Raccoon — The Chalk Conspiracy

Raccoon — The Chalk Conspiracy

You spot the medallion tucked under a park bench—wedged just behind a garbage bin that smells like old hot dogs and damp popcorn. You reach for it. Cold bronze, a spark behind your eyes—and then:

“Hey, hey, hey! No sudden moves!”

You jerk back.

A raccoon is perched on top of the bench, upside down, tail dangling, eyes wide. His paws are already in your backpack.

“Relax,” he says. “Just checkin’ for valuables. You got snacks? Trinkets? Spare keys? No? Eh. You travel light.”

He drops to the ground with a flourish and dusts off his paws.

“Name’s Remy. Or Slick. Depends who’s asking. You? You’re new.”

You ask why the medallions let you talk to mammals and not birds or fish.

He squints, thoughtful. “Fish don’t have pockets. Can’t trust anyone without a place to stash things. Birds? Flighty. Literally. Also, too loud. Never shut up about wind currents. Mammals though? We’ve got secrets. Warm-blooded, night-hustlin’, snack-stealin’ magic-makers. We’re the right kind of trouble.”

He taps your shoe. “You wouldn’t happen to have any chalk, would you?”

You shake your head. “No. Why?”

He glances around, then leans in close.

“I got a scheme. Real elaborate. Involves chalk, two mirrors, and a sleeping badger who owes me a favor. But forget I said anything.”

He spins on his heel, then pauses. “You ever steal a traffic cone? Not for a reason. Just, y’know, for the thrill?”

You stare.

“No? Huh. You got potential, though. Eyes like a lookout. Heart like a raccoon. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

He starts to walk off, then tosses a grin over his shoulder.

“If you find any chalk, meet me behind the public washrooms at dusk. Don’t be late. Don’t be early. And definitely don’t tell the squirrels.”

He vanishes into the bushes with the soft rustle of mischief trailing behind.