Greg Van Helsing sat next to Peter on a metallic folding chair that was barely big enough to accommodate him, and he was in a sour mood. Peter, somehow, convinced him to come along to the monthly HoA meeting that took place in something of a community recreation building. On his left sat a woman who looked like an overly cross mother. She had her bleach-blonde hair cut short in a bob and made a horrible noise while chewing her spearmint gum that grated on Greg with each open and close of her mouth.

“Let’s get this meeting underway,” said a woman standing at the front of the assembled HoA members - which, apart from Peter, were exclusively housewives. The woman speaking was short and plump. She wore round glasses with thick lenses and kept her gray hair in a tight bun atop her head. “Before I get to our agenda, does anyone have any questions or concerns to address?”

The woman beside Greg immediately stood up, sending a wave of spearmint, sunscreen, and flowery perfume to assault Greg’s nose. He glared up at her from his seat, wishing a horrible death upon her entire bloodline for the offensive smell. All of those scents and not even a hint of garlic.

“I’ve got a concern to address,” she said, scowling down her nose as she turned to look pointedly at Peter.

She moved her condescending gaze to Greg, who literally growled in response, causing her to jump. Next to him, Peter failed to restrain a laugh from escaping.

“Of course you do, Karen,” the woman at the front said. “Please keep it brief and, remember, we’re all part of the same community so at least try to be cordial.”

“I would be cordial, Victoria, if this man,” she pointed at Greg, her finger directly in his face, “was not assaulting the entire neighborhood with that damned motorcycle. It’s an attack on all of us and our peaceful, quiet community and I, for one, have had enough of it.”

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Peter got to his feet and put his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry you feel personally attacked by people just going on with their lives again, Karen. Vicky, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think our HoA has a rule against motorcycles. So, Karen, is it a problem with motorcycles that you have, or a problem with another resident? If I recall, your husband takes his Harley out on the weekends, so it must be the latter.”

“Well my husband doesn’t…” Karen began her defensive response, but Victoria interrupted her.

“We’re not going to have another one of these, Karen. Peter, dear, you are correct. There is no rule in place against owning or operating a motorcycle in our community. Karen, are you motioning to vote on a new rule? Is Keith going to be alright with you leading the charge to ban motorcycles here in Brightland Falls?”

Karen’s lips pressed together angrily. She shot a glare at Peter then turned back to Victoria. “This is not about all motorcycles, it’s his motorcycle. The thi…”

Again, Victoria interrupted, cutting Karen off with a raised hand. “Personal disputes are to be mediated at a separate time. Now, if you’re not motioning for a vote, please take your seat. Let’s go over the agenda.”

Victoria continued speaking and Karen resumed her seat next to Greg with an irritated huff. To his incredible surprise, she leaned over and whispered into his ear. “If they won’t do something about it then I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

The big man turned to look at her, tilting his head to one side and grinning like a lunatic. He opened his mouth to tell her exactly what she could do with her petty little threat, but Peter leaned over him - the aroma of bleach and cinnamon vying with Karen’s scents for dominance within Greg’s sensitive nostrils.

“What are you going to do, Karen? Greg doesn’t have a supervisor you can complain to,” he whispered noisily. “Oh, and Keith only tells you he’s ‘going riding with the boys’ every weekend, but the whole neighborhood knows he doesn’t have any ‘boys’ to ride with. He does it to get away from you.”

Speechless, sputtering like an angry kitten, Karen failed to come up with an adequate response. Instead, she noisily pushed her chair back and stormed out of the meeting. Greg looked at Peter, impressed.

“Sorry,” Peter said, scratching the back of his head and looking embarrassed. “I get a little Dance-Mom crazy on bitches that come at my friends.”