It started, like most neighborhood nonsense does, with a scrap of neon paper flapping under my windshield wiper—bold, all-caps print screaming “VIOLATION.” At first, I thought it was a prank, maybe kids being stupid, until I saw the signature at the bottom: Karen Whitmore, HOA Parking Coordinator—which was not a real position, by the way. I hadn’t even parked improperly. My car was pulled neatly into my driveway, tires cleanly behind the sidewalk line. Still, there it was: “FAILURE TO REGISTER VEHICLE WITH HOA / EXCESSIVE DUST / EYESORE TO COMMUNITY AESTHETICS.” Yes, dust. On a car. In Texas. I stared at it for a good ten seconds, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or post it to Reddit. My neighbor Dave peeked over his fence and said, “Oh boy. Karen’s on one again.” Apparently, this wasn’t her first “ticket.” She’d left one on an Amazon truck for “parking like a menace,” and once threatened a teenage babysitter with a fine for “loitering while underage.” No one liked her, but she was persistent—a former substitute teacher turned HOA tyrant who ruled the cul-de-sac like a suburban dictator. She had a clipboard, a walkie-talkie, and a dog named Winston who peed on everyone’s lawn but hers. Her latest mission seemed to be vehicle compliance, and she’d made it her full-time job—even though she was retired and technically not on the actual HOA board anymore. After her ticket, I noticed she’d started making rounds twice a day, 10 a.m. and 4 p.m., with her visor, camera phone, and a little whistle she blew whenever she saw something she didn’t like. That whistle was the sound of doom. My car—a matte black Ford Fusion with no identifying marks—seemed to have become her obsession. She would slow down when passing, squint into the windows, and mutter into her walkie like she was coordinating a sting operation. One afternoon, I caught her crouched behind my mailbox, taking pictures of my rear bumper like it was evidence in a criminal trial. I stepped outside, coffee in hand, and asked if I could help her. “You’ll be receiving a formal notice,” she hissed, rising like a meerkat with purpose. “This is a repeat violation, and the board has been informed.” “What board?” I asked, but she
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