Gemotions

The contractor was late, as usual. Reginald watched from his sunroom, a barely perceptible curve playing on his lips. He'd known this would happen. He’d seen the plans. Mr. Henderson’s fence, the one meant to block Reginald’s prize-winning roses from view, was going to be a disaster. He’d made sure of it, of course, by ‘accidentally’ dropping a few helpful suggestions to the local zoning board.

The hammering started, a pathetic staccato against the backdrop of Reginald's meticulously maintained garden. He took a sip of his Earl Grey, savoring the moment. He knew the posts were too close together. He knew the pickets would be crooked. He knew, he knew, he knew.

He adjusted his monocle and reached for the phone, already anticipating the inevitable call from a flustered Mr. Henderson, desperate for solutions that Reginald would, of course, be happy to provide – for a price, naturally.