You know that moment when someone’s audacity is so staggering you almost have to admire it almost. I was floating in my pool on a Saturday afternoon, cold beer in hand, enjoying the kind of peace you only get after a brutal week at work.

The sun was beating down, the water was perfect, and life was good.

That’s when I heard it.

The screech of expensive sneakers on concrete and a voice dripping with entitlement.

Hey, old man.

You need to get out now.

I opened one eye to see a teenager standing at the edge of my pool arms, crossed, looking at me like I was the hired help who’d forgotten his place.

“This kid, maybe seventeen, designer everything, had the kind of smirk that said he’d never heard the word no in his entire life.”

“This is HOA property,” he announced.

“My mom runs this neighborhood, so unless you want problems, I suggest you leave.”

I almost laughed.

If only this entitled brat knew who he was talking to.

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Let me back up and tell you how I ended up in this absurd situation.

six months ago, I moved into Willowbrook Estates, one of those picture perfect suburban neighborhoods where every lawn is manicured within an inch of its life and the HOA rules are thicker than a phone book.

I’d just been elected to a position that required me to relocate to this county, and this place seemed ideal.

Quiet, safe, good property value.

What I didn’t know was that I was moving into a dictatorship disguised as a homeowners association.

My first week there, I met Karen Mitchell.

Before Karen ever knocked on my door, the moving company had warned me that somebody in the neighborhood was photographing its trucks.

The driver, a patient man named Warren, said a woman had stood near the subdivision entrance with a tablet and demanded his company insurance certificate.

He had shown her the document, and she had demanded to see it again because the company address appeared outside the county.

Warren told me he had moved governors, surgeons, and professional athletes without receiving that kind of welcome.