I should know when to shut my mouth. Not that I said anything to them, but today, as I returned from the gym, my geezer neighbor — the one whose wife likes to leave nastygrams on my guests’ cars for the cardinal sin of parking at their curb — was out in front of his house, talking to a police officer. There were two shiny-new orange cones in the street behind his vehicle, well one of them anyway, they have a fucking fleet.
I don’t think he liked what she was telling him. I glanced back out the window in time to see her get back into her cruiser and drive off; he was carrying the cones back into the house.
I doubt they read this page. Am I spellcasting?