The deputies had barely finished their dramatic little speech about “coming back Saturday to arrest Spine” when she crossed her arms and said, flat as a skillet:

“Do it.”

They weren’t ready for that answer.

But her son was already there — leaning against the porch rail, watching the whole thing like a man who’s had to talk his mama out of at least three fistfights and one zoning dispute.

And then The General emerged.

One eye.

Full authority.

Zero tolerance.

He hopped onto the porch rail, stared directly at the deputies, then at Spine, then at the poison ivy climbing the post like it was trying to join the conversation.

And he delivered his entire legal opinion:

“F’er.”

That was it.

That was the ruling.

Case closed.

Her son sighed — the sigh of a man who knows when the universe has spoken.

“Mama… let’s just go. You’re allergic to poison ivy, and he’s allergic to stupidity.”

The General added a second, quieter:

“F’er.”

Which sealed the vote.

Spine didn’t leave because she was scared.

She left because her son and her one‑eyed warlord cat formed a bipartisan coalition and passed a motion.

And so—