Punky Brewster

Deep in the fog-choked hills of Dairy Hollow, there looms the Ice Cream Cone Factory. A spiraling, caramel-stained tower run entirely by sentient waffle irons and emotionally unstable soft-serve machines. Inside, the air smells like scorched sugar and regret. Conveyor belts made of licorice hiss and creak under the weight of freshly-pressed cones, each one whispering secrets to the next as they roll along. Occasionally, one screams. No one knows why. At the top of the factory, a vat of eternal vanilla whirls endlessly, watched over by the Conefather. A 7-foot-tall being made of fused sugar and existential dread. He only speaks in sprinkles. The floors are sticky with ambition. The break room has no doors. And every third Tuesday, the entire building hums the theme song from Gilligans Island for no discernible reason. No one leaves the factory unchanged. Some leave stickier. Some leave craving sherbet. One guy left convinced he was a popsicle and hasnt melted yet.