In neighborhoods like mine, appearances are everything. So when my aging car offended the man across the street, he took matters into his own hands — and I made sure he'd regret it.
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You know those perfect neighborhoods that look as if they belong in a catalog? Trimmed hedges, pristine mailboxes, neighbors who wave and share fake smiles just enough to be polite but never enough to say they care? That's mine.
And for the most part, it was quiet and uneventful.
...neighbors who wave and share fake smiles...
It was a nice place to raise our son. Until Vernon, who lived across the street, decided that my "cheap" beat-up 2009 Honda Civic was the sole blemish on his flawless view.
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***
I'm Gideon.
I'm 34 and married to Lena, who's got a brain like a steel trap and a tongue that slices smoother than any blade.
We've got a five-year-old son named Rowan who still sleeps with a stuffed dinosaur and thinks carrots are a punishment.
I work in tech support, mostly remotely, which means I'm home more than I'm out.
...thinks carrots are a punishment.
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We're not rich. We're "fine if nothing breaks."
And I've never really cared for status. But paid-off reliable cars, solid fences, and quiet dinners — those are more my speed.
But Vernon? He's the sort of man who walks as if the pavement belongs to him. He's in his mid-50s, has salt-and-pepper hair cut with military precision, and wears sunglasses indoors.
His perfect house with the perfect driveway looks like a showroom, and his car — a vintage navy blue convertible — never has a speck of dust on it.
He's quietly rich.
We're "fine if nothing breaks."
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Vernon is the kind of guy who assumes he's better.
The first words he ever said to me happened when I was watering the lawn. Heads-up, it wasn't "Hello!"
He paused, adjusted his Ray-Bans, and asked, "Is that... what you drive daily?"
No greeting. Just disgust!
I smiled awkwardly. "Sure is. Gets me where I need to go."
He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow and just walked away.
No greeting. Just disgust!
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From that moment, it was constant.
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