Lula had ruled her little patch of Liberty County for years — loud, bossy, and convinced the sheriff’s office was her personal customer‑service line.

Her “babies” did what she said. The parolees mowed when told. The cats obeyed her moods. The poison ivy even seemed to grow where she pointed.

Then one morning, a new tenant rolled in. Paid rent. Signed papers. Stood upright.

Didn’t flinch when Lula stomped.

Didn’t melt when she said “baby.”

Didn’t blink when she waved that notebook paper like a badge.

That’s when Podunk felt the tremor.

Because Lula had finally met her opposite — a tenant with a spine.

And in Podunk, a spine is louder than a stomp.