Gemotions

The shrill knock echoed through the quiet house, shattering the peace. Mrs. Gable, a woman whose complaints were as predictable as the sunrise, stood on the porch, her face a thundercloud. "The music," she began, her voice a pinched whine, "It’s simply unacceptable."

A slow smile crept across Martha's face. She opened the door wider, letting the strains of heavy metal bleed out, louder now. "Oh, is it?" she asked, her voice sugary sweet.

Later that evening, after Mrs. Gable had retreated, complaining and muttering, Martha went to the attic. There, she located the old speakers. They were dusty and huge, remnants of her dead husband's hobbies. A plan began to coalesce, sharp and delicious, in her mind.