Living across from John meant accepting certain realities: the constant stench, the mystery liquids seeping from his garbage bags, and the weekly treasure hunt for whatever debris the wind carried into our yards.
For three years, we pleaded with him to use proper trash cans. For three years, he ignored us. Then, one fateful night, the weather forecast predicted 45 mph winds—and our street became ground zero for karma.
By dawn, John’s trash had migrated to every corner of the neighborhood. A chicken carcass decorated Mrs. Miller’s flower bed. Mr. Rodriguez’s kiddie pool had become a soup of soggy napkins. When we confronted John, he brushed it off. “Not my problem,” he said.
But the raccoons disagreed. Overnight, they turned his yard into a garbage-themed art installation. They dragged leftovers through his grass, dunked rotting food in his pool, and left him staring at the mess in stunned silence.
The next week, shiny new trash cans appeared at John’s curb. No explanation, no apology—just the quiet satisfaction of watching a stubborn man finally learn his lesson.
