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The curtains close abruptly, like he had just been holding them open and watching this entire scene take place.

“David,” I whisper through gritted teeth. I should have known this was all him. He let the flamingo and cement geese debacle go too easily. Tip-toeing to his front door, I bang my fist on it as hard as I can.

A full minute passes, but I keep knocking. I know he’s in there. Finally, he opens the door with a bored expression set firmly on his chiseled face. He adjusts his tortoise-shell glasses, which look new, and sighs.

“Can I help you? You’re upsetting Mo.”

I hear a little meow and look down at my neighbor’s loafers. There he is in all his fluffy, traitorous glory.

“A rooster rescue?” I demand, using one hand to point toward my front porch. “Plastic animals are one thing, but live ones?”

“Plastic and cement animals.”

I ball my hands into fists at my sides, trying to keep from smacking him in the face. “What am I supposed to do with eight roosters??”

He grimaces. “Nine.”

“What?”

He nods his head toward my house and I look over to see an old woman dropping off an equally old-looking rooster. “No, no, no!” I run toward my house, stubbing my toe on a rock in the process. “Ouch!”

The woman sees me coming and waves to the rooster she’s abandoning before running off down the street. Does she not own a vehicle? Where did she even come from??

“Ma’am! This isn’t a rooster rescue!”

She cackles as she continues running away from me, remarkably fast for her age, I might add.

I can practically feel angry smoke coming out of my ears and nostrils, just like in those old cartoons. Slowly, for dramatic effect, I rotate my head to glare at David. “This. Means. War.”

He smirks and then closes his front door, leaving Mo on his front door meowing.

After spending my entire weekend cleaning up chicken poop, finding homes for nine roosters, and working… I hardly had time to plan my revenge on my demented neighbor.

He thinks his clients seeing his yard filled with faux birds was embarrassing? Oh, it’s about to get so much worse.

While cleaning up chicken poop from my yard and front porch on Friday, I heard him taking calls on his back patio. He probably thinks I felt humiliated with him watching me, but in reality I was making internal notes of all the appointments he set up for Monday morning.

I’ve been counting the minutes for Monday to finally arrive, and here it is.

Last night I hung David’s new sign, which was previously a neat little plaque David hung on his front door during business hours. Well, his new and improved sign includes some much needed flare. His clients are sure to be impressed by his professionalism. They’re also going to be wowed by his new business assistant.

With a peek at my watch, I see it’s almost eight a.m.. I walk over to my floor-length mirror and straighten my tie. I’m wearing my most professional outfit: black heels, black trousers, and a white button up blouse, complete with a little black tie. I grab the stack of business cards I made at Kinkos and tiptoe over to David’s front porch. Removing my heels, I carry them up the steps so the sound of my shoes won’t alert him to my presence. Then slip them back onto my feet.

I smile at his new sign. It’s fluorescent yellow poster board, the kind you’d use for an elementary school project, and covered with calculator stickers. His old sign was black and had the words David Windell. Certified Public Accountant and Financial Advisor engraved in gold lettering in a classic Times New Roman font. The new one has the same words, but I wrote them with my left hand so it would look extra messy. All the I’s have hearts instead of dots, which is pretty cute if I do say so myself.

But the business cards I made are probably what he’ll hate the most. I had to really think of what would get to him, this man who’s so dry and professional all the time… And then it came to me: Comic Sans font.

A shiny, black sports car pulls into the driveway and a wealthy-looking man steps out. You can practically smell the old-money wafting from him with his Ralph Lauren polo and freshly pressed dress pants. He’s graying at the temples and has a fancy watch on his tanned arm.

“Good morning, sir,” I say with a smile as he walks up the front porch steps.

One of his perfectly groomed eyebrows arches. “Good morning… I have a meeting with David Windell.”

“Yes, Mr. Chamberlain, correct?” I remember that from eavesdropping the other day.

He nods, looking confused.

“I’m Mr. Windell’s assistant, and due to food poisoning, he asked me to cancel his appointments today.” I hand him one of the yellow business cards I’m holding. “Here’s his card in case you lost his number.”