“There were two,” Clarence said, nodding to the laminated board near the mulch. “Unless someone tossed them again.” As the man ranted, Jordan silently slipped his phone from his pocket and started recording. He didn’t speak or move—just kept the screen dimmed and steady from his position by the fence.
The cyclist pointed a trembling, muddy finger at Clarence. “You think this is legal? You think you can spray people with freezing, dirty water and walk away? This jacket’s ruined! I could’ve gotten sick!”
Clarence raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t.” “You’ll regret this,” the man snapped, stepping in closer. “I’ll sue you—civil damages, reckless endangerment, destruction of property, whatever sticks. You’re in over your head.”
Clarence opened his mouth, then hesitated. His voice didn’t carry the same strength this time. “I was watering my plants. Same thing I’ve always done.” The man turned abruptly, muttering, “Menace,” and stomped away. “We’ll see how funny this is when the cops are on your porch.”