"That was sloppy, Brooklyn," Delilah hissed. "Never admit immunity publicly."
"Relax, Mom. What is he going to do? Sue us? We own half the lawyers in this county."
"Just be more careful. There are other ways to handle stubborn residents."
Brooklyn giggled.
"I know exactly what you mean. Want me to start phase two?"
Phase two.
They had a plan, and I had just become enemy number one.
I drove home through empty streets, desert air carrying the scent of rain and revolution. They thought they had cornered me with rigged votes and manufactured outrage. What they did not know was that I had spent two tours in Afghanistan learning that the best defense is overwhelming offense.
And tomorrow, I was going to war.
The crunch of gravel under my tires sounded like victory marching closer.
Phase two started the very next morning.
I woke to my phone buzzing with automated HOA violation alerts. Seven separate complaints filed overnight. All anonymous. All targeting me.
Loud engine noise at 2:00 a.m. My ATV had been locked in the garage. Chemical spills in my driveway. Rainwater from washing my truck. Operating an unlicensed repair shop. Changing my own oil apparently qualified.
The smell of fresh coffee turned bitter in my mouth as I scrolled through the digital harassment campaign. Each complaint carried a $500 fine pending investigation.
But here was the genius part. Every violation was timestamped during my VA appointments, with medical staff as witnesses to my absence. Someone was playing four-dimensional chess while I had been moving checkers.
By noon, three security cameras had mysteriously malfunctioned. Not broken. The lenses had been spray-painted black during the night. Professional work. No fingerprints. No witnesses. The work of someone who had done this before.
That evening, Brooklyn's army invaded Willowbrook.
Six motorcycles roared through our quiet streets like mechanical demons. Music blasting. Beer cans flying. Burnouts in the community center parking lot. The sound of engines mixed with drunken laughter echoed off every house in the development.
I grabbed my phone to record the actual noise violation, unlike my whisper-quiet ATV.
But as I stepped outside, Brooklyn spotted me from across the street.
"Look, everybody!" she shouted over the chaos. "It's Peg-Leg Pete still playing with his little toy truck."
Her friends erupted in cruel laughter. One rich frat boy revved his bike.
"Should have left both legs in Afghanistan, loser."