Vehicle silhouette patterns. A real human being typed that.
At the back of the packet was a payment page—the part she cared about most: Mobility Harmony Contribution Fee: $89 due within 5 days. She included a QR code linking to a PayPal account named Bluff Vehicle Safety Fund.
I laughed out loud right there at my mailbox at 7:30 in the morning, like a man who had reached the point where the only sane reaction to insanity was amusement.
But when I looked up, I stopped laughing, because there she was: standing across the street by her Prius, dressed in a navy blazer and tan slacks, wearing a fake earpiece that was very clearly not connected to anything. She watched me read her packet with the expression of someone waiting for praise they absolutely didn't deserve.
I held up the booklet. "A new council?"
She nodded proudly. "Formed due to community demand."
"What community?" I asked.
"Residents have expressed overwhelming concern."
"Name one."
She blinked. "Concerns may remain anonymous. For safety."
"Safety from what? My truck's shadow?"
She refused to engage with the sarcasm. Instead, she stepped closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. "Your vehicle has become a symbol of disorder," she said. "People are frightened. A strong neighborhood cannot function when residents feel threatened by unpredictable silhouettes."
My truck had now become a symbol, a silhouette-based threat. Incredible.
I flipped the packet closed. "Karen, this is fraud."
She stiffened. "This is community leadership!"
"What you're doing is illegal."
"What I'm doing," she said, jabbing her clipboard toward the sky, "is necessary!"
"For who?"
"For everyone!"