Clarence’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the people cutting through private property? Ignoring every sign?”
“There were no signs!” the cyclist insisted, frustration bubbling beneath his words.
“There were two,” Clarence said calmly, nodding toward the laminated sign near the mulch bed. “Unless someone tossed them aside again.”
As the cyclist ranted, Jordan quietly slipped his phone from his pocket and began recording. He didn’t speak or move, keeping the screen dim and steady from where he stood by the fence.
The cyclist jabbed a trembling, muddy finger at Clarence. “You think this is legal? You think you can spray people with freezing, dirty water and just walk away? This jacket’s ruined! I could’ve gotten sick!
Clarence raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t.”
The man stepped closer, voice sharp and threatening. “You’ll regret this. I’ll sue you—civil damages, reckless endangerment, destruction of property, whatever sticks. You’re in over your head.”
Clarence opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. His voice lacked its usual confidence. “I was watering my plants. Same as I always have.”
The cyclist turned abruptly, muttering “Menace,” before stomping away. “We’ll see how funny this is when the cops show up at your door.”
Clarence watched the cyclist storm away, the broom in his hand suddenly feeling heavier. The wind nudged the windchimes overhead, but instead of their usual gentle melody, they rattled sharply. His eyes drifted to the churned mulch, the blinking sensor, and the dark, soggy footprints marring the grass.
Did I go too far? he wondered. What if someone gets hurt? Will they blame me? Will anyone listen?
Jordan stepped quietly beside him, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “That was wild,” he said softly. “Did you see his face?”
Clarence didn’t answer immediately. He bent down, picked up his broom, and brushed stray leaves from the porch. “People take shortcuts when they think no one’s watching,” he muttered. Then, almost to himself, he added, “I just hope I didn’t go overboard with all this.”
The next day, around noon, the man returned—but this time, he wasn’t alone. A black-and-white patrol car rolled up beside him. Two officers stepped out: one older, gray-haired and steady; the other younger, clutching a tablet.
The cyclist was already mid-rant as the officers approached. “I told you, he’s got these motion-activated traps! I was soaked—with pond water! It was freezing and filthy! There was no warning—he rigged the whole thing like some kind of booby trap!”
Clarence stood calmly on the porch, dressed in his usual sweater and gardening gloves, with Taffy curled in the shade behind him.
The older officer stepped forward and asked, “Sir, do you have an irrigation system on the back lawn?”
“Yes, officer,” Clarence replied calmly. “It’s motion-activated. Used to keep deer away and water the beds. It’s old technology, nothing dangerous. The system pulls water from the garden pond. It’s… not filtered.”
The younger officer moved around the side of the house to inspect the setup.
Meanwhile, the cyclist interjected angrily, “He’s targeting people, setting traps! It’s harassment—just look at my ruined clothes!”