Gemotions

The saw marks were a fresh wound on the world. He’d driven out here every year, mostly out of habit, to check on the oak. Now, only a jagged stump remained, a monument to someone else’s disregard. His jaw tightened. He kicked at a loose piece of bark, sending it skittering across the dry earth.

He pictured the smug bastard who’d wielded the chainsaw. Probably some developer, eager to squeeze another McMansion onto the landscape. Well, they’d see. He knew where the permits were filed, which building inspectors were susceptible to… “persuasion.”

The taste of bile rose in his throat. He’d dedicate the next six months to making their lives a living hell, a constant series of unexpected inconveniences. A forgotten invoice here, a misplaced blueprint there. Little things. He knew how to play the game.