[Episode 16] HOA: Vicious Monster or Harmless Parasite?

Interesting Fact: The second Gnomish civil war on Earth-3 raged for 1241 standard days. Given the average gnome life span of ninety days, this equates to over 13 life spans and is proportionately the longest war of any species weighing less than eight ounces.

From the chaos, Ganock Ganock cut through the pretenders and claimed the throne of the Gnomish Gnom. He ushered in the Gnomish Golden Age, and is best known for the architectural marvels he commissioned beneath the pristine lawns of Pleasant Lane.

Unfortunately, the construction led to the collapse of several front yards. The HOA retaliated with rat poison. The Gnomish people saddled their moles once more and readied themselves for battle. This war proved short lived, as humans were ecstatic to learn of the existence of gnomes. Within hours, the HOA caved to public pressure and allowed the creation of a Gnomish sanctuary.

Mito, Dolly, and Rob set off for the first televised interview of Ganock Ganock. Navigational difficulties land them in the middle of a vicious neighborhood feud.

Announcer: Welcome to the Crack – the wound between worlds, the rift amongst the stars, the only news network that brings you every story from every reality. You're watching, the CBW Channel.

Mito: Welcome back to the CBW Channel! I'm Mito'ca'hondria, lead reporter and resident expert on prophesized heroes. Make sure you have your psychic receptors tuned in to our broadcast so you can see tonight's epic adventure into the gnomish kingdom. How are we doing today, Dolly?

Dolly: Just peachy! This day is shaping up to be finer than frog hair.

Rob: I'm Rob Skythrust, and I only understand half the words that come out of Dolly's mouth.

Mito: It helps if you don't use logic. Ignore the meaning of the words, and focus on the way they sound and the feelings they evoke. Peaches make me think of Dolly's amazing peach cobbler. You know, the one that ignited a blood feud? What feeling do people have when they try her peach cobbler? Happiness. So, 'just peachy' means Dolly is happy. Or possibly edible.

Rob: Riiight. Huh. That actually makes sense in a strange, twisted way. What about the frog hair?

Mito: I don't think most species of frogs have hair, so it tripped me up at first too. Try saying it.

Rob: Finer than frog hair. Oh.

Mito: It's fun to say, isn't it? So that suggests…

Rob: Playfulness. Huh. I feel like I've just learned a new language. Finer than frog hair.

Dolly: Careful, sugar. It's addicting. One day, you're swearing up and down that you're gonna lose the accent just as soon as you leave your one-road town. You slip up every now and again when you get madder than a wet hen. Before you know it, you sound just like your memaw.

Rob: Memaw?

Mito: Grandmother. I thought people usually sounded like their parents?

Dolly: My ma ran off before I had my first diaper change. I was raised by my memaw. I reckon that's why I've always preferred grandbabies over children. [huff] Look at me, getting all introspective. Mr. Stanton's beady little eyes are glaring daggers, so we'd better beat feet.

Mito: I raise my hand in the general direction of the sunless sky. In an instant, we materialize in… I'm not actually sure how to describe this. We were supposed to land in a gnomish kingdom, but gnomes tend to be far more chaotic that this austere nightmare.

Rob: The atmosphere is dull and hopeless, like a prison. Rows and rows of identical buildings surround us, each placed exactly six feet apart. There's something deeply disturbing in the unrelenting conformity.

Mito: Though the grass is green and thick, I hesitate to think it is actually alive. This is not a place that encourages life. Living creatures are loud and messy. They cannot thrive under such oppressive perfection. Rob is wrong. This is a graveyard. A monument to strangled creativity.

Dolly: It's a cul-de-sac, dear. It's definitely not the gnomish kingdom we were aiming for, but it's certainly not a graveyard.

Rob: It's a prison, then.

Dolly: It's not a prison either. Well, maybe a little bit of a prison. A lot of people feel trapped in suburban life, but it's a prison of their own devising. They worked hard for this life and thought it would make them happy. They didn't realize it was sucking them dry until it was too late. No shred of joy or self-satisfaction can survive contact with an HOA.

Mito: HOA? I think I've heard people whisper that name or curse it under their breath. It's some kind of monster, isn't it?

Dolly: Pray you never find out.

Rob: Maybe we're only a little off target. The Gnomish Kingdom might be nearby. Do you have the sparkly navigation shoes?

Mito: Of course I do. What kind of a lead reporter forgets the sparkly navigation shoes? They're right here. They are right… um… I may have forgotten them.

Rob: A door is thrust open as a man charges out. He brandishes some sort of mechanical weapon at us.

Jerry: Get off my lawn! Get off! Get off! I'll use this string trimmer on your face. Don't think I won't.

Mito: We're off, we're off.

Dolly: The man is far from appeased. He stalks closer and waves his weed-wacker like it's a sword.

Jerry: You got sloppy. Usually you only sabotage my yard in the middle of the night. I've caught you now, and I'm calling the cops. You'll never destroy another lawn.

Rhonda: What is this ruckus? Jerry? Are you threatening  the salespeople now? I thought you couldn't sink any lower, but I guess there are no lengths you won't stoop to.

Jerry: Shut up, Rhonda. I caught your little henchmen.

Mito: Mito'ca'hondria, Powerhoose of Cellaria is no one's henchman.

Dolly: Mitochondria, tuck that rage away. We don't need any more fuel thrown on this fire.

Rob: I think there's been a misunderstanding. We're reporters. We don't destroy grass, at least not on purpose.

Rhonda: Reporters? So you've come to investigate the feud.

Mito: I look at Dolly, trying to convey my thoughts. This might not be as interesting as the gnomish kingdom we came to investigate, but feuds are always good for the ratings. Dolly nods. I look at Rob. He rolls his eyes. I didn't really care about his opinion anyway.

Rob: Mito, you didn't need to narrate that part.

Mito: Live from Earth-6, we stand amidst the greatest feud in cul-de-sac history. Rhonda, what's the death count up to?

Rhonda: Death count? Um, zero?

Mito: That's disappointing. How many are critically injured?

Jerry: None? What is wrong with you? Are you on drugs?

Mito: Are you participating in ceremonial hostage-taking? Kidnapping? Maiming? Proxy amputation?

Rhonda: It's definitely drugs. I've seen it on the news. Kids are huffing soup and losing their damn minds.

Mito: This is the saddest feud I've ever seen. Where is the violence? The innocent bystanders struck down by accident? How can you call yourselves enemies if there isn't at least one pair of star-crossed lovers torn apart by your rage?

Dolly: Mito has a point. On behalf of our viewers, I'm disappointed in you.

Jerry: I don't understand. Are you actual reporters or drug addicts?

Rob: I heave a great sigh. Trust Mito and Dolly to ruin our interview before it can start. Perhaps the gnomish citizens wouldn't have minded their rapid-fire questions, but these good people are obviously hoping for a little more class.

Mito: You watched one interviewing tutorial, and now you think you know everything. I've spent years interviewing. I have more class in my pinky than you have in your entire muscular body.

Rob: Like most things in life, it helps to begin by establishing a connection.

Rob: Hi. I'm Rob Skythrust.

Rhonda: Skythrust? That's… quite a name. Are you a stripper?

Jerry: Don't give him a hard time. He's probably from Las Vegas. I hear they have whole families of strippers there. It's called generational pole-dancing.

Rhonda: I'm not giving Rob a hard time. I'm just curious. Do you do parties?

Rob: I'm a reporter.

Rhonda: And I'm sure you're very professional. What about on the weekends? Do you like to play doctor?

Dolly: I thought for sure you were going to say policeman, or maybe firefighter. He certainly has the physique to pull that off.

Rhonda: My daughter hired a cop to strip at her bachelorette party. He had fuzzy handcuffs and the whole sha-bang. I wish I could've been there, but moms weren't invited.

Dolly: We never are.

Rob: Mito, I'm scared.

Mito: I'm sure all our viewers are dying to hear more about this alleged feud. When did this first start?

Dolly: Jerry straightens and puffs out his chest.

Jerry: I won best lawn three years in a row, and for good reason. Look around you. This lawn is immaculate. Have you ever seen such luscious grass? Look at the deep blueish green color. There isn't a weed in sight, and the sidewalk is perfectly edged.

Mito: It's very nice. Great grass. 10 out of 10.

Jerry: I was poised to win my fourth lawn competition, when Rhonda moved in. From the very beginning, she started making comments about joining the competition. I thought she was just being friendly.

Rhonda: I was.

Jerry: I gave her a few pointer and let her borrow my tools. I thought we were bonding. Then one night she took a shovel to my lawn and destroyed it.

Rhonda: It wasn't me!

Jerry: Then who was it, Rhonda? Who? No one else had a motive.

Rhonda: Everyone had a motive. You're insufferable about your stupid lawn. You lurk outside with an air horn just so you can scare the shit out of any child that dares to touch your precious turf.

Jerry: This is my property and I have a right to keep it safe from marauding hooligans.

Rhonda: You traumatized the trick-or-treaters.

Jerry: What's it to you? Your children are grown. If they're still trick or treating, they should probably consider therapy.

Rhonda: I didn't care until you turned your crazy obsession on me. I never touched your lawn. It was probably an animal.

Jerry: An animal? Like a mole? In this subdivision? Do you have any idea how many pesticides the HOA sprays? The only thing that survives here is the grass. There aren't even enough pollinators for a rose garden.

Mito: Could we see the damage?

Mito: Jerry grimaces, but allows us to gingerly step onto his lawn. He takes us around the house to his side yard. Rhonda follows us, probably hoping to continue pleading her case. In a desolate cul-de-sac like this, reputation is everything. Without the trust and respect of her neighbors, how will she survive?

Rhonda: I don't know how anyone could make such a ludicrous statement ring so true.

Mito: Next to the shed, the ground feels oddly spongy.

Jerry: Aerator spikes. It's good for root health.

Mito: Interesting.

Rhonda: It's really not.

Jerry: There. Look at the damage. Tell me that looks accidental.

Dolly: Jerry is right. It looks like the mess was caused by a shovel. Dirt is carelessly tossed every which way, smothering the fresh green blades. The ground is scored like a honey baked ham and there's an odd, nutty smell wafting from the site of the massacre.

Jerry: It's probably poison. It wasn't bad enough she killed my side yard. Rhonda wanted to poison the rest.

Dolly: I'm not so sure this was caused by human hands. Something about that smell niggles my brain. I bend over to inspect the striations in the dirt. There are too many interruptions in the deep gashes cut into the soil. It couldn't have been dug by a shovel, not unless Rhonda has a particular attraction to shovels three inches wide.

Rob: The ground is really weird. Mito, I know you said it was spongy, but that doesn't really do it justice. It feels like we're standing on top of a sinkhole.

Jerry: A sinkhole? In my yard? Nature wouldn't dare.

Mito: Perhaps it was dug by the mysterious HOA that stalks these barren lands.

Dolly: Dear, the HOA isn't a monster. [dramatic. Potentially with music] Monsters can be slain. The HOA… the HOA never dies.

Jerry: I've had enough of you lunatics. You've had your interview. Take your pictures and leave.

Rob: I stamp my foot on the ground to feel it give beneath my weight. Something is off. I did a lot of hunting on my homeworld. I stomp again. It feels like I'm standing on top of a wyvern burrow.

Jerry: Stop stomping on my grass and get off my property.

Rob: No, really. Stand right here and stomp. There's some kind of tunnel underground. It wasn't made by a mole. At least, it wasn't made by any kind of mole I'm familiar with.

Dolly: We all stomp experimentally. By 'we' I mean the three reporters. Rhonda stomps enthusiastically, and Jerry refrains from stomping at all. If any of the neighbors are watching, they're going to think we're rehearsing for a clog dancing contest.

Jerry: Get off my lawn before I call the police. Off, hooligans!

Mito: Oof. That was unpleasant.

Rob: I knew it! I was right! Who's a great reporter now, Mito?

Mito: Viewers cursed to live without psychic receptors may be wondering what happened. Viewers with psychic receptors may also be wondering what happened. It's rather dark in here, and there's a lot of dirt. I try to stand up, and come to the unfortunate realization that I am buried up to my chin. Rob, Dolly, and Rhonda appear similarly submerged.

Rhonda: Jerry! Jerry! Can you hear me?

Jerry: Look what you've done to my lawn! I told you not to stomp!

Rhonda: Jerry! We fell into the sink hole! Call emergency services!

Jerry: You'd like that, wouldn't you? You want a fire truck to drive onto my beautiful lawn. The wheel ruts would ruin the ground, and all those footsteps would tear up the grass. My lawn would take years to recover, and you'd snatch that 'Best Lawn' prize right from under me.

Rhonda: I don't care about a stupid lawn prize! I just asked you about lawn maintenance because I wanted to talk to you.

Jerry: What?

Rhonda: I said I wanted to talk to you! When you aren't throwing accusations around, it's actually kind of cute to see your eyes light up.

Jerry: You're interested in me, not the lawn?

Rhonda: It's hard to date after fifty. I've never had much luck on dating apps, and I thought we had a connection.

Jerry: Why didn't you say something?

Rhonda: I listened to a forty-minute lecture on the growing conditions of St. Augustine versus Kentucky Bluegrass. If that's not a hint, I don't know what is.

Jerry: I haven't dated since my wife left me for a golf course landscaper. I don't pick up on hints.

Rhonda: Will you please call emergency services? Maybe afterwards, we could go pick out some grass seed?

Jerry: Yes! I'll go get my phone right now.

Dolly: Nicely done, sugar. For a moment, I thought he was planning on leaving us to fertilize his lawn.

Rhonda: He'd never do that. The excess nitrogen caused by decomposition would make the grass change color. Don't ask me why I know that.

Mito: Just like that, a blood feud has ended. Once again, star-crossed lovers have brought an end to the violence. While there was little to no blood, maiming, or decapitation, I give this feud a solid 5 out of 10 for effort.

Mito: This seems like a good time to talk about our sponsor, Life Siren.

Mito: Are you frail, bedridden, or so old you could break a hip by sneezing wrong?

Rhonda: You better not be looking at me. If women age like fine wine, then I'm a two-dollar chardonnay.

Dolly: Mito, dear, I know you aren't looking at me.

Mito: I'm not looking at anyone. This is just an advertisement.

Rob: Are you much, much older than Dolly? Are you struggling to keep your independence in a world that insists your glory days are over? You need Life Siren.

Mito: Life Siren is an easy, reliable way to plan for your future. No one wants to spend days stuck on the floor because their grandkids never visit. With Life Siren you don't have to. If you fall and you can't get up, simply press the button and a vampire will rush to your house.

Rhonda: Pardon?

Rob: There's no need to spend days ruminating on your lost youth as you slowly die on the kitchen floor. Our contracted vampires are happy to hasten your death- Mito, who wrote this? Are we seriously advertising vampire-assisted suicide?

Dolly: As a senior citizen- nope. I refuse. I am not that old.

Mito: Please, Dolly. Mr. Stanton takes advertising very seriously.

Dolly: As a senior- blech. As a senior- ugh. Sorry, Mito. My body physically rejects the assumption that I might be a senior citizen. I am energetic. I am vivacious. I spend my time learning new things and visiting strange lands, not playing bingo with my knitting club.

Mito: With Life Siren, the power is in your hands. Senior citizens decide how they die, when they die, and even who does it. Do you have thousands of bodice rippers and spicy paranormal romances hidden in your closet? Take one last ride with a sexy vampire.

Rob: Have you spent years spewing insults at one particular ethnic group? Do your friends and family hide their faces when you say racist things to the mailman? You can request a vampire of a specific race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation. As you take your last breaths, you can rest easy after one final 'I told you so.' You always knew those sort of people were violent.

Mito: Do you hate you daughter's ex-husband, Frank? Frame him for murder with Life Siren. Doctors, nurses, and daughter-in-laws like to make all the decisions about your golden years. Take the power back with Life Siren.

Rob: Life Siren is not suitable for indecisive people or those who live with family. Once summoned to your house, the vampire will not rest until all blood on the property is drunk. Ask your mortician if Life Siren is right for you.

Dolly: That was awful. Y'all should be ashamed of yourselves.

Mito: Shh. Do you want a repeat of Notta Perfume?

Rob: Do you hear something? I hear digging.

Dolly: Like some kind of critter?

Rob: Maybe. Wait. Do you hear music?

Mito: I do hear music. The jaunty tune is familiar.

Dolly: Have you ever run into mole people, dear?

Mito: A few times. Their music is much darker. Think bass drums and throat singing. As the music nears us, a wide, beautiful smile graces my face. I know this music.

Mito: A gnome pops its head through the dirt and chitters something. Our universal translators must be malfunctioning. As I fiddle with my top hat, the gnome procession marches through the hole, tiny lanterns held aloft.

Dolly: Gnomes are itty bitty! My goodness, they're adorable. I could just eat them up. These gnomes are about four inches tall, but their teeny tiny red hats bring their height up to five inches. Ooh! Look at those little glowing mushrooms!

Rob: The gnomes are not adorable. They hold miniature shovels and a variety of weapons. I'm pretty sure I see a crossbow. They are definitely not adorable, and Dolly apologizes for anything she might've said to imply otherwise.

Dolly: I do not.

Mito: I think I've got it. Yes!

Gnome: You're late.

Mito: We were a little held up, but we're here now. Viewers, this is Ganock Ganock, the latest king of Gnomish Gnom. After a bloody, two-year civil war, he has finally brought peace to the kingdom.

Gnome: We graciously allowed you to report the end of our civil war, and you failed to show up on time.

Rhonda: Hey! That's not fair. They would've been on time if you little dirt gremlins hadn't destroyed my neighbor's yard.

Rob: We're here now. Can we start the interview?

Gnome: No.

Mito: It won't happen again, I promise. Our viewers are so excited to hear about your victory. What changes do you and your cabinet have planned for the gnomish people?

Dolly: Ganock Ganock turns his back and toddles away on his stubby little legs. His procession follows. As quickly as they came, the gnomes disappear into the underground tunnels.

Mito: Wait! How are you dealing with the threat of the HOA? Have you designed a weapon that can defeat the immense cloud of anger and depression that follows in its wake?

Rob: Shit. I think we blew the interview.

Mito: Mr. Stanton is going to kill us. Our time slot is nearly over, so we have no chance of getting Ganock Ganock to change his mind.

Rhonda: He seemed pretty insufferable. Horrible fashion sense. No sane person wears a red hat so oversized.

Dolly: I knew there was a reason I liked you, sugar.

Rob: Stay tuned for Dance Sharks.

Mito: Fresh off their last victory, the pups prepare to take on the latest dance competition. With only one pup getting a solo, will these Mama Sharks be able to accept Madame Orca's decision, or are these dance lessons about to turn into a feeding frenzy? There's blood in the water and a song in their hearts. Find out what happens next on Dance Sharks.

Dolly: Ta-ta for now, my lovelies.