Some neighbors keep to themselves; Lindsey ruled the block like royalty.

On our very first day in the rental, she strutted across the street with a Tupperware of cookies—and a warning disguised as a smile.
“One car per house,” she chirped. “No exceptions.”

We thanked her politely. Both our cars were legally parked in our own driveway. We assumed she was just being neighborly in her own… rigid way.

Three days later, we woke to flashing lights and grinding metal. Two tow trucks were already in motion—one lifting Jack’s SUV, the other hooking up my sedan. And there was Lindsey, sipping coffee in her robe, arms smugly crossed, watching like a queen surveying her conquest.

But she hadn’t seen the windshield decals. She had no idea what she’d just triggered.

Jack’s job is classified—federal clearance, government-owned vehicles, the kind you don’t touch unless you want a mountain of legal trouble. Those tow trucks were moments away from racking up a $25,000 tampering fine each.

I calmly stepped outside, flagged down the tow drivers, and pointed to the hidden-but-visible federal markings. They froze. I turned to Lindsey and said, “You may want to step back. Interfering with these cars is a federal offense.”

She blinked. Laughed, nervously. “That’s ridiculous.”

So I called in a report.

The next morning, a black SUV with government plates pulled up to Lindsey’s front yard. A federal agent in a crisp suit knocked on her door. I watched from my window as she opened it, saw the badge, and went white as chalk.

She dropped her coffee mug on the porch. It shattered.

She hasn’t spoken to us since.

And she hasn’t said a word about parking ever again.