Eleven raccoons. One trash can. Zero witnesses — except the Ring camera, the neighbor who saw everything, and the dog who sold them out for a single biscuit. The prize: a half-eaten rotisserie chicken and an entire untouched casserole, cased over three nights of surveillance from the storm drain.
The crew was flawless. The lookout on the fence screamed twice — once at a moth, once at his own reflection. Big Marv handled the lid. Socks defeated the bungee cord in forty seconds. It was the most coordinated thing to happen on this street since the HOA meeting.
Then Gerald sneezed. A full-body, echo-off-the-garage-doors sneeze that woke the dog, triggered the porch light, and scattered eleven raccoons in eleven directions. Gerald dropped the pizza box and just sat there, caught red-pawed, staring into the Ring camera like a deer in headlights. Demoted to lookout duty. The crew will be back next Tuesday. They always come back.