty party would tell them.
Every dossier ties back to a charge code on the rap sheet. The Swamp P.D. would like it noted that publishing these is not, in their professional opinion, remorse.
The Gondola That Sang
a.k.a. “The Barcarolle”
Take: one negotiated-down charge, and a duet the arresting officer still won't admit to
The Setup
Midnight on the South Marsh canal, and PooPee had just closed the books on the best season of his life. A frog with a season like that doesn't row home quietly. He rented a gondola, pushed off alone, and started singing — loud, unhurried, dead in key — a running verse-by-verse account of his own net worth to an audience of nobody. Officer Croaksworth's patrol skiff came alongside somewhere around verse four, badge out, ready to write up a noise complaint.
The Take
There was no take, not in the usual sense. This job moved reputation, out loud, across open water — every verse a receipt read aloud for anyone drifting close enough to hear, sung like a frog reciting his own eulogy in advance because he intends to enjoy it.
How It Nearly Worked
It nearly stayed a warning. Croaksworth pulled alongside meaning to write up reckless operation of a watercraft and instead found himself correcting the second verse's harmony without thinking about it. By the time the citation was drafted, the arresting officer had personally contributed to the exact performance he was charging.
The Line That Got Him Caught
The charge was never the singing. It was the driving — both hands off the pole, eyes on an orchestra only he could see. Under oath, the Court asked Croaksworth if it was true, and got back the seven words that gutted the case: 'It was kind of inspirational, Your Honor.'
The Cattail Street Ribbit Casino
a.k.a. “The House Always Hops”
Take: a full season of the swamp's loose change, plus one (1) blackjack table
The Setup
There is a storm-drain under 4th & Cattail that floods three nights a year and is bone-dry the rest. PooPee leased it from nobody, wired it to a stolen firefly grid, and opened 'Big Tongue's' — cricket fights in the back, fly-roulette up front, and a blackjack table he swears fell off a riverboat. Doors opened at dusk and closed whenever the last frog ran out of flies.
The Take
The take was never the gambling. The take was the float — every frog in Croaktown kept a tab, and PooPee kept the tabs. He was lending the swamp its own money back at interest and charging admission to watch.
How It Nearly Worked
It nearly worked because the one frog who could have shut it down kept getting comped. Officer Beebs walked in to raid the place and walked out a consigliere with a cigar and a standing reservation. For eleven months the only law in that drain was the house edge.
The Line That Got Him Caught
He had it clean until he printed matchbooks. 'BIG TONGUE'S — UNDER 4th & CATTAIL, ASK FOR MICKEY.' Croaksworth found one in a gutter. You cannot subpoena a rumor. You can absolutely subpoena an address.
The Forty-One-Tenant Lily-Pad
a.k.a. “The Pad That Never Was”
Take: 41 deposits on a property with a documented surface area of zero
The Setup
PooPee advertised 'a sunny one-frog pad, prime south-marsh frontage, deposit holds your spot.' Forty-one frogs paid the deposit. The pad slept one. PooPee's innovation was refusing to let that math end the conversation.
The Take
Each new tenant's deposit became the previous tenant's 'rent rebate,' paid out with a handshake and a wink. Everybody got a little money back, nobody got a pad, and PooPee skimmed the difference forty-one times. The genius was that the early marks recruited the late ones — a satisfied victim is the best salesfrog there is.
How It Nearly Worked
It nearly worked because no two tenants ever showed up on the same night. He staggered move-in dates across a whole season, and a frog standing alone on an empty lily-pad assumes he is early, not robbed. The structure could have run forever on patience alone.
The Line That Got Him Caught
Tenant #41 and tenant #12 fell in love and compared leases over dinner. Same pad. Same signature. Same wink described in identical detail. 'I thought the wink meant it was just for me,' #12 told the court. So did everyone.
The Tongue-Press Shell Game
a.k.a. “The Laundromat”
Take: $4.2M in swamp-bucks, washed clean through 17 companies that do not exist
The Setup
Every frog's tongue-print is unique — the swamp uses them like signatures. PooPee built a brass tongue-press in a back room and stamped a borrowed print onto the founding papers of seventeen shell pondcompanies, each one owned by the next, each one billing the last for 'consulting.'
The Take
Dirty flies went in at company one and came out at company seventeen as clean, taxable, almost respectable income. On paper PooPee never touched a cent — it all belonged to 'B. T. Mickey,' a frog who exists only as a warm smudge on a brass plate.
How It Nearly Worked
It nearly worked because the tongue-print he forged was not his own. It was his twin's. The upstanding one. The one who files on time and pays every pond-toll. Every audit trail led straight to the most boring, blameless frog in the marsh — a frog with an alibi for everything because he genuinely never does anything.
The Line That Got Him Caught
The press ran a hair too hot. One filing came out with the print slightly melted at the edge — a flaw the real tongue could never make. The forensic clerk held the two side by side and said the seven words that ended it: 'This one tried too hard to be perfect.' Croaksworth recovered the press still warm.
The Nine O'Clock Witness
a.k.a. “The Deposition”
Take: one dismissed case, and the only eyewitness the marsh will ever produce against him
The Setup
The People had exactly one witness — a housefly named Bartholomew, sworn in behind a locked door, under round-the-clock protection. A sworn fly's account is ironclad in Croaktown. What the prosecution could not keep out of the sealed room, by law, was the defendant's own counsel — and the night before, PooPee had filed one crisp motion to represent himself.
The Take
The deposition opened at nine sharp. Bartholomew was sworn, cleared his throat, and began — 'I saw everything, and I will tell this court exactly wh—' The transcript does not contain the rest. It contains the stenographer's bracketed note: [witness no longer present]. The People's entire case had been reduced, in one heartbeat, to a matter of digestion.
How It Nearly Worked
It nearly walked because no crime on the books fit. Every witness-tampering statute assumed a witness who could be threatened, bribed, or relocated — not one imagined a witness who could be a snack. The Court itself noted, on the record, that 'this is technically what frogs do.'
The Line That Got Him Caught
He could not leave the deadpan alone. He dabbed his mouth, glanced at the empty witness chair, and said 'let the minutes reflect the witness and I have reached an understanding' — then licked his lips, slowly, for the record. The stenographer wrote down the lip-lick. That documented reflex turned biology into intent, and the marsh charged him out of principle.
The Registry Con
a.k.a. “The Good Twin Gambit”
Take: one spotless reputation, briefly, and every pond-toll refund attached to it
The Setup
After the laundromat fell apart, PooPee did the last thing anyone expected: he walked into the Croaktown registry in broad daylight and filed paperwork claiming to be the responsible twin — the one who never skips a toll, the one the whole marsh trusts. If you cannot beat your blameless brother's reputation, the thinking went, you simply become it.
The Take
A clean name unlocks clean money. PooPee redirected every pond-toll refund, every good-citizen rebate, and one civic award (a small bronze fly) into accounts only he could reach — all of it legally owed to a frog who would never think to check.
How It Nearly Worked
It nearly worked because nobody audits the frog who pays early. The registry clerk took one look at the impeccable filing history and waved it through, weeping a little at how nice it was to meet such a dependable young frog for once.
The Line That Got Him Caught
They asked him to sign the civic-pride ledger. The real twin signs everything in full, neat, apologetic cursive. PooPee signed it, leaned back, lit a cigar indoors, and said 'put me down for the whole marsh.' No honest frog has ever, in recorded history, asked to be put down for the whole marsh.
The lay of the swamp
The Swamp Map
Six ways deeper into the underworld. Pick a door — they all wind back to me eventually. That's how you know whose swamp it is.
- The Rap SheetEvery count they could make stick, and a couple they invented. I did all of it grinning.Read the charges
- The JobsThe heists, worked step by step — the casino, the tongue-press, the pad that never was. Take notes.Case the jobs
- The CrewEvery toad, cricket, and bent cop on the payroll or in my debt. Loyalty runs one direction. Down.Meet the crew
- The Croaktown GazetteThe swamp's fish-wrap of record. They run my name on Page One every week. I never write in.Read the front page
- Frequently Alleged QuestionsThe questions the swamp keeps asking. The answers my lawyer keeps begging me not to give.Ask the frog
- Places of CroaktownEvery recurring address in one gazetteer — the casino, the lockup, the cell, the courthouse-that's-a-casino, and the dotted line offshore.Walk the swamp
Lost? Good — a frog who can't be found can't be served. Every trail on this map is a work of parody; follow at your own risk.