The Peach Pit Pranksters of Augusta

Chapter One: The Art of Mischief

Augusta, Georgia — One Week Before the Masters

Ashley Cardin balanced on a wobbly ladder in the dim glow of her downtown studio, her paint-splattered overalls speckled with glitter. The air smelled of acrylics and peach-scented candles—her grandmother’s favorite. On the floor lay her latest project: a six-foot papier-mâché peach, hollowed out to hold… something. Something whimsical, she thought. Something that’ll make this city smile.

But Augusta wasn’t exactly known for embracing “whimsical.” Not since the Great Biscuit Incident of 2018, when someone replaced the flour at the Piggly Wiggly with neon powder, turning the First Baptist Church bake sale into a tie-dye spectacle. The culprit was never caught.

Ashley sighed, adjusting the peach’s stem. Maybe I’ll stuff it with confetti and roll it down Broad Street. Or—

THWACK.

A pebble hit her window. Then another.

She peered outside. Below, two kids in matching camouflage hoodies waved frantically. One held a walkie-talkie; the other brandished a slingshot.

“Psst! Ashley!” hissed the girl. “You’re the art girl, right? The one who yarn-bombed the library lion?”

Ashley leaned out. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

“We’re Dewey and Darla,” said the boy, puffing his chest. “And we’ve got a proposition.”

Twenty Minutes Later — The Hidden Speakeasy

Ashley followed the twins through a trapdoor behind the Book Tavern, down a spiral staircase lined with dusty novels. The air hummed with the buzz of fairy lights and the faint twang of a Willie Nelson record.

“Welcome to the Peach Pit,” said a voice.

Bea “Queen Bee” Hollis sat at a salvaged diner booth, her silver-streaked curls tucked under a newsboy cap. Beside her, a lanky guy in a Star Wars hoodie (Jasper, presumably) disassembled a drone, while a smooth-faced mail carrier (Manny, according to his name tag) shuffled a deck of cards.

“Heard you’ve got a knack for public interventions,” said Bea, sliding a sweet tea across the table. “We’re planning a little… bubble bath for the Augusta Common fountain. Think you can make it artistic?”

Ashley’s eyes lit up. “Biodegradable dye? So the bubbles look like cotton candy?”

Jasper snorted. “I like her.”

Three a.m. The Common slept, its oak trees draped in Spanish moss. Ashley crouched behind a bench, clutching a backpack of organic soap pellets. Bea had brewed them using aloe and magnolia extract—“gentle on duck feathers, hell on solemnity.”

“Phase one: Duck Distraction,” Manny whispered into his walkie.

On cue, Dewey and Darla unleashed a squadron of remote-controlled rubber ducks (wearing tutus, naturally) into the pond. The night guard chuckled, wandering over to investigate.

“Go!” Bea hissed.

Ashley and Jasper sprinted to the fountain, dumping the soap pellets into the water. Jasper rigged a submersible speaker to blast bubble-pop sound effects, while Ashley strapped a waterproof projector to Poseidon’s trident.

“What’s that for?” Jasper asked.

“It’s a surprise.”

As the fountain burbled to life, suds mushroomed into a pastel tower—pink, blue, and gold. Ashley’s projector lit the foam with swirling peach blossoms.

“Y’all are bonkers,” Manny grinned. “I love it.”

By sunrise, the Common was a carnival. Kids somersaulted into suds, dogs barked at “snowdrifts,” and a group of yoga moms staged an impromptu foam party. The local news crew arrived just as Jasper hacked the mayor’s press conference mic to play Splish Splash.

Ashley watched from a distance, heart swelling. Bea sidled up, tucking a peach pit into her palm.

“Leave this where they’ll find it,” she winked. “It’s our signature.”

On the pit, in tiny script, was a haiku:

Bubbles kiss the sky,

Augusta laughs in confetti—

Secrets bloom like spring.

Back at the speakeasy, the crew dissected their triumph. Ashley glanced at the “Wall of Mischief”—polaroids of past pranks, including a certain yarn-cozy statue.

“So…” Dewey spun a rubber duck on the table. “What’s next?”

Bea smirked. “Ever heard of glitter azaleas…?”

Ashley leaned in, the peach pit warm in her pocket. Augusta might not know her name yet, but soon, it’d know her art.

Chapter Two: The Sparkle Rebellion

Augusta, Georgia — Masters Week

The city hummed with the manicured energy of golf’s greatest spectacle. Streets brimmed with emerald-green merchandise, and the scent of pimento cheese sandwiches wafted from the Augusta National Golf Club. But beneath the pristine surface, the Peach Pit Pranksters stirred like sugar in sweet tea.

Ashley knelt in Bea’s backyard shed, surrounded by jars of biodegradable glitter. Dewey had labeled them Danger: Excessive Joy Inside. “We’ll need ten pounds per cannon,” Bea said, tossing her a respirator. “Azaleas don’t sparkle themselves.”

“What if the wind shifts?” Ashley asked, eyeing the glitter’s neon hues.

“Then the CBS cameras get a close-up of a rainbow caddie,” Jasper smirked, soldering wires to a fleet of drones. “Win-win.”

The Plan

Target: The 13th hole’s famed azaleas, a Masters landmark.

Roles:

- Jasper & Dewey: Deploy glitter cannons via drones.

- Manny: Pose as a groundskeeping intern (complete with a stolen polo and a clipboard of fake irrigation reports).

- Darla: Hack the spectator jumbotrons to play Walking on Sunshine during detonation.

- Bea & Ashley: Blend into the crowd as “botanists” to document the “rare glitter bloom phenomenon.”

“And when security chases us?” Ashley whispered.

Bea handed her a parasol. “Twist the handle. It releases smoke bombs—peach-scented, of course.”

5:47 a.m. — Azalea Dawn

The crew crept through the mist-draped golf course, their footsteps muffled by dew. Jasper launched the drones, their rotors whirring softly. Manny strolled toward a cluster of security guards, waving his clipboard. “Y’all seen the hydrangea blight? Whole north quadrant’s infested.”

Ashley’s palms sweat as she adjusted her oversized sunhat. “Act natural,” Bea murmured, snapping photos of a shrub. “You’re a scientist. Ooh, look at this chlorophyll variance!”

Above, the drones hovered. Dewey’s voice crackled in their earpieces: “Fire in the hole!”

Whoosh.

Glitter erupted in geysers—pink, gold, violet—dusting the azaleas like fairy frost. Spectators gasped as the flowers shimmered under the rising sun. Darla’s jumbotron hack kicked in, and the crowd began cheering… then dancing.

“Ma’am, step back!” A guard lunged at Bea.

Twist.

Peach-scented smoke billowed from Ashley’s parasol, cloaking their escape. They slipped into a maintenance cart driven by Darla, who’d “borrowed” it from a napping valet.

By noon, #GlitterGate trended worldwide. Sports analysts debated whether the sparkles improved Rory McIlroy’s putting (they didn’t). The club chairman huffed about “vandalism,” but secretly framed a glitter-coated azalea sprig for his office.

Back at the speakeasy, the crew high-fived over pimento cheese fries. “Saw a kid eating glitter off a leaf,” Manny laughed. “Parenting win.”

Ashley unclenched for the first time in hours. “What’s next? Yarn-bombing the Sacred Cod?”

Bea slid a peach pit across the table. Engraved on it:

Sunlight caught in thorns,

A wink where rules once frowned—

The Pit strikes at dawn.

That night, Ashley sketched in her studio: designs for magnetic golf balls. Outside her window, a shadow flickered. On the fire escape sat a single jar of glitter and a note in loopy script: For the scientist. –B.

Somewhere, a drone buzzed over the Savannah River, scattering peach petals.

Chapter Three: The Great Pimento Paradox

Augusta, Georgia — Masters Week, Day Three

The air buzzed with the clatter of sandwich wrappers and the murmur of patrons debating Tiger Woods’ latest putt. Inside the Masters concessions tent, towers of pimento cheese sandwiches—wax-paper-wrapped icons of the tournament—stood guarded by a sweating line of volunteers.

“They’re obsessed,” Ashley whispered, peering through binoculars from the roof of the adjacent merch booth. “It’s just cheese and bread.”

“Blasphemy,” Bea hissed, adjusting her disguise: a floppy sunhat and a lanyard labeled Official Sandwich Historian. “Pimento cheese is the Holy Grail of Southern comfort. That’s why we’re giving it an upgrade.”

Below, Manny strolled into the tent, flashing his postal badge. “Special delivery for the condiment crew!” he announced, hefting a crate labeled Duke’s Mayo: Extra Tangy. Inside, nestled beneath jars of mayo, were Dewey’s “specialty” sandwiches—outwardly identical, but packed with Jasper’s tech and Ashley’s artistry.

The Plan

Objective: Swap 200 pimento cheese sandwiches with “Par-Tee” versions:

—Stage 1: Ashley’s edible dye turns the cheese peach-pink when exposed to air.

—Stage 2: Jasper’s nano-speakers embedded in the wax paper play Georgia on My Mind when unwrapped.

—Stage 3: Dewey and Darla’s remote-controlled “cheese confetti” rigged to burst (gently) upon first bite.

Distraction: Bea would trigger a faux fainting spell near the 18th hole, drawing security.

Extraction: A golf cart disguised as a porta-potty cleaner, piloted by Darla.

11:02 a.m. — Sandwich Swap

Manny charmed the concessions manager with a story about his “granny’s pimento recipe” while subtly sliding the rogue sandwiches into the stacks. Nearby, Ashley posed as a health inspector, scribbling notes like ”Excessive joy levels detected in Sector C.”

11:17 a.m. — Distraction Deployed

Bea collapsed dramatically atop a bunker, clutching her pearls. “The azaleas… the glitter… it’s too… beautiful!” she gasped, as medics and three TV cameras swarmed.

11:23 a.m. — Chaos Served

The first sandwich was unwrapped. A soft trumpet fanfare began.

“Georgia… Georgia…”

A businessman froze mid-bite, his tie now dusted with peach confetti. “Am I hallucinating?”

By the twelfth sandwich, the course erupted in laughter. Golfers hummed along, caddies tossed confetti like birdseed, and a toddler wearing tiny golf spikes danced on a picnic table.

The club’s chairman unwrapped a sandwich in his VIP suite. “The whole day through…” crooned the wrapper. He sighed, hiding a smile behind his hand. “Those rascals.”

Meanwhile, the Pranksters regrouped at their speakeasy, watching the viral videos:

—A senator’s aide harmonizing with his sandwich.

—A poodle stealing a confetti-spewing snack.

—A confused groundskeeper raking glitter.

Bea tossed a peach pit into a bowl of pimento dip. Engraved on it:

Golden bread, pink spread,

Music blooms where crumbs are shed—

The Pit’s lunchbox creed.

That night, Ashley found a note taped to her studio door:

”Your turn to pick the next target. Think bigger. –B.”

She glanced at her latest sketch: a mechanized kudzu monster to “haunt” the Savannah River. Outside, Dewey and Darla lobbed confetti-filled water balloons at a passing police cruiser. The officer waved, tossing one back.

Augusta slept, its dreams dusted with peach glitter and jazz.

Chapter Four: Kudzu Karaoke

Augusta, Georgia — One Month After the Masters

The Savannah River rippled under a harvest moon as Ashley stood knee-deep in rogue kudzu vines, her overalls streaked with mud and mischief. Beside her, Dewey adjusted a baseball cap wired with LED lights, his grin glowing neon green. “This is your bigger?” he said, gesturing to the monstrous tangle of vines they’d spent weeks rigging.

“Bigger, louder, and legally ambiguous,” Ashley replied, clipping a speaker shaped like a giant cicada to the foliage. “Kudzu’s swallowed half the South. Time it sang for supper.”

Bea emerged from the shadows, her bike basket overflowing with peach pit maracas. “Sheriff’s onto us,” she warned. “Saw her sniffing around the Book Tavern yesterday.”

Manny tossed a wrench to Jasper. “Relax. I mailed her a fake invoice for ‘community joy revitalization.’ She’ll spend a week chasing paperwork.”

The Plan

Objective: Transform the riverbank’s invasive kudzu into a singing, dancing spectacle.

—Tech: Jasper’s motion-activated projectors cast shadow puppets onto the vines (think: frog bands, possum choirs).

—Art: Ashley’s biodegradable “voice vines” (kudzu dipped in reactive dye) pulsed colors to the music.

—Chaos: Dewey and Darla’s kudzu catapult launched foam peaches at spectators.

Distraction: Bea would lead a “historical tour” of the river at dusk, her group costumed as Founding Fathers on rollerblades.

Escape Route: A pontoon boat masquerading as a floating porta-potty.

9:08 p.m. — Sunset Serenade

The crowd gathered for Bea’s tour gasped as the kudzu shivered. A single spotlight hit the vines.

“Ohhhh, Susannah…”

The kudzu “mouth” (a cleverly cut hole) belted the folk song in a deep, auto-tuned baritone. Shadows of banjo-playing raccoons flickered across the leaves.

“Is this a TikTok trend?” a teen whispered, filming.

“Don’t you cry for me!”

The vines flashed from green to gold. Foam peaches rained down. Darla, hidden in a tree, cackled into her walkie: “Toss the cheese!”

Manny hurled mini pimento sandwiches into the crowd. Chaos erupted.

Sheriff Ramirez pushed through the dancing throng, her flashlight beam slicing the dusk. “Cardin!” she barked, spotting Ashley’s glitter-streaked ponytail. “I know it’s you!”

Ashley froze. Twist the parasol handle. Peach smoke exploded between them.

“Riverboat, NOW!” Bea yelled.

The crew tumbled into the porta-potty pontoon, Jasper mashing the ignition. The sheriff’s shouts faded as they puttered toward the Georgia–South Carolina border, the kudzu’s encore echoing behind them:

“You’re simply the best! Better than all the rest!”

By dawn, #KudzuKaraoke had 10 million views. The Georgia Department of Natural Resources issued a statement—“We do not condone… but dang”—while secretly using footage for their “Invasive Species Awareness” campaign.

The sheriff left a single peach pit on Ashley’s doorstep with a note: Nice work. Now clean the confetti off my cruiser. –R.

At the speakeasy, the crew sipped sweet tea from trophy cups repurposed from the Masters’ lost-and-found. “They’re renaming the riverbank,” Manny said. “Kudzu Karaoke Cove.”

Bea dropped a final peach pit into the centerpiece. Its haiku:

Vines hum, peaches fly,

Mischief roots where rules unwind—

The Pit waves goodbye.

Epilogue: One Year Later

Augusta unveiled a new statue downtown: a shimmering kudzu vine wrapped around a peach, singing into a microphone. The plaque read, “In Honor of Unknown Joymakers.”

The Pranksters watched from the crowd, incognito. Dewey (now 13) fake-coughed to hide a giggle. Jasper’s new drone buzzed overhead, dropping peach petals.

Ashley slipped a note into the sheriff’s pocket: Plant this by the river. Inside: a peach pit, a sequin, and a haiku.

Roots run deep, hearts light,

Augusta’s grin burns all night—

Pranksters fade… take flight.

As the sunset gilded the Savannah River, a single kudzu vine shivered. Somewhere, a banjo shadow plinked a G chord.

The end… or is it?