Spine remembered him the way you remember a mosquito: not personally, just… consistently.

It was one of those mornings where the air felt like it had opinions. Spine was on her porch, sipping sweet tea, the hounds stacked in a lazy heap like they’d been poured there.

Then here he came.

Marching across Scumbag’s neighborhood with a cardboard box like he was delivering the Ten Commandments, except it was chickens. Actual chickens. In a trailer park. At 9 a.m. on a Tuesday.

Spine didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just watched him like she was observing a nature documentary titled *“Bad Decisions in the Wild.”*

He opened the box.

The chickens **erupted**.

One shot out like a bottle rocket.

Another strutted straight into someone’s carport like it had a dental appointment.

A third hopped onto a porch rail and stared through the window like it was judging the décor.

Meanwhile Scumbag stood there with his clipboard, blinking slow, like he was buffering.

Spine took another sip and thought, *Yep. This neighborhood stays on brand.*

Because this was the same man who later tried to correct her about which hand goes over your heart — confidently wrong, loudly wrong, spiritually wrong.

And the same man who came sniffing around for pallets to burn, like she was running a pallet adoption agency.

So when he asked, Spine didn’t even sigh.

She handed him the two worst pallets she owned — the ones that were already halfway to becoming compost — and said, calm as a judge:

“That’s it. Two. No more.”

He nodded like she’d just knighted him.

Walked off proud as a peacock, carrying those busted pallets like trophies from a hunt he didn’t participate in.

A chicken followed him for a few steps, then gave up, confused by his energy.

Spine watched the whole scene, shook her head once, and said to nobody:

“Some folks don’t need enemies. They just need a perimeter.”