"Come on," I whispered to the screen. "Take
the bait."
B
Chapter 9: The Kick Heard
'Round the Cul-de-Sac
renda reached the edge of my
driveway. As usual, she paused. She did her
standard performative look to the left and to the
right, ensuring there were no witnesses to her
petty vandalism. The street was entirely empty.
Satisfied that she was alone, she turned her
attention to the bin. She took a half-step back to
get proper leverage. This wasn't going to be a
casual nudge; she was winding up for a power
kick. She planted her left foot firmly on the
concrete sidewalk. She drew her right leg back,
her teal sneaker hovering in the air.
I held my breath.
With a sudden, violent thrust, she swung her
leg forward, aiming her foot dead center at the
plastic belly of the trash bin, right where the 350
pounds of solid, steel-reinforced concrete
resided.
She kicked it with everything she had.
If it had been an empty bin, it would have
flown ten feet into the street. But it wasn't. It was
an immovable object.
The impact was immediate and devastating.
The bin didn't budge a single millimeter. Not a
fraction of an inch. It absorbed the kinetic energy
of her kick and instantly reflected it straight back
into her foot.
Even from inside my house, through closed
windows, I heard a sickening *THWACK*,
followed immediately by a sharp, cracking sound
like a dry tree branch snapping in half.
The live feed captured the aftermath in high
definition. Brenda’s forward momentum was
violently arrested. Her body jerked backward as
if she had just kicked a brick wall—which,
essentially, she had.
Her travel mug flew out of her hand,
spinning through the air and spraying hot coffee
across her pristine lawn.
For one agonizing second, she just stood
there, her face contorting from malicious glee
into absolute, unadulterated shock. Then, the
pain registered.
A blood-curdling scream shattered the
peaceful morning air. It was a sound of pure
agony, echoing down the street and bouncing off
the manicured houses. Brenda collapsed,
crumbling onto the pavement like a puppet
whose strings had been cut. She grabbed her
right foot, rolling on the ground and shrieking at
the top of her lungs.
I slowly set my coffee mug down. I took a
deep breath, composed my features into a mask
of sleepy concern, and walked to my front door.
I
Chapter 10: The Aftermath
opened my front door and stepped
out onto the porch, tightening my bathrobe
around me. Down the street, porch lights were
flicking on. Doors were opening. The screams
had woken up half the block.
I jogged down my driveway, approaching the
writhing figure of Brenda on the sidewalk. She
was clutching her ankle, her face red and
streaked with tears, her teal tracksuit dusted
with dirt.
"Brenda! Oh my goodness!" I exclaimed, my
voice dripping with faux concern. "Are you
alright? What happened? Did you trip?"
She glared up at me, her eyes filled with a
mixture of immense pain and pure hatred. "My
foot!" she wailed. "It's broken! You... your bin!"
"My bin?" I looked at the heavy, green
sentinel, which was still sitting perfectly upright,
entirely undisturbed. "What about my bin? Did
you run into it?"
Her husband, a meek man named Harold,
came running down the street in his pajamas.
"Brenda! What happened?"
"He set a trap!" she screamed, pointing a
trembling finger at me. "He filled his bin with
cement! Call the police! Call an ambulance!"
I held up my hands in innocence. "Harold, I
have no idea what she's talking about. I put my
trash out last night like I always do. I heard
screaming and came out to find her on the
ground. She just admitted to kicking my
property."
Harold looked at his wife, who was now
hyperventilating, and pulled out his phone to dial