Back at the filthy hovel that was their current hideout, Blowholes one through two were scheming with renewed vigor, as their human compatriot slept off a hangover in the sack that had conveniently transported her there for the second time. The dolphins, through a tedious analytical process that involved at least one use of a paper bag puppet, entirely failed to suspect either that their employer had seen through their grift or that "Fern" was never quite who she said she was. They were, after all, two impenetrably perceptive geniuses among their already diabolical kind, and the only possible flaw in their plan must have been that their employer had never intended to pay them at all.
This part was remarkably correct, but they had still reached that conclusion through a mix of blind chance and unwavering ego.
"Amateurs!" spat Blowhole 2, shaking his head as he reviewed the complex calculations seen here. Suddenly pretending he hadn't been mortally terrified throughout their encounter with the postage-themed counter-assassin, he only felt more confident than ever that nobody, not nobody no how, "pulls a fast one" on The Blowhole Brothers.
"Hey fish, you got anything to eat in this dump?" said the recently conscious Cheryl.
"FERN!" yelped Blowhole 2 as he spun around, still rattled by the Grey-zoner's unwavering fearlessness towards two entire dolphins, and even to the thing he would still not admit nearly obliterated them. "A-anything ya say, Fern! A'course, Fern! Right away, Fern!!!"
As the creatures who were very much not fish on any conceivable level scrambled in a near panic to assemble a sandwich or something, Cheryl thought she spotted something of grave importance among their notes, but it made her head feel funny, and she forgot all about it as soon as she wasn't looking at it anymore.