A killer app, p.4
A Killer App, page 4
I’m confident the market is huge. I figure at least half the population, like me, would want to see Mr. Blower Dude blown to bits, decapitated, or staked by a lagoon with a hungry alligator prowling his way.
Creating pre-set death scenario videos of the most hackneyed fatalities was a snap. The two I label “Instant Relief” let the user upload faces and voices for both the victims and themselves. That way, users can become the Samurais who poke bloody holes in their victims and ignore their pleas before decapitating their Mr. Blower Dudes with a powerful swipe of the sword. Or, they can verbally castigate their enemies before throwing a switch to blow them to smithereens.
My “Extended Gratification” offerings let users toss the man—or woman—onto a lagoon bank with a nineteen-foot alligator lurking in the weeds. With this option, users can watch the monster gator toss his ultimate lunch about in his powerful jaws until it drags the pitiful chump below the green algae slime of the lagoon.
I gave my Artificial Intelligence brainchild access to thousands of documentaries and scenes from B-movies to model the blood-curdling scenes. Then, I blended and tweaked the results into composite, make-believe options.
I have yet to perfect my “Delayed Gratification” options. One lets users check in periodically over a day or two to taunt enemies as they die of thirst amid endless desert dunes. Another leaves injured victims in the wild, where they’re harassed by snarling wolf packs.
I sigh.
A much greater challenge is figuring out how to broaden my revenge app’s appeal to the world’s namby-pambies. I’m aware some folks would shrink from such gruesome retribution, even if it’s make-believe.
So, instead of fragging Mr. Blower Dude, they might prefer the leaf blower to disturb a hornet’s nest. Then, they could chortle as he runs off screen, slapping himself silly and screaming, “Help!”
The image suddenly conjures up a source of childhood joy. Cartoons. Yosemite Sam. Bugs Bunny. Porky Pig. Tweety Bird. Mighty Mouse. The geniuses who created those cartoons knew how to make mayhem fun!
That’s it! I’ll offer a cartoon module. It would definitely bring in a whole different PG13 audience. Who wouldn’t want to see a cheeky varmint outsmart a neighborhood asswipe or an arrogant university dean?
Speaking of neighborhood asswipes, Leona Grimm, the old biddy who lives next door, is out walking her Chihuahua-Yorkie mix. I hear that hairy little monster yapping day and night. Comes right through the walls, practically rattles the windows.
You’d think a neighbor’s barking mutt wouldn’t be a problem in a neighborhood with huge lots. You’d be wrong. On deep lots like Leona’s and mine, the sprawling McMansions often crowd setback lines. My home office sits only fifty yards from where her hairy rat likes to exercise his vocal cords.
If I hadn’t complained to the HOA about her freakin’ dog’s constant barking, I might consider motivating one of my minions to do the woman in.
Poisoning the damn dog would be a simple matter. But that’s impractical, too. Leona would only buy another yapper. And if Leona or the dog died, I’d be a prime suspect.
But what if Leona moved—voluntarily?
Hmm. What would it take to convince Leona she needs to hastily pack her bags and leave Lighthouse Cove? Naturally, she wouldn’t leave Ginger, her stupid dog, behind.
Chapter Nine
Kylee
Thursday 3 p.m., June 29
My car can practically motor to Satin Sands on autopilot. Before I began working for Welch HOA Management, I’d only visited the ungated, three-hundred-home community a few times to play league tennis.
Then, last October, I became a regular Satin Sands caller. First, I was asked to investigate the bizarre possibility that someone planted a poisonous snake in a resident’s screened blueberry patch. Soon after, I was tasked with evaluating a laundry list of security upgrades championed by Roger Roper, then president.
Roper claimed his costly measures would keep out all manner of riffraff and improve Satin Sand’s prestige. My analysis suggested the changes would do zippity-do-dah to enhance security. That’s when Roper talked his cohorts into firing Welch HOA.
Post-Thanksgiving, however, Satin Sands got a new president, Donna Dahl, who rehired us. Donna and I have also become good friends.
Satin Sands occupies a skinny peninsula with a generous shoreline that’s sometimes sandy. The quantity of sand and the size of the beach depend on the whims of annual storms. While they sometimes deposit sand, a year or two down the road, a new storm reneges and scours the sand away.
Parking in front of the clubhouse, I hear the thwonk of tennis balls. Sounds like all four clay courts are occupied. The pool’s busy, too. The sunny day has brought out more than a few kids to practice cannon balls.
Inside the clubhouse, I head to the bar. Donna is at her favorite back booth, hoisting a daiquiri. I assume the spare glass on the table has my name on it. Though I always call Donna by her name, I often think of her as Freckles. Ted gave her the apt nickname when he provided me with a who’s who playbook. The plump Irish lady has a generous dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She’s also saucy, unpretentious and fun.
Well, at least that’s the side of Donna’s personality I usually see. The other side is a shrewd business lady. Donna and her late husband owned and jointly managed a multi-million-dollar fast-food franchise.
“Since you asked about rental conflicts, I figured you could use a drink as well,” Donna says as she slides a sweating daiquiri toward my side of the table. “What’s up?”
While I seldom drink, at least before sundown, Donna knows I’m fond of daiquiris. And it’s not like one alcoholic beverage will lessen my ability to do my job this afternoon. Hell, it might help.
“Thanks,” I say. “Guess my boss won’t fire me for sharing a cocktail with a client.”
Donna laughs. “Can’t imagine anything you could do to get yourself fired. Lord knows, in a normal company, you’d have long since been pink-slipped. Let’s see, you’ve been caught sneaking into gated enclaves, stealing horses, and decking a colleague.”
I smile. “Hey, my boss was right beside me,” I protest. “But, back to rental properties in HOAs. Apparently, Rand Creek owners are fighting tooth and nail about rentals. I don’t get it.”
“What’s not to get?” Donna asks. “Renters can be real pains in the butt. If you own your house, you may not want ‘tourons’ across the street. In fact, now that our beloved ex-president, Roger Roper’s off the board, he’s leading a group of rule lovers clambering for severe rental restrictions.”
“Sounds like Roper,” I say. “Sometimes Mom complains about tourist morons, too. But she’s friendly with Hullis Island owners who have bought properties for eventual retirement and need rentals to help cover mortgage and insurance expenses until they move in. For others, the units are investments, expected to appreciate in value, even if rental incomes don’t actually cover annual expenses.”
I shrug. “Mom figures the occasional idiotic renters are an acceptable tradeoff. The exorbitant fees tourists pay to golf and dine at the club subsidize club memberships for residents. And Mom enjoys golf, tennis, and eating out.”
My friend nods in agreement. “You’re right about Hullis Island. And I think Roper will have a hard time selling tighter rental restrictions in Satin Sands. But Rand Creek is a different animal. It’s a fifty-five-plus community marketed to folks who could pay a thou to golf at Pebble Beach without blinking an eye. With all the retired attorneys and former judges living there, I foresee a huge lawsuit. These are folks who always fight to defend their interests, whatever they may be.”
Donna thinks owners in resort-oriented communities are unlikely to nix rentals because they understood the tradeoffs when they bought. “They know the pros and cons. That’s less true in HOAs marketed as retiree havens. These owners expect their neighbors to be their clones. You know, elderly folks who define a madcap, late night as an eight o’clock dinner reservation. When they discover the rental property next door subjects them to a merry-go-round of loud music, overflowing trash bins, and blocked driveways, they’re pissed.”
I’m still puzzled. “But I read through Rand Creek’s covenants last week. It looks like Rand Creek already prohibits rentals for periods of less than three months. Doesn’t that eliminate weekenders?”
Donna chuckles. “You military vets are so naive. Welcome to capitalism. If there’s money to be made, rules are inconveniences, not barriers. Here’s one workaround. Rand Creek only allows three-month or longer rentals, right? So, what does Lou Short-of-Funds do with the hard-to-sell house he inherited in said HOA? He converts the ownership to an LLC; then he offers one-percent shares to weekend renters. The shares make them official owners. Who cares if the owners forfeit their shares the minute they vacate the premises?”
“Wow, wonder who thought that up? Who’d go to such extremes to rent a property? Wouldn’t it be a paperwork nightmare?”
Donna shrugs. “Nah. Simple computer program. Create the form, then press a few keys to insert new names and repeat the transaction.”
I sip my drink and wonder if it’s kosher to ask the president of one client HOA her opinion of another HOA pres. Since Donna’s involved in an unofficial roundtable of Lowcountry HOA presidents, I’m sure she’s met Jocelyn Waters.
Donna tips her glass up for a long drink and meets my eyes. “Given that you’ve just come from Rand Creek, can I assume you had the pleasure of making Jocelyn Waters’ acquaintance?”
What? Is Donna reading my mind now?
“Uh, yes,” I fumble. “Met Jocelyn this morning for the first time. Only spent a few minutes together. Just long enough for her to make photo assignments for Rand Creek’s website makeover.”
“She’s a piece of work.” Donna makes a rude noise. “Tries to take over every meeting. She’s super ambitious. I hear she’s planning to go into politics. But surrounded by other HOA presidents, she has too many egocentric competitors to bat anything close to 500 on keeping the floor. Have to admit I’m one of the loudmouths who sticks out a vocal shepherd’s hook to yank her off stage.”
“I know she owns a real estate and rental company,” I say. “Has she voiced her opinion on rentals in any of your meetings?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s a huge proponent of individual property rights. She raves that nobody has the right to tell owners they can’t rent their properties. Of course, she sings from a different hymnbook when she champions an architectural review committee’s right to tell property owners their shutters were painted an unacceptable shade of green.
“Jocelyn owns rentals in at least five HOAs and makes a good buck managing units she’s sold as investment-rental properties,” Donna adds. “She and her hubby were among the original investors in Rand Creek. Guess that’s why they built a big home there. Scored a really nice piece of waterfront. They’ve been there at least five years.”
“That surprises me. Can’t believe she’s sixty. But she’d have to be if she bought there five years ago.”
“Wrong,” Donna replies. “Take another gander at those Rand Creek covenants. Only one family member needs to be fifty-five or above. There are no age restrictions on other household members, so long as they’re over eighteen. That leaves plenty of leeway for rich old men and their trophy wives. Jocelyn’s hubby is at least a decade her senior.”
I glance at the big clock over the bar. “Wow, I need to get going. Don’t want Grant and Mimi to be arrested as underage loiterers in the Rand Creek parking lot. Thanks for the rental tutorial.”
“My pleasure,” says Donna. “Say hey to the rest of the Welch crew.”
Chapter Ten
Kylee
Thursday 5 p.m., June 29
After I pick up my teen colleagues, we head to Ted’s office on Highway 21. He bought the building for its Port Royal location, a central hopping-off spot to visit HOAs anywhere in Beaufort County.
The office, a former convenience store, has benefited from a half-hearted makeover. Once grocery aisles were removed, carpet-covered walls were brought in to divvy up the wide-open space. The second-hand cubicle dividers came in a variety of mix-and-don’t-match colors. What can I say? The office isn’t a style showcase.
My boss saves his renovation energy for the dilapidated white-elephant mansion he calls home in Beaufort’s Historic District. A lover of architecture, Ted says he couldn’t bear to let the “unique” treasure decay. Since his office entered the world as a hard-luck convenience store, I guess he feels it’s preordained to remain homely.
Who am I to judge? Mom thinks my floating home is an abomination. Of course, Mom thinks all boats are pug-ugly. She’s deathly afraid of the water and seizes any excuse never to come aboard.
Both Mom’s and Robin’s cars are still parked in front of the office.
As soon as I switch off the ignition, Mimi starts fumbling for her camera bag, preparing to bolt.
“See you tomorrow,” she says. “Gotta run. Mom’s having folks over for dinner, and I promised I’d be home early.”
Grant sneaks a look sideways at me before he gives Mimi a kiss.
“Okay, text you later,” he says.
Ah, young love.
When Grant and I enter the office, Robin and Mom are hunched in front of Robin’s computer. The door’s squeak makes Mom jump.
“Ted needs to put a bell on that door,” she snips. “Startled the crap out of me.”
Grant laughs. “That’s a lot of crap to startle.”
“Don’t sass your grandma. Come here and give me a kiss, or have your lips gotten too strenuous a workout spending the day with Mimi?”
I shake my head and groan. Mom always tries for the final word, but Grant gives her a run for the money. When Ted, Grant’s dad, was nine years old, his mother died. Mom immediately took Ted, my younger brother’s BFF, under her wing. Growing up, Ted spent more time at our house than across the street at his own.
He’s always been family, which initially made our late-blooming romance feel sort of weird and incestuous. Grant not only calls my mom Grandma, he calls me Aunt Kylee. Confusing, huh? But I’m getting over it. Have to admit Ted’s become an addiction. One I don’t want to fight.
“What computer nonsense have the two of you so entranced?” I ask. “Must have been mighty good for our arrival to make you jump out of your skin.”
Grant mimics one of Mom’s shame-on-you finger-stroking gestures. “Did we catch you watching porn?”
“Could be,” Robin answers. “I’m beginning to think reading Earful posts qualifies. Once someone hints there’s a secret conspiracy afoot, dozens of tag-alongs expand on the theory.”
“What started the latest conspiracy wreck, and does it involve a Welch client?” I ask.
“Afraid so,” Mom answers. “Hullis Island, where yours truly is a director. According to Suzy Martin’s post, ‘Our board is putting the final touches on a secret proposal to ban the household display of all flags except the Stars and Stripes.’ She adds we’re even establishing specs on how big Star-Spangled banners can be.”
“Where the heck did this come from?” I ask. “You’ve never mentioned the board considering any such thing.”
Mom sighs. “Think I’ve tracked it down. The Covenant Review Committee, which I might add doesn’t include a single board member, discussed ways to enhance our sense of community and ease the political divides. To get us all singing Kumbaya, one woman suggested either banning political flags or limiting their display to two weeks before an election.
“Apparently, someone on the committee blabbed about the discussion. Though there never was a proposal, assumptions became accepted facts, and we were off to the races. There were fifty Earful responses to the initial post. Within hours, owners were outraged by the board’s insidious plan to prohibit all outdoor displays from Christmas lights to garden statues.”
I adopt a pretend outrage expression. “Oh, Mom, how could you trample all those people’s rights to free speech?”
When I chuckle, Mom gives me the stink eye. “It’s no laughing matter. Why the heck did I agree to stay on the Hullis Island board until the next election?”
Robin closes down the app. “Some of the Hullis Island neighbors are calling Myrt a two-faced traitor,” our young IT expert adds. “They’re demanding an immediate owners’ meeting to voice their objections to the proposed covenant changes.”
“What do you plan to do?” I ask.
“Well, what I’m not going to do is duke it out on Earful. I’ve talked with the other directors. Even Cliff Jackson, our president, agrees we should schedule an open board meeting ASAP. Of course, he wants the meeting to begin and end with a statement that the board has not seen or discussed such a proposal. He expects security, including you and Ted, to act as sergeants of arms to enforce order and decorum.”
I groan. The Hullis Island rumor avalanche isn’t quite so funny when I’m among the villagers to be trussed and burned at the stake.
“Ted may not want to come home.” I groan. “Let’s not tell him about any new conspiracy—at Rand Creek or Hullis Island—until he and Frank pull into the drive.”
“Have you heard from Dad?” Grant asks. “Is he planning to be home for dinner?”
Mom arches an eyebrow. “I can always trust you to fret about when you’ll get fed,” she quips. “The answer is ‘yes.’ Ted says he’ll deliver Frank by six-thirty at the latest. So, you won’t starve. Got a pot roast and veggies in the crockpot.”
Mom looks at me. “You’re coming, right?”
I want to say no. I’m bone-tired, and I’d like a little quiet, alone time. But I’m expected, and I need to bring Ted up to speed on Andy Fyke and the Earful chatter suggesting his fall was no accident.
