The Unfortunate Few - Word Total: 997

When the Good go Bad the results are chaos.

The Unfortunate Few

          The air in the alley behind "The Golden Crumb" bakery hung thick with the cloying sweetness of caramelized sugar and the distinct smell of failure. This was the usual scent of an evening in the company of the 'Unfortunate Few,' a crew whose ambitions consistently outstripped their, well, any abilities.

          Tonight's objective, as meticulously plotted by The Bean Counter, aka The Count, was the legendary Triple-Chocolate Chip Cookies, rumored to fetch a king's ransom on the underground snack market.

          "Alright, team," hissed The Bean Counter, his monocle glinting in the faint spill of moonlight, "Remember the plan. Sir Munch Alot goes in first, disables the security system past the loading dock. Can Man, you create a diversion on the main street. Big Daddy, you're the lookout. Dewey Kickumhard Boys, secondary entry, rooftop access. Any questions?"

          His words hung in the silence for precisely 1.7 seconds, as counted by The Bean Counter himself.

          Then, the chaos began.

          "Hold on a minute, fellas," boomed Big Daddy, also known as Big Bird to his Sewing Group, his towering frame momentarily blocking out the moon, "Before we get into the sticky business, how's everyone doing tonight? Bert, Ernie, rough day? And Oscar, that trash can looks a little... lonely. You doing all right, buddy?"

          Oscar the Grouch, known to the underworld as the Can Man, interrupted, "Lonely?! Are you kidding me, Big Daddy? This can and I are one! And could you be any louder? We're trying to execute a covert operation here! Walk quietly! Talk more quietly! Breathe quieter!" He punctuated each demand with a vigorous, rattling shake of his trash can, which, ironically, created more noise than Big Daddy's booming pleasantries.

          "Ernie, you gotta pay attention, man!" Bert, one half of the Dewey Kickumhard Boys, jabbed his partner in the ribs. "I just saw a pigeon! A racing pigeon, I bet. Could've been a distraction. We could've used it!"

          Ernie, ever the pragmatist since extensive psychotherapy, rubbed his side. "Bert, we're trying to rob a bakery, not start a pigeon fancying club. Anyway, you're the one always looking for pigeons! Remember last month at the bank? You were so busy eyeing that flock, you walked straight into the automatic doors!"

          "That pigeon owed me 4.7 cents!" Bert retorted.

          Meanwhile, Sir Munch Alot, as he was known in the darker corners of the culinary black market, otherwise Cookie Monster, had already grown restless. The scent of warm, buttery dough, laced with the intoxicating aroma of melting chocolate, was a siren song to his formidable appetite. He wasn't waiting for the security system. With a guttural rumble that vibrated the very asphalt, he launched himself at the nearest window, a sturdy sheet of plate glass.

          The sound was less a subtle disabling and more an act of culinary terrorism.

          "ONE!" screamed The Bean Counter, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "That's one broken window! And that's before we even started the actual breach!" His fingers flew over a small, leather-bound ledger, already tallying the damage. "Now! Can Man, your diversion!"

          The Can Man, jolted by the crash, promptly tripped over his own trash can. It careened down the alley, ricocheting off brick walls with a deafening clang-bang-thump-clatter, finally settling with a resounding BONK! against a lamppost, illuminating the entire crew in its sudden, sporadic flicker.

          "TWO!" shrieked The Bean Counter, scribbling furiously.

          Big Daddy, seeing the commotion, decided it was a prime opportunity to connect. "Oh, my goodness, Oscar, are you alright? That looked like a nasty bump. Did you hit your funny bone? Need a hug?" He started lumbering towards the Can Man.

          "Don't you dare hug me, Big Daddy! And I'm fine! I told you all to be quieter!" Can Man roared, now struggling to untangle himself from his overturned trash can, inadvertently sending its contents, a collection of rusty springs, old bottle caps, and a single, moldy cheese sandwich, scattering across the alley.

          Bert was now trying to coax a pigeon off the fire escape with a crumb of something he'd found in his pocket. Ernie, spotting the flashing lamppost and Big Daddy's luminescent figure, began laughing.

          "THREE!" The Bean Counter's voice was now a strained squeak. "Three minutes, and we've got a broken window, a trashed alley, an accidental spotlight, and a pigeon attempting to join the crew! This is the highest overhead-to-return ratio I've ever recorded!" The Bean Counter laughed as thunder rolled across the sky.

          Just then, a light flickered on inside the bakery. A portly man in a flour-dusted apron, wielding a rolling pin like a medieval mace, peered out the shattered window. He rubbed his temples, clearly accustomed to this particular brand of midnight mayhem.

          "Alright, you lot!" bellowed the baker, "Again? Honestly, Big Daddy, I told you last week, my grandniece baked those cookies for her school fundraiser. Are you going to buy them, or are you just going to make a mess again?"

          Big Daddy smiled warmly. "Oh, Mr. Henderson! How are you this evening? We were... looking for some inspiration! And a small chat about your day? That window looks a bit chilly, doesn't it?"

          Mr. Henderson sighed, massaging his temples. "Just take a dozen, and clean up your friend's mess. And tell that blue fella to stop trying to eat my display cases."

          The Bean Counter slammed his ledger shut with a thud. "FOUR! That's four attempted heists this month, zero successful acquisitions, and we're now buying the merchandise we intended to liberate! The margins on this operation are catastrophically negative!"

          Back in their dimly lit warehouse, amidst the clutter of past failures and aspirational blueprints, The Bean Counter meticulously updated his ledgers.

          "Look, Bean Counter," Big Daddy said, munching contentedly on a particularly delicious Triple-Chocolate Chip, "It's not about the cookies. It's about the journey! The camaraderie! How was your day now that it's all said and done?"

          The Bean Counter stared at the numbers, his monocle fogged with despair.

         Somewhere, a pigeon was .47 cents richer.

Word total: 997
Prompt: Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Cookie Monster, Bert and Ernie, trash can, and the Count

*No pigeons were hurt in the making of this story