It was 4:15 a.m. behind the loading dock of yet another chronically overpriced, corporate-owned grocery store. The air was thick with the scent of discarded dreams, exhaust fumes and the unmistakable, depressing aroma of generic-brand frozen meat product that, according to its label, “may contain meat.”
I arrived at this agreed upon location to meet with an informant — a whistleblower, if you will — to speak the truth about the crippling economic depression ravaging our city’s streets.
The Brock Press had the privilege of sitting down with Scab for an interview. He is thirty-two inches of pure, unadulterated feral rage, missing half of his left year and currently suffering from what I can only assume is a mild case of rabies and a severe case of financial anxiety. Scab is a raccoon — and he is absolutely furious.
“It’s a complete and utter shitshow out here,” Scab hissed, violently tearing into a discarded, bone-dry ketchup packet. “You think inflation is hitting you guys hard? Try being at the bottom of the trickle-down garbage economy. You people are so broke that you aren’t even throwing out the good stuff anymore.”
According to Scab and the localized syndicate of suburban trash pandas, the halcyon days of the 2010s are dead and buried. Back then, the dumpsters behind the mid-tier subdivisions were a veritable buffet of upper-middle-class excess.
“We used to feast like kings!” Scab yelled, pausing to aggressively scratch a flea colony behind his remaining ear. “I’m talking half-eaten charcuterie boards. Perfectly good pieces of meat with only one bite taken out because some regional manager was suddenly doing keto and couldn’t handle the marinade. Hell, in 2019 I found an entire unopened wheel of imported gouda. Now? Now what do I get?”
Scab turned and gestured wildly with a chicken bone at an overflowing municipal green bin.
“No-name macaroni powder. That’s it! You people are licking the tin foil clean. I found a pizza box yesterday that had been scraped so thoroughly by a middle-aged accountant that it was basically just a transparent sheet of grease. We’re starving out here because you people can’t afford groceries anymore. You’re actually eating all of your food, and its cheap crap anyways. It’s selfish, that’s what it is.”
The economic downturn hasn’t just affected the dumpsters; it has completely destabilized the local wildlife real estate market. Scab explained that the affordable housing crisis has hit the ravines and alleyways with devastating force.
“You try finding an affordable storm drain in this economy,” he grumbled, taking a long, depressing drag from a cigarette butt he found in a puddle. “A modest hollowed-out log near a decent cul-de-sac used to cost a handful of bottle caps and a dead pigeon. Now? The foreign exchange squirrels are buying up all the premium oak trees and renting them out at exorbitant rates. I’m sharing a rusted-out Honda Civic bumper with a family of crack snorting possums just to make ends meet. Did you hear me? Possums! I need a co-signer just to sleep under a damn tarp.”
The desperation has pushed Scab to the absolute brink of his dignity. He paused, looking down at his claws in shame before confessing his darkest financial secret.
“I’ve had to resort to OnlyFans just to afford half-rotted cantaloupe,” Scab whispered, his voice trembling with feral rage. “Do you know how humiliating it is to wash your paws in a muddy puddle while weirdos pay $4.99 a month to watch? At this point, I’m taking feet pics for leftover Arby’s. It’s a gig economy nightmare.”
Scab’s dark, soulless eyes narrowed as he shifted his anger towards the geopolitical landscape.
“Honestly, I’ve got half a mind to waddle south of the border and see if I can get a job in the Trump administration,” Scab snarled, frothing slightly at the mouth. “I hear President Trump recruits staff members who have extensive, hands-on experience digging through garbage and screaming incoherently. It pays better than whatever the hell I’m doing now.”
But until his green card comes through, Scab is stuck dealing with the corporate overlords north of the boarder. He blames grocery monopolies for squeezing the middle class so hard that there’s nothing left for the scavengers.
“The bourgeoisie are hoarding all the quality trash,” he shrieked, climbing atop a pile of flattened cardboard boxes to deliver his final, unhinged sermon. “Have you seen the dumpsters in the gated communities? Imported Parmigiano Reggiano cheese rinds. Half-drank artisanal lattes. It makes me sick. Literally. My stomach can’t process dairy anymore without a prescription I can’t afford!”
Before I could ask any follow-up questions, the piercing sound of a garbage truck backing up echoed through the alley. Scab’s survival instincts kicked in.
“I gotta bounce. The feds are here,” he spat. Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed my phone, wallet and a half-empty bottle of generic ginger ale and scrambled up a nearby brick wall with terrifying agility.
As I walked home, missing my phone and wallet, I couldn’t help but reflect on Scab’s words. The economy is broken. The system is rigged. And if we don’t fix things soon, the revolution won’t be televised — it will be carried out by a mob of rabid, OnlyFans hustling raccoons demanding a better class of trash.
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This article is part of a special edition of The Brock Press for April Fools and is completely satirical. None of the content contained within this article is meant to be representative of reality and all quotes have been fabricated.