Lula woke up expecting victory.

Instead, she opened her door and saw a brand‑new, shiny, regulation‑looking mailbox standing in the yard like it had been sent by the federal government itself.

Installed.

Leveled.

Bolted.

Done.

No permission slip.

No committee meeting.

No Lula.

Just a mailbox standing there like,

“Good morning, Liberty County. I’m here now.”

Lula nearly swallowed her own tongue.

She stomped outside, ready to holler, but the grass had grown so high she got tangled halfway through her march. The poison ivy — now thriving like it had been blessed by the Pope — wrapped around her ankle like it was welcoming her to the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, the Tenant With a Spine didn’t say a word.

She just walked past with her chai tea, nodded at the mailbox like it was an old friend, and went on with her day.

And the grass‑cutting fee?

Gone.

Vanished.

Disappeared like Code Enforcement on a Friday afternoon.

The poison ivy, now drunk with power, started climbing Lula’s kiddie pool, her “NO FEDRAL BOXES!” sign, and the rooster like it was auditioning for a nature documentary.

By sunset, the only thing thriving in Lula’s yard was:

poison ivy

resentment

and the faint sound of a mailbox door opening and closing in the breeze, just to spite her