"Which is?"
"She's probably expecting retaliation. She might have a meltdown before we can serve the papers."
He was right. And the meltdown came that same afternoon.
I was working in my garage when I heard shouting from the street. I walked out and saw Karen standing beside her Prius, waving a giant rolled-up poster like a battle flag.
"The community is at risk!" she screamed. "The sheriff's vehicle is a threat to harmony!"
People peeked out of curtains; some gathered. Everyone looked tired.
Then she unrolled the poster: it was a blown-up satellite image of the neighborhood, with my truck circled dramatically in red marker, surrounded by arrows and labels like Unknown Vehicle Energy Zone, Potential Disruption Field, and Driveway Dominance Risk.
A kid down the street whispered, "Is he a superhero?"
Karen spun on him. "No! He is a menace!"
At that moment, two sheriff's cruisers pulled into the street. Karen paled. Deputy Hernandez stepped out and approached calmly, professionally.
"Karen Allen," he said. "We need to speak with you."
She puffed up her chest. "Ah! Finally, justice arrives!"
"Yes," he said. "It does." He handed her a packet of papers.
She skimmed the first lines, then she screamed. It wasn't a normal scream; it was the sound of a woman whose imaginary empire had just collapsed under real-world law.
"You can't do this!" she shrieked. "I am the initiative!"
"No," Hernandez said. "You are being charged with harassment, falsifying documents, and attempting to operate an unlicensed entity."
"My initiative is legal!"
"It doesn't exist."