Some neighbors keep to themselves; Lindsey ruled our street like royalty.

On our very first day in the rental, she marched across the road with a Tupperware of cookies and a smile stretched a little too tight. It wasn’t hospitality — it was a warning wrapped in sugar.

“One car per house,” she chirped. “No exceptions. We keep things orderly around here.”

We thanked her anyway. Both our cars were legally parked in our own driveway, perfectly within the rules. We figured she was just one of those self-appointed neighborhood monarchs who lived for HOA guidelines—despite the fact that our block didn’t have an HOA.

Three days later, we learned she meant business.

At dawn, we woke to grinding metal, flashing lights, and the unmistakable rumble of tow trucks. Two of them. One lifting Jack’s SUV by its front wheels, the other already tightening chains around my sedan. And there stood Lindsey in her robe, coffee in hand, wearing a smug little smirk like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life.

But what she didn’t see—what she couldn’t see—were the decals. The quiet, coded markings on the windshields. The kind of symbols that aren’t decorative but classified.

Jack’s job is federal. High clearance. The SUV he drives? Government property. Vehicles you do not touch unless you’re prepared for a legal storm that costs more than most cars on the street combined. Those tow trucks were seconds away from racking up $25,000 tampering fines—each.

I walked outside calmly, almost politely, and pointed out the federal identification. The tow drivers froze mid-motion, eyes widening as the reality hit. They released the vehicles instantly, stepping back like the cars were ticking bombs.

Then I turned to Lindsey.

“You may want to stand back,” I said. “Interfering with these vehicles is a federal offense.”

Her smirk collapsed. She let out a shaky laugh. “Oh, come on… that’s— that’s absurd.”

So I called in the report.

The next morning, a black SUV with government plates rolled to a stop in front of her house. A federal agent stepped out — crisp suit, badge in hand — and knocked on her door.

From my window, I watched Lindsey open it, register who was standing there, and go pale. Her coffee mug slipped from her fingers and shattered across the porch tiles.

She hasn’t spoken to us since.

And she has never mentioned parking again.