Over the next few weeks, Shannon’s antics escalated. She hosted loud gatherings, complete with midnight karaoke and “meditation drum circles” that sounded more like a herd of caffeinated elephants. I didn’t react. Sometimes, the best revenge is letting karma take its course.
Then, one sunny Saturday, I heard sirens. A fire truck pulled up, responding to Shannon’s report of a “sewage leak” in my yard. The firefighters inspected the toilet, unimpressed, and informed Shannon that making false reports was a crime. She tried arguing, claiming it was “visual contamination,” but they simply walked away, leaving her speechless.
Undeterred, Shannon took her sunbathing antics to new heights—literally. One afternoon, she hauled her lounger onto her garage roof to bask in the sun like some suburban gargoyle. Minutes later, chaos erupted. Her sprinkler system malfunctioned, soaking her as she toppled off the roof and landed face-first in her flower bed, drenched and covered in mud.
The neighborhood got quite a laugh, and Shannon, red-faced and disheveled, vanished from view. The toilet mysteriously disappeared from my lawn, and a privacy fence soon surrounded her yard.
At breakfast, Jake cautiously lifted the blinds. “Is it safe to come out of witness protection now?” he joked.
I chuckled, sliding him a plate of pancakes. “Yes, honey. The show has finally been canceled.”
