Page 28 of The Gaybor War

Who wants to tell the HOA they just invited us to a safe sex BBQ?

But the real prize is the last bit.

Power Wash Demonstration! Watch as neighbor Chuck shows off his impressive hose control and steady stream!

"Chuck’s about to have a fan club. Someone get him a calendar deal."

I toss the newsletter onto the counter. Another masterpiece from the Morningwood HOA, full of subtle threats disguised as cheerful reminders and innuendo no one wants to explain to their kids.

I sift through the rest of the mail—coupon booklets, a dentist reminder, and one ominous white envelope with the HOA logo stamped in severe blue.

Uh-oh.

Nothing good ever comes from "To the Homeowner at…"

Inside is a violation notice. And just like that, the summer sun dims.

"Oh, what fresh hell."

I tear it open and skim the first line.

Notice of Violation: Excessive Ambient Noise—Wind Chimes.

I blink. Then again, slower, because surely this is performance art.

Fucking Carter. He complained about my wind chimes. My therapeutic, Etsy blessed-be-the-breeze wind chimes.

I can see Carter now, standing in his perfectly ironed shorts, arms crossed, judging the wind for being too expressive.

Fine. You want a noise complaint, Carter? I’ll give you Mariah’s Christmas album at full volume. All. Year. Long. I glance toward the speaker, already picturing "All I Want for Christmas Is You" echoing across the street in July. But then—no. Too easy. Too festive.

I glance at the window. His porch light’s already off. He’s probably one of those early risers—gym, shower, power smoothie, and off to whatever job requires that much self-importance.

My lips curve. He leaves at seven. Which means he probably gets up at six. So if I start mowing at five…

The plan forms as naturally as spite itself.

"You wanna play, Carter? Let’s play."

I tuck the violation notice under a magnet shaped like a flamingo wearing sunglasses, sip my coffee, and nod to myself.

The breeze stirs outside. The chimes sing.

Round one goes to Carter, but round two?

The Petty War begins.

The next morning, I wake up at 4:52 a.m. with the peaceful righteousness of a man about to do something extremely petty and deeply satisfying.

Outside, Morningwood Estates sleeps on in smug little boxes of suburban serenity, all trimmed hedges and quiet sin.

But not for long.

I pull on my slides and an old tank top, the one that says Bless This Mess in cracked vinyl, and tiptoe through the yard like a burglar of peace and quiet. The dew is cold underfoot, soaking the cuffs of my pajama pants. The mower gleams faintly under the motion light, my sword in the war of passive aggression.

I glance toward Carter’s house. All dark. Curtains drawn. He's probably curled up in those pressed sheets, dreaming about bylaws and balanced budgets.

Perfect.