The plan came together that evening. I had to take a cab to work the next day, but on the way home, I stopped at a few local shops and picked up everything we needed: motion-sensor sprinklers, a couple of solar-powered wildlife cameras, a high-powered floodlight, and—at Max’s insistence—a bulk order of biodegradable glitter and a few jars of sardine paste. I didn’t ask why. Not yet.
That night, under cover of darkness, the boys helped me set everything up.
First, we installed the motion-sensor sprinklers at the edges of my driveway and just under the lip of my garage. Then we mounted the cameras discreetly in the bushes. They had night vision and motion detection, perfect for catching any mischief. The floodlight? Positioned to activate the moment someone crossed onto my driveway. As for the glitter and sardine paste? That was Max’s specialty.
The next step of the plan was psychological.
I printed out the clearest photo of the tape-wrapped car and laminated it. Then I placed it in a frame, right in my front yard, with a little plaque beneath that read:
“This was your warning. Next time, bring a boat.”
Just to send the message home, I added a small speaker under my porch that played the sound of a foghorn every time someone walked by. It was subtle. Petty? Maybe. But satisfying? Oh, absolutely.
And then… we waited.
Act II: Escalation
It took two days.
On the third night, Brent’s oversized SUV rolled up again—into my spot. I was watching from the porch with a cup of tea in hand. As soon as his tires crossed into the space, the motion sensors activated.
PSSHHHHHHHT!
A jet of freezing cold water blasted from the sprinkler directly onto the driver’s side window. The floodlight snapped on like a stadium light, illuminating Brent like a deer caught in a nuclear-powered headlight. He swore, scrambled out of the SUV—and then came the glitter.
Apparently, Max had created a rig using a party popper, a small delay timer, and a bucket. When Brent stepped onto the walkway, it triggered the device. A shower of eco-friendly, brilliantly pink glitter exploded over his head like New Year’s in Vegas.
That would’ve been enough for me.
But Brent made one last mistake.
He marched up to my front porch, banging on the door, yelling, “You think this is funny, old man?!”
That’s when the sardine paste kicked in.
You see, Max had smeared just a little along the railing and porch steps. Enough to leave a smell that drove the neighborhood raccoons absolutely wild.
I didn’t even have to say a word. Just as Brent stood there, fuming and covered in glitter, a family of raccoons emerged from the hedges like a furry SWAT team. One leapt straight at Brent’s leg.
The scream he let out… well, I’ll cherish that sound forever.
Act III: The Fallout
The next morning, I filed a formal complaint with the HOA—this time with photographic and video evidence. The tape prank. The repeated violations. The attempted intimidation. The raccoon incident.
The board was stunned. Apparently, Brent had already been on thin ice for violating noise ordinances and hosting unpermitted gatherings. Within a week, he received a fine of over $1,200 and a formal warning of eviction.
Cole, to his credit, showed up at my door the day after the raccoon incident with an awkward, sheepish look.
“Mr. Benson,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t know my dad was… like this. I just thought you two had a misunderstanding.”
I nodded. “Sometimes misunderstandings are cleared up by words. Other times, by wild animals and glitter.”
He chuckled nervously. “Fair enough.”
To my surprise, Cole moved out a month later—into a nearby apartment and even offered to help me repaint the lines on my parking spot. Brent? He lasted another two weeks before putting his house up for rent and disappearing into whatever smug corner of the world he came from.
Peace returned to the cul-de-sac.
Now, every morning, I sip my tea on the porch while Leo’s wind chimes hum quietly overhead. The motion sensors still sit there, just in case. The framed photo of the tape job still holds its place in my yard. And the glitter?
Well, Brent will probably be finding it in his clothes for years.
Moral of the story:
Never mistake kindness for weakness. Especially not in a man who’s lived through loss, learned patience, and has a neighborhood full of loyal friends—and raccoons.
Signed,
Arthur Benson
(Still parked in my spot. Permanently.)
