Page 29 of The Gaybor War

At exactly 5:01 a.m., I yank the mower cord. The engine sputters once, twice, then roars to life with the enthusiasm of a thousand angry hornets. The sound cuts through the neighborhood like divine retribution.

It’s beautiful.

Birds scatter from trees. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere, a baby monitor crackles to life.

I make a slow first pass across the front of the property along the street, closest to Carter’s house—because I’m a man of precision. His porch light flicks on almost immediately, a single golden eye glaring at me through the pre-dawn haze.

I can practically feel his fury through the glass. Probably standing there in his robe, clutching his mug, whispering, "What the hell is that man doing?"

"Good morning to you, too," I call cheerfully, though he can’t hear me over the mechanical wail of my petty triumph.

I imagine him inside, standing at the window with a deep scowl, debating whether to come outside or call the HOA hotline again. The visual keeps me warm.

Halfway through the yard, I pause dramatically to adjust the cutting height (it doesn’t need adjusting; it just looks official). Then I rev the mower again for good measure and take another slow pass, deliberately crooked this time, so it looks like the mower has a vendetta of its own.

A curtain moves in Carter’s kitchen. He’s watching. Oh, he’s definitely watching.

I wave. The curtain jerks closed. I grin so hard my face hurts.

To dial up the hostility another notch, I turn the mower off for just a second. The sudden silence is almost obscene. Then, just as deliberately, I pull the cord again. The roar splits the dawn in half.

Somewhere up the block, Eunice’s bedroom light flicks on. She’ll be peeking through her blinds next, clutching her pearls and mentally drafting the next HOA complaint. Can’t wait for that one to hit my mailbox.

By the time the sun finally creeps over the roofs, I’ve mowed the same strip three times, purely for emphasis. Sweat trickles down my neck, the air smells like fresh-cut grass and vengeance, and I’ve achieved a level of satisfaction no meditation app could ever deliver.

I kill the engine, wipe my forehead, and rest one hand on my hip. The morning is officially broken.

Across the street, Carter’s blinds are still closed, but I swear I can feel the glare radiating through them.

"Namaste, neighbor," I murmur, stretching my back with exaggerated serenity.

The wind stirs my wind chimes—sweet, shimmering, and smug.

"See?" I tell them. "We’re healing."

I head back inside feeling victorious and a little feral. The mower’s still ticking as it cools down, the smell of gasoline clinging to my hands. I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, staring out the window at Carter’s house.

No movement. No blinds twitching. No repressed finance guy storming out to tell me about "quiet hours."

Coward.

I take a sip, grimacing at the taste—burned, bitter, and still somehow less harsh than Carter’s personality. I could add sugar, but I like it this way. It fits the morning’s aesthetic: spite-forward with notes of satisfaction.

The wind shifts, and my chimes start to sing. Delicate little pings and shimmers float through the air. Therapeutic, they said on Etsy. Healing, they promised. I don’t know about that, but they sure sound better than Carter’s voice.

I wander onto the porch, mug in hand, robe flapping like some sort of suburban villain monologuing before dawn.

The street is waking up now. Eunice shuffles out in her slippers, clutching her tiny dog that barks at everything except her poor life choices. She gives me a look that could sour milk.

"Morning!" I call, as chipper as a Disney bird.

She doesn’t answer. Just mutters something and keeps walking. Probably "sinner."

Whatever. She’ll be on the HOA email thread by noon. I’ll be immortalized as "that man with the mower problem."

A faint sound catches my attention—a door opening.

Carter’s door.