He issued her a citation for misuse of emergency services while she sputtered and shrieked. The HOA ladies gasped like a soap opera twist had just hit. And still, still, I could see in Beverly's eyes that she wasn't done. Not even close.
As she drove away in a fury, Tessa leaned against the counter and whispered, "Mark, prepare yourself. That woman is at home right now planning act two."
I wanted to believe she was wrong. I wanted to think Beverly would stop after getting humiliated by law enforcement. I wanted to pretend the worst was over, but deep down I felt a knot forming in my stomach—the kind that comes before a tornado hits. Because if there's one thing more dangerous than an HOA Karen, it's an HOA Karen who thinks she's been publicly challenged. And I had just lit the fuse.
The next morning, I pulled into the parking lot with the same sinking feeling a soldier probably gets when he knows he's returning to the battlefield he barely survived yesterday. Ridge View Fuel and Supply looked exactly the same: same faded sign, same crooked ice freezer, same dent in pump three. But the air felt different, charged like the calm before the HOA storm.
I hadn't even stepped out of my truck when I noticed something taped to the front door—a piece of poster board written in aggressive red glitter marker, hanging crookedly as if whoever put it up was too angry to measure straight. It read, Boycott Ridge View Fuel. Justice for HOA residents.
The glitter sparkled in the morning sun, taunting me. Only Beverly would wage war with arts and crafts supplies.
Inside, Tessa was sipping her third coffee of the day, which meant she'd been here long enough to witness the chaos. She looked at me the way a medic looks at someone who doesn't yet realize they've been shot.
"Before you ask," she said, holding up a hand. "No, that sign was not there when I opened. Someone snuck up at dawn with a glue stick and righteous fury."
I groaned. "Please tell me Beverly went home, slept it off, and realized the world doesn't owe her gasoline."
Tessa slid her phone across the counter. "Brace yourself."
On the screen was a Facebook livestream labeled On location at the scene of the crime. The crime was apparently me.
Across the street, right at the entrance to Ridge View Meadows, stood Beverly and four HOA diehards holding signs, waving them at passing cars. One woman had a megaphone and was dramatically chanting something that sounded like, "No more gas shame." Another clutched a Bible to her chest as if protecting herself from demonic fuel attendants.
"They've been at it since sunrise," Tessa said deadpan. "One tried to throw a bag of dog poop at the door. She missed and hit her own windshield."
For a second, I laughed hard because honestly, this was too ridiculous, but the humor evaporated quickly. There were already dozens of shares, comments, and angry face reactions under the livestream. Most people were laughing at Beverly, but a handful were egging her on. I suddenly felt the weight of it all pressing down on my shoulders. This wasn't just a quirky HOA fight anymore. This was public. This was loud. And this was getting bigger.
20 minutes into the shift, the first concerned resident wandered in. She wore yoga pants, a Ridge View Meadows visor, and an expression like she'd smelled something rotten. She pretended to browse the windshield wiper section while filming me from behind a shelf of motor oil.
"Hi there," I said.
She flinched like I'd hissed at her. "Oh, I'm just checking the, uh, viscosity." She waved a random bottle. "Is the fascist working today?"
I stared at her. "I have absolutely no idea what that means."
She slipped out the door faster than a spooked deer.
A man in a tie-dye shirt came next. He strolled up to the counter with a bag of chips and leaned in conspiratorially. "Hey, man," he whispered. "How do you feel about free enterprise?" He wiggled his eyebrows like he expected me to confess to running a black market gas cartel.
"I feel," I said, "that you have to pay for your chips."
He nodded dramatically, as if I'd said something deeply philosophical, then wandered off without buying anything.
By 10:00 a.m., the store felt less like a business and more like an aquarium with tourists tapping the glass. Every customer recorded something. Some wanted a fight, some wanted proof I wasn't the monster Beverly claimed, and some just wanted to be part of the drama. I tried to stay calm, but my patience was thinning fast.
That was when two men in cheap suits walked through the door. They marched up to the counter with chests puffed out, badges swinging on lanyards that looked like they'd been printed on a home computer.
"We're with the Community Consumer Protection Agency," the taller one said.
"No, you're not," Tessa muttered under her breath.
"We're here," the shorter one continued, "to investigate allegations of systemic harassment, refusal of service to HOA residents, and potential violations of community economic fairness."
Tessa leaned on the counter, blinking slowly. "Economic fairness?"
"It's very serious," the tall one said. "We need to see your service policies, cashier training documents, and community compliance forms."
I folded my arms. "Let me guess, Beverly sent you."
Their eyes darted away, which was answer enough.
That was when Tessa struck. With the same calm authority one might use while reading sacred scripture, she reached under the register and produced a wrinkled sheet of paper. "According to corporate policy," she said, handing the paper over. "All official complaints must be accompanied by a ceremonial duck dance."
Both men froze. "A what?"
"A duck dance," she repeated seriously. "You know, quacking, flapping arms, waddling in a circle. Otherwise, the complaint can't be processed."
I bit my cheek so hard not to laugh that I nearly tasted blood. Tessa demonstrated enthusiastically, arms flapping, feet stomping, quacking like she was auditioning for a cartoon. Mrs. Butler, observing from the lottery counter, laughed so hard she dropped her soda.
The two investigators stared at each other, mortified. Then they muttered something about checking with their supervisor and scrambled out the door like raccoons fleeing a flashlight.
For one glorious moment, the store was quiet again. But peace never lasts around Ridge View Meadows.
At 11:00 a.m., Bradley Knox, district manager, my boss's boss, stormed in like a thundercloud wearing khaki pants. His face was as red as the gas pumps outside. He slapped a stack of printed emails onto the counter.
"What the hell is going on, Mark?" he barked. "The Chamber of Commerce called me. My insurance agent called me. And now I've got HOA board members demanding a meeting. This station is trending on the town Facebook page, Mark. Trending!"
I took a breath and explained everything calmly: how Beverly had demanded free gas, how she'd called the cops, how she'd staged a protest, how she unleashed fake investigators like we were living in some dystopian HOA dictatorship.
Bradley didn't care about details. He cared about numbers, reputation, revenue. "You fix this," he snapped, "or I suspend you until it blows over."
His words hit me like a punch to the ribs. Suspend me? Over Beverly's tantrum?