So this reminds me of a story. Oh maybe, 12 years ago I lived in a housing complex. Mostly condos with the whole shared gym and pool type setup. It was a pretty chill community. There was a bi-monthly BBQ that came out of HOA contributions. People generally got along and life went on. That was until the phantom pooper made themselves known on the scene. It all started out with an innocent poop on my neighbors front porch. He mentioned it to me in passing. Something to the effect of "ehh stupid kids". We shared a chuckle and we moved on with out lives. Two days later I was awoken to a scream that can only be described as bloody murder. I literally thought someone was being killed. I generally dont wake this early so I was a bit disoriented. I proceed run out of my house in my underwear clutching a baseball bat I kept in my closet for just such occasions. Like I am some sort of half naked hickory stick toting hero. Well, let me tell you. My heroics/antics we neither needed or helpful in the current situation I was presented with. You see the phantom pooper has struck again! This time it was atop the hood of my other close neighbors car. We will call her "Betsy" for the sake of anonymity. Betsy stood infront of her mode of transport with a look of shock, confusion and pure horror on her face. There before her and me lay the one of the largest piles of shit I had ever seen. A steaming Cobra, seemingly daring someone to come closer or try and clean it up. It was formidable and intimidating. Betsy was right to scream in a manner as if being threatened with death. I might have done the same. I mumbled something about finding out who is responsible and that I am not dressed properly and beat a hasty retreat. What could I do? I had a baseball bat and my nakedness. I could not and did not want to help in this situation. As I had said before I in all honesty was intimidated by the sheer immensity of the turd in question. As I passed through the welcome portal of my domicile I quickly spun around to take a peek at Betsy desecrated vehicle. Resigned to her fate, she got behind the wheel and drove away. Maybe hoping it would simply roll, slide or be swept away. I watched in horror as it clung like a tick to a bloodhound all the way sown our shared road. I dont know what happend that day with Besty, her car and the turd. One can be sure it was unpleasant. After this incident the frequency of the pooping had increased dramatically. It became an almost daily occurrence. The locations the pooper chose were often varied and yet often were placed in what seemed to be a thoughtful manner. To ensure the poopee or ill-favored recipient would find it at some point in their day. Somehow I often seemed to be nearby when the discovery was made. Which brought undue suspicion upon myself it seems. The first occurence of this was with "Bob" (again changed for anonymity) finding a very large and offensive keester cake atop his mail as I walked past with my dog. Inside his mailbox. "What the fuck?!" were Bob's words. I had none at first. Wild thoughts ran through my head. How? Why? What the fuck? The phantom pooper had this time left their mark perfectly placed atop Bob's mail. How did they do this. The opening of the mailbox is so small and excuse my vulgarity at this point, but this was a huge fucking shit. Why? What motivation is given upon someone to share their excremental endeavors with the world. What the fuck? Yet another incident occured after I had just finished a morning workout and was exiting the gym. You see the gym and pool share a fence and gate. The idea being it keeps teenagers from sneaking in and fucking in the pool and hot tub at night. Which if you were to ask "Chester" the self appointed security system monitor you soon findnout "it still happens all the time" followed with a creepy chuckle. Well, as I had said before I was in the process of exiting the gym when I see "Sandie" and her little boy "Jeffrey". I smile and wave and high five "Jeffrey" in passing. Its just something we do. As I am opening the gate I hear "Jeffrey" ask his mother why there is chocolate in the pool. Again a very loud scream followed by shock, horror and confusion for all parties involved. "Chester" was consulted and asked to review the tapes. Suspicion upon me was heavy now as I seemed to be around for many of these "findings". I was soon cleared of guilt as they had no actual evidence of me relieving myself in the pool. Although I still felt the stigma of suspicion and distrust. To be fair there was a whole corner of the pool that was not covered by the cameras. I knew this was being used to justify the sentiments held in regards to my guilt. Well folks, I wish I could tell you this story ends well. That my good name was restored. That the suspicion of being the phantom pooper was lifted from me. That I saw vindication one day in the not so distant future. Well I am sorry to say that is not what happend. The pooping continued. The phantom poopers creativity knew no bounds. Upon someones roof. In the treehouse at the "Miller" household. Atop trashcans and fire hydrants. Inside slippers, rainboots and on one occasion an umbrella that people were foolhardy enough to leave outside. Oh folks, the pooping continued. The police were contacted. More security cameras were installed. The bi-monthly BBQ's became more quiet and less about fun. They became more a cesspool of gossip, scandal and hearsay. Then they eventually stopped altogether. The suspicion had grown beyond just me. We were all acutely aware now that it could be any one of us or none of us at all. The phantom pooper had us where they wanted us. Helpless against the fecundity of their fecal inspirations. The phantom pooper was always one step ahead. Always seemed to know where all the cameras were placed. Always seemed to know when newly hired security made their rounds. Was never seen, heard or left so much as a fingerprint. Always one step ahead. About a month later I had finalized the sale of my home and promptly moved away. I was free of the bonds the pooper had placed me in. I could have stayed longer, but at what cost? I was compelled to escape. No longer would the phantom pooper haunt me. No longer. I can not, nor dare not say what happend to the poor folk of that community. I only hope that in my departure, my name shall be cleared of any and all wrongdoings in the matter.