Gemotions

The morning sun glinted off the pristine chrome of his meticulously restored 1967 Mustang. Harold hummed, a low rumble of contentment vibrating in his chest as he surveyed his property. He needed more. The house was good, the cars were enviable, but the land... the land wasn’t enough. He envisioned a sprawling estate, a private lake, a helipad. All of it fueled by the deals he'd made, the corners he'd cut.

A metallic clang pierced the quiet. Harold’s smile faltered. He strode towards the driveway, a knot tightening in his stomach. The Mustang was gone. Just an empty patch of gravel where it had stood. His jaw clenched. This was an inconvenience. A violation.

He found the towing company quickly. The fee was outrageous, another unnecessary expense. He argued, his voice sharp, but the tow truck driver just shrugged. Harold, fists balled, paid the bill. He'd get his car back, but this interruption to his day, this setback, grated on him like sandpaper. He could recoup the money. It was just an hour of his time, and he knew he could make much more than that back.