Alex Obelet had only been serving as President of Morrow's Creek Home Owner's Association for two months, but things were quickly spiraling out of control. He had lived in the peaceful, quiet neighborhood of Morrow's Creek for fourteen years. The Morrow's Creek H.O.A. ruled over an area of some twenty blocks situated on the top of a hill overlooking the rest of the quiet, peaceful suburb of Glenmount. In his fourteen years there, Alex had become well-liked by his neighbors and well-respected by the community. His two boys, twins, were on honor roll at the public middle school. His wife, Samantha, was pretty, but dressed modestly. She hosted generously. Come spring, her flower and herb garden in the front lawn was a sight to behold.

After leaving a big law firm in the city last year, Alex opened a small private practice in the town center. He was setting down roots. He was invested. So, when Alex expressed interest in getting involved with the H.O.A., he was met with tremendous support. He was a family man, a small business owner and have you seen how neatly he trims the hedges? He started attending the weekly meetings and by the next time elections rolled around, he was a shoe-in for the top position.

Only old Mrs. Pulton voiced dissent. "He's too fresh," she said. "Too young. Too new. Not even one term as undersecretary. Straight to President? I don't think so. Too green. Too fresh. President? I don't think so. This won't end well."

They didn't listen to Mrs. Pulton. They had only elected her Treasurer out of pity after the tragic disappearance of her husband, the previous Treasurer. Besides, it had been easier at the time to leave all the boxes of paperwork in the Pultons' attic. She had proved herself a capable Treasurer over the last seven months, but she was still a bitter, sad, lonely old woman. Why couldn't she see in Alex what everyone else could? He had energy, verve, promise.

And so when the Jacksons' lawn went unmowed for two weeks, Mrs. Pulton sniffed and held her tongue. When a new couple from Brooklyn moved in and left all the trash their move had generated on the curb on a

--which was certainly not a trash day, not once in Mrs. Pulton's fifty-three years in Morrow's Creek had trash day been on Tuesday-- she again held her tongue and let Alex flail ineffectually to control the situation. And when the Kennelbaums were caught listing their finished basement on a short-term vacation rental site, Mrs. Pulton chuckled to herself. "Too fresh, too green," she said at the next meeting, but too quietly for either undersecretary to hear or transcribe into the minutes.

Alex, for his part, handled these unfortunate incidents with grace and compassion. But then the eccentric Jane Grew returned from her months-long journey abroad, and-- before even unpacking her bags, it seemed--began to paint her house black. The H.O.A. of Morrow's Creek was a fairly liberal organization. On the whole, its members adopted a laissez-faire attitude towards the regulation of neighborhood character. For example, hedges of any height were permitted, so long as they were neatly trimmed. Years ago, the H.O.A. had authorized the use of thirty-three paint colors for exteriors, running the gamut from stone gray to honey beige. There were even another twelve accent colors, approved for use on doors, trim and shutters. Morrow's Creek placed high value on its residents being able to express themselves, within reason. Black exterior paint was

within reason.

The painters applied their coats, slat by slat, and the darkness spread down the house, like a death pall being lowered over all of Morrow's Creek.

Alex sent letter after letter, each sterner and more threatening than the last. On Wednesdays, these letters appeared neatly stacked on the top of the rest of Jane Grew's recycling, unopened.

Rumors began to spread of Alex's incompetent leadership. The Jacksons' grass had started to grow long again. A stranger was seen hurrying out of the Kennelbaums' basement. "It's spiraling out from under him," Mrs. Pulton said to her girlfriends one afternoon over tea. "He's too fresh. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Not even a term as undersecretary! Too fresh."

Her friends nodded and sipped their tea. Most of them had voted for Alex, but they didn't dare admit it, especially in light of recent events.

The painters had now finished the front of the house and were starting on the sides. Grew's immediate neighbors were already calling the local property assessor to see if they could have their taxes lowered. One Tuesday, Jane was seen skipping to the curb in nothing but a billowy, black bathrobe, pulling her recycling bin behind her. With gleeful ceremony, she plopped the latest stack of H.O.A. cease and desist orders into the bin. On a Tuesday!

"She's taunting me," Alex complained to his wife that evening. "I'm being taunted, degraded, ignored and disrespected. Belittled!"

"Mm," said Samantha Obelet. She was distracted. She was cooking pasta for the twins and silently rehearsing her pitch for the investor meeting tomorrow. A successful round of funding would set up her fledgling telecoms business for years to come. It might even get her on the cover of Forbes. "Yes," she said. "Isn't that black paint just awful? I never trusted that Grew. She's an odd bird."

Alex leapt up from the kitchen table and tore the letter he had been working on in two. "One hundred and thirty-seven letters! Not one has she opened! Not a one!"

The timer on the stove beeped. Samantha rummaged through a cabinet for a colander. "Boys!" she called. "Dinner time!"

"What am I to do?" cried Alex. "What shall I do? Another letter? What will another letter do?"

"Have you tried talking to her" Samantha asked. She shrugged. "Couldn't hurt. Boys! Pasta!"

The twins sprinted into the kitchen past their pacing father.

"Yes! Yes, that's it. I'll just go have a word with Ms. Grew. Just a quick word. I'll be right back."

"Aw, it's linguine," said Jonathon.

"We don't like linguines," said Jack. "We likes the fettuccines."

"Eat it, or die," said Samantha. "What do I care?"

In the foyer, Alex had slipped on his loafers. "Eat your noodles, my sons. I'll be right back. Love you."

Angry and growing angrier, Alex made quick work of the three blocks between his house and Grew's. The now-black facade loomed over the street, swallowing the streetlights in its shadow. Alex refused to be intimidated. He was the President of Morrow's Creek H.O.A. after all. He would not be intimidated by some eccentric woman. A single woman, at that. This was a family neighborhood after all. A neighborhood of good families who simply wouldn't stand for such an exterior hue. He straightened his tie and his back and rang the doorbell. In a moment, the door swung open.

"Jane, my dear neighbor--" Alex began, but it wasn't Jane at the door. Instead, there stood too short-ish men dressed in identical blue overalls. From their thick, shirtless torsos to their shiny, bald heads, they were covered in bright yellow body paint.

"Yibbadee daboo," said one to the other.

"Yackity blah kaboo," agreed the second.

Alex stood there in shock, his mouth open but unable to form words. Before he could react further, the man on the left lunged towards him and slipped a sack over his head. The man on the right bear-hugged him and dragged him inside. Alex heard the door slam shut loudly--a possible violation of the neighborhood's quiet hours--and then felt the prick of a needle in his neck.

When he regained consciousness, Alex found himself zip-tied to a folding chair in a dingy basement. A bare light bulb swung on a string overhead, casting frightening shadows of haphazardly arranged tools and broken toys. Alex struggled against his bonds, making the chair rock back and forth over the uneven floor. This noise must have alerted his captors, who now emerged from the shadows, babbling excitedly.

"Bingly zoop," said one man, poking Alex in the shoulder.

"Zooply bing!" said the other, laughing.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" said Alex Obelet with all the authority he could muster. "Do you have any idea what you've done? I'm the President of Morr--oaaahhh!"

One of the men had jabbed him in the side with a cattle prod.

"What do you want? Who are you? Where's Ms. Grew? What--what is this?" Alex was crying now.

"Lukey-looky loo," said one of the men, pointing to the wall in front of Alex. A projector flickered on.

"Captive Interrogation: Module 1. © Jane Grew. All rights reserved," read the first slide.

One of the men pressed a clicker and a series of questions floated onto the screen, one by one: What is the current phase of the moon? Who rules in England? Is

an approved exterior paint color for homes in Morrow's Creek? Which is wider: fettuccine or linguine? Which hurts more: this or

? What is the password to your wife's phone? Which grows faster: Kentucky Bluegrass or meadow sedge? Where are the Jacksons? How old would Neil Armstrong be today? Which hurts more: a or b? A or B? Which of the twins do you love more? How quickly does a body decompose buried 2 feet under a manicured lawn? What does Mrs. Pulton know? Are eggs dairy? How did Mr. Pulton die? What causes the tides? Who else knows you're here? Are you afraid to die? What day is trash pick-up? Is yard waste disposal on the same day?

Encouraged along by the cattle prod, Alex tried his best to answer the questions, but soon he was a blubbering mess. "I don't--I don't know. I don't know. Jack. Wednesday? I don't know. Please. Please stop. Please."

The taller man giggled and pulled at his overall straps. "Nupitee doh?"

"Nupitee nupitee nupitee!" his partner replied.

The taller one quickly clicked through a dozen more questions until he reached the title slide for "Module II." Meanwhile, the other man rummaged through a pile of rusty tools. There was another click and then, through his tears, Alex watched the words "Manicure Time!" bounce into view.

Having found a decent pair of pliers, the shorter man stepped behind Alex and squatted down. The taller one stepped in front of him and began trying to stuff a dirty rag in his mouth. Before he could get the rag in, the short one ripped off the nail on Alex's left pinky.

Alex unleashed an ear-splitting scream. The two yellow-painted men winced.

"Put the fucking gag in, Gary," said the one with the pliers.

This was easier now with Alex's mouth still open, still screaming. The rag silenced him, but it was too late. Jane Grew swept into the room, her black robe billowing out behind her. Under the robe, she was clad in only a lace bodysuit. She looked good. Evil, definitely, but also good. In her right hand, she carried a long black whip. In one fluid motion, she cracked it, sending its tail whistling over Alex and slashing across the face of the man behind him.

"No more English, minion," she spat.

"Goopa goppa bloo," he apologized.

The other one giggled. Grew whipped him, too.

"That last scream was too loud," she said. "Someone might be disturbed. We wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors, right Alex?"

With difficulty, Alex managed to spit out the rag. "What is this?" he said. "Some kind of sex thing? Don't you know that the bylaws specifically discoura--ahhhh!"

There was the cattle prod again.

"No, you idiot," said Jane. "This isn't a sex thing. It's so much bigger than that. Bigger than you and your stupid bylaws could ever imagine. I'm going to steal the moon."

"What?" sputtered Alex. "Are you insane? The bylaws were democratically established. They safeguard the character of the neighborhood!"

Jane paused, giving him time to catch up. It had been a long night for him and he was down to only nine fingernails.

"Wait--steal the moon? What?" he said.

The minions babbled and jumped up and down.

"Moonababoo! Moonababooba!" they cheered.

"Yes," Jane said. "I'm going to steal the moon. But it's a complicated and devious scheme and I'm obviously not going to explain the whole thing to you just so that you can revel in my mad genius only to then escape and foil my dastardly plans. That would be so dumb. You'll just have to believe me."

"I--I don't," said Alex. He had said this impulsively--he really didn't believe her--but as soon as he said it, he realized that he could try to trick her into revealing the whole plot by needling her with his doubts.

he thought.

"Ha!" she said. "I don't care about you, little 'Pwesident' Alex. Just tell me who else knows that I buried Mr. Pulton under the Jacksons' lawn and we can move on. You can go die and I can go steal the moon. Simple."

A glimmer of hope flashed before Alex's eyes. Jane Grew had slipped up. Everyone thought that Mr. Pulton had eloped with an undersecretary. She had just admitted to a serious crime. He could press his advantage.

"Everybody!" he shouted. "I mean nobody! The secret's ours. Mums the word. Not my wife. Please not my wife. The boys don't know a thing. Leave them out of this. The whole H.O.A.'s onto you! They'll be here any minute."

Maybe it was the sedative or the missing nail or the repeated shocks or the five hours zip-tied to a chair in a dingy basement or the two easy, un-stimulating years since he had handled a case of any significance after leaving the big firm in the city, maybe it was all of this together, but Alex wasn't at his sharpest.

Jane Grew groaned. She had hoped that Alex would make a more formidable nemesis. She would have to arrange for someone else to be elected President. "Oh, well," she said. "It was worth a try."

She turned and glided up the stairs, her robe billowing as usual. From the top of the stairs, she said, "Kill him."

"Hoopla doop," said one minion.

"Doopladoopity doo!" said the other.

Together, they lifted a massive sledgehammer off the ground and bashed Alex's skull in.

***

After Alex's unexpected disappearance, the H.O.A. moved quickly to install a new President, but it was too late. The damage was already done. A wild meadow bloomed in front of the Jacksons, bringing dragonflies and bumblebees and all sorts of other vermin. Jane Grew's house remained black. Trash piled up on the curb all seven days of the week. As property values cratered, those who couldn't sell fast enough took to renting out their whole homes online. Without their dad around, the Obelet twins were neglected. Their noodles grew thinner and thinner.

No one apologized to Mrs. Pulton for ignoring her warnings. Finally fed up with the disrespect, she started embezzling funds from the H.O.A. The creek that ran through Morrow's Creek dried up. Some residents began experimenting with alternate trim colors. The character of the neighborhood was irrevocably lost.

Such was the sudden and calamitous ruin of the once idyllic Morrow's Creek that hardly anyone in the whole tri-state area noticed when the next month's new moon failed, night after night, to wax a crescent.

The End.