Out stepped Randy in a crisp county inspector polo, clipboard ready, channeling his inner bureaucrat.
Problem was, I’d seen the same weak-chinned guy in Victoria’s family photos.
Same receding hairline, same shifty eyes, same general aura of incompetence.
“County inspection,” Randy announced without eye contact. “Received complaints about fire hazards and pest attraction.”
“Fantastic. I love official inspections.”
I walked over, wiping dirt from my hands.
“Mind if I see your county credentials and ID number? Just want everything properly documented.”
Randy’s fake confidence evaporated like morning dew.
“My credentials?”
“Yeah, standard procedure. Badge number, employee ID, vehicle registration.”
“You know how it is with government accountability.”
The gravel crunched under Randy’s increasingly nervous shuffling.
“I, uh, left my badge in the truck.”
“No worries. What’s your employee ID? I can verify it online right now.”
Phone out, county website loading, finger poised to destroy his amateur-hour performance.
Randy mumbled something about needing to check his schedule and practically sprinted to his truck.
Tires squealed as he fled the scene like a bank robber whose getaway car had broken down.
Within an hour, three neighbors approached about native plant conversions.
Mrs. Chen wanted lavender details. The Johnsons asked about replacing their water-guzzling roses.
Victoria’s panic at her fake inspector’s exposure had finally cracked her support base.
The morning silence filled with actual birdsong instead of gas-powered machinery, and people were noticing the difference.
But cornered animals get dangerous.
If Victoria couldn’t control my landscaping, she’d manufacture violations faster than I could fight them.
The next morning brought a violation blitz that would have impressed a military tactician.
Victoria had clearly spent her weekend strategizing like a caffeinated general planning the battle of suburban compliance.
Seven violations in 10 days, each one more spectacularly ridiculous than the last.
The assault began Monday morning with the sweet smell of revenge disguised as municipal authority.
Garbage can placement violation.
My trash bin was apparently three inches too close to the street curb.
$150 fine plus $50 administrative processing fee, because apparently tyranny has overhead costs.
Tuesday brought window covering violations.
My bedroom blinds had inappropriate opacity levels that disrupted neighborhood visual harmony.
I’m not kidding.
She actually used the phrase “visual harmony” like she was critiquing a museum installation instead of standard-issue Home Depot blinds.
Wednesday’s masterpiece was driveway oil stains.
The acidic smell of my morning coffee couldn’t mask the bitter irony.
Victoria’s photographic evidence showed shadow patterns from my neighbor’s oak tree.
I went outside at the exact timestamp on her violation and watched the shadows recreate her “stains” in real time.
The woman was either having a psychotic break or thought I was too stupid to understand how sunlight works.
Thursday delivered pet noise complaints for my non-existent pets.
I haven’t owned animals since my divorce, when my ex got custody of our dog along with half my assets.