Sir, step back or we call the cops. The guy said that while standing on my roof, ripping my solar panels off with a crowbar. I woke up to metal screaming, bolts snapping, glass shattering on my driveway. 700 a.m. on a Tuesday. Ran outside in boxers barefoot on gravel that tore into my heels.
Three workers, orange vests, dismantling $40,000 of equipment I’d saved two years to buy. Who sent you? One pointed down. Bin Keller, HOALA KEN president, standing on my lawn in yoga pants. Blonde Bob perfect holding a clipboard like a weapon. Violation notice, she said, smiling. I have county permits. Don’t care. HOALA KEN overrides county. My inverter sparked, smoke curled up, the smell of burning money. Here’s what she didn’t know.
I used to rewire power grids in Iraq. What would you do? Back down or fight back? Comment below. Watching from an HOALA KEN neighborhood, you’ll want to hear this. That morning, I started planning how to cut power to 87 houses, including hers. Let me back up. My name’s Dex, 52, former Navy electrical engineer.
I spent 12 years rewiring substations in Iraq, places where one blown circuit meant an entire base went dark. After discharge, I did private consulting until my marriage quietly fell apart. The divorce was clean. My ex-wife, Lacy, and I split everything 50/50, including custody of our daughter, Skyler.
She’s 17, wants to study environmental science at CU Boulder. Smart kid. She’s the reason I went solar. 18 months ago, I bought a house in Pinehaven Estates, a suburb outside Denver where every house looks like it was sneezed out of the same Lowe’s catalog. Beige siding, twocar garages, lawns trimmed with military precision, except mine. I bought the oldest, smallest house on the block, a 1990s ranch the previous owner had neglected.
peeling paint, overgrown shrubs, a roof that had seen better decades. It was all I could afford post divorce, but it had one thing going for it. A southacing roof that got 10 hours of sunlight daily, perfect for solar. I saved for 2 years, $40,000 for a Tesla array and power wall battery. The goal? Eliminate my $300 monthly electric bill and funnel the savings into Skyler’s college fund.
Scholarships covered half her tuition. I needed to cover the rest. I filed every county permit, passed every inspection. The system went live in April. By June, my meter ran backwards. I was producing more power than I used. It felt like beating the system. The previous owner told me the HOALA KEN was chill. Just pay dues, don’t make waves.
He never mentioned architectural approval forms. I never thought to ask. That was mistake number one. Now, Bin Keller, she’s 48, real estate agent, moved to Pinehaven 5 years ago with her husband Troy, a city councilman who introduces himself as Councilman Troy Keller at block parties. Brin’s got a blonde bob that doesn’t move in hurricane winds.
And she power walks the neighborhood every morning at 6:30 holding a Starbucks latte like a Olympic torch. 3 years ago, she ran for HOALA KEN president unopposed. Most neighbors just want to grill on weekends and ignore the newsletter. Brin won by apathy and has stayed in power the same way, running against nobody.
She’s obsessed with property values, which really means she hates anything that doesn’t look like her vision of suburban perfection. My house, too small, too old. My truck has a union sticker. I don’t golf. I skipped the Fourth of July mixer. Apparently, that made me a problem. Here’s what I didn’t know. Troy sits on the city council’s energy committee and Rocky Mountain Power, our local utility monopoly, pays him 8 grand a year in consulting fees. Public record if you know where to look.
Solar panels cut grid dependence. Less dependence means less profit. You connect the dots. On the morning my roof got demolished, I stood barefoot on gravel, blood seeping from cuts on my heels, watching three workers rip apart my investment. Brinn handed me a violation notice. Section 14.3.
No exterior modifications without board approval. I have county permits. County permits don’t override HOALA KEN bylaws. She smiled like a realtor closing a bad deal. Remove the panels in 30 days or it’s $500 per day in fines. She walked to her Lexus. White, spotless, vanity plate, sold it. I wanted to laugh or scream. I didn’t either. Here’s the thing about working on power grids and combat zones. You learn patience.
You learn to think three moves ahead. And you learn that the person who controls the electricity controls everything. Skyler came home at 3:30, saw the shattered panels, the dangling wires, the scorch marks where the inverter died. She’d written her college essay about this project, about her dad making a difference. She cried on the driveway.
Jasmine from Brin’s perfume still hung in the air, mixing with burnt plastic and the smell of defeat. I hugged my daughter and made a promise. Brinn just declared war on the wrong guy. Humorous aside, creeping into my brain. Brinn thought she’d crushed me. Lady, I once negotiated with an Iraqi contractor holding an AK-47 over a wiring dispute.
Your clipboard doesn’t scare me. Binn didn’t waste time. 2 days after the roof incident, a certified letter arrived from county zoning. Someone filed a complaint claiming my solar installation violated building codes, unpermitted, unsafe, the whole 9 yards. The signature read, “Concerned neighbor.
” The return address, Brin’s Real Estate office on Maple Street. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. I drove to the county building that afternoon. The waiting room smelled like industrial cleaner and decades of bureaucratic surrender. 40 minutes in a plastic chair before an inspector named Doug finally called me back.
He pulled up my file on a computer that looked like it ran on Windows 95. “Your permits are spotless,” Doug said, squinting at the screen. “Installation passed inspection in April. I signed off personally. Someone’s wasting everyone’s time here. Can you kill the complaint? I have to log it and they’re requesting reinspection. He sighed. 3 weeks to schedule. Sorry. 3 weeks of Brin telling neighbors my house was a ticking time bomb.
I drove home and found a cease and desist letter taped to my door. Two pages of legal jargon from someone named Clayton Voss, Esquire. The letterhead showed an address on the same street as Councilman Troy Keller, brother-in-law lawyer. Discount intimidation for family rates. The letter demanded I remove the panels within 14 days or face a lawsuit.
I photographed it and posted in the Pinehaven Facebook group with a simple caption. This is what HOALA KEN leadership looks like. Within an hour, Brin counter posted, “Reminder: Exterior modifications require board approval per section 14.3. One rogue homeowner is ignoring community standards and threatening your property values.
The board will protect this neighborhood.” 12 instant likes. her yoga cult probably. But then my phone started buzzing. Private message from Greta. Three streets over. She fined me $800 last year for a little free library painted unauthorized teal for kids. She made me dismantle it. I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this. Message from Haron.
She tried fining me $1,200 for an EV charger. I pulled up Colorado SB19046. State law says HOALA KENs can’t ban EV infrastructure. She backed off but never forgave me. I’ll help however I can. Message from Felix. Got ring footage. Timestamp shows Bin directing those workers onto your roof. Want the file? I sat at my kitchen table staring at my phone. The overhead light buzzed like a trapped wasp.
For the first time in 3 days, I smiled. Brinn had been running this grift for years, picking off anyone who didn’t fit her beige sighting fever dream, finding them into silence. everyone too exhausted or scared to push back, but she’d just pissed off someone who knew how to organize. That evening, I pulled the HOALA KEN’s architectural guidelines, all 47 pages.
My eyes were crossing by page 30 when I found it. Section 14.3, subsection C. Energy efficiency improvements, including solar installations, are exempt from prior approval, provided they meet county building standards. Added in 2019, 2 years before Brin took office. She’d been citing a rule that explicitly didn’t apply to me. I called a parillegal the next morning.
Mary and Chase worked out of a strip mall office that smelled like burnt coffee and righteous anger. Late30s powers suit, the kind of handshake that said, “I eat bullies for breakfast.” She read my file in under 20 minutes. Easiest case I’ve seen this month. Your panels comply with county code and the HOALA KEN’s own bylaws. She’s got nothing.
So, what’s my move? Marian grinned. We call her bluff loudly. She printed 87 letters, one for every household. Each included section 14.3 C, a timeline of Brin’s harassment, and one question in bold. Did you know your HOALA KEN president ignores the rules she claims to enforce? I delivered them after sunset. 87 mail slots, my calves burned by house 40.
The smell of fresh cut grass and sprinkler mist followed me through the neighborhood like a witness. The next night, I was grilling chicken when someone knocked on my fence gate. Troy Keller, the councilman. No suit tonight, just jeans and a polo. His cologne arrived 3 seconds before he did. Aggressive cedarwood announcing dominance.
Got a minute? His voice was casual. His eyes weren’t. I turned off the grill. Sure. He glanced around, checking for cameras, maybe. Then he dropped his voice. Off the record, you need to drop this. You’re making things complicated. Code enforcement can get very interested in older homes. Permit delays happen.
Inspections get thorough or you take down the panels and this all disappears. I’d rewired substations in Fallujah. You learn fast. Always assume someone’s listening. I’d hit record on my phone before he even opened his mouth. Back in Iraq, a staff sergeant taught me that in single party consent states, you can record any conversation you’re in without telling the other person. saved three guys from a wrongful court marshal once. “Say that part about code enforcement again?” I asked.
Troy’s face cycled through pale, then red, then something close to purple. He walked out without another word. That night, Skylar found me in the kitchen, backing up the audio file to three different drives. “Dad, are we going to be okay?” I looked at my daughter, 17, scared because some power drunk realtor couldn’t handle rooftop solar panels.
“We’re staying,” I said. “And we’re winning. You know why bullies win? Because people run. We’re not running. Outside, the neighbors sprinklers hissed their rhythmic whisper. The smell of charred chicken clung to my shirt. War was officially on. Brinn called an emergency HOALA KEN board meeting. The notice went out 48 hours before, exactly the mi
nimum required by bylaws. Tuesday night, 7 p.m. community center. Agenda: vote to authorize legal action against 428 Rididgewood Lane. My address. I showed up 15 minutes early. The room smelled like old carpet and decades of potluck dinners. Folding chairs faced a table where Brinn sat flanked by her two board puppets. Luther, a retired dentist who’d agree the sky was green if she said so, and Joss, a terrified stay-at-home mom who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal. 32 people filled the chairs. I recognized maybe half.
The rest were Brin’s yoga cult, women in Lululemon, who didn’t even live here, but apparently got to vote anyway. Brin gave the meeting open with a wooden block that looked stolen from a courtroom. We’re addressing a serious violation threatening property values. She clicked through a PowerPoint.
Photos of my house zoomed in on the solar panels like a murder scene. Quotes from section 14.3 with subsection C mysteriously missing. A chart showing estimated property value impact that looked like a middle schooler made it in Microsoft Paint. The board recommends authorizing legal action. All in favor? Luther’s hand shot up instantly.
I, Joss hesitated, glanced at me. Then at Brinn, her voice came out as a whisper. I abstain. Brinn’s smile could have cut glass. Two to zero. Motion carries. We’re retaining Richardson and Blake LLP immediately. Someone behind me asked. What’s that going to cost? $15,000 retainer. Brin said a necessary investment.
15 grand out of HOALA KEN reserves. No membership vote. just Brin weaponizing community funds for a personal grudge. The meeting ended 10 minutes later. I caught Harlon by the door. She just spent 15,000 without asking anyone, he said. That can’t be legal. It’s not, I replied. How many signatures do we need to recall her? 75% of homeowners, 65 people. His face fell. She’ll never give us the member list.
Then we get creative. Over the next 3 days, my mailbox became a war zone. Brin hired an inspector. Some guy with a clipboard hunting for violations. I got slammed with four fines. Mailbox rust, $150. Lawn too tall, $200. Forgot Christmas lights in the garage eve, $100. Trash bins visible from street, $175.
$625 for infractions I could disprove in 10 minutes. I photographed every mailbox on my street. Nine had rust. I measured my lawn with a ruler. 2.4 in. Well under the 2.75 limit. I time-stamped photos of my trash bins next to four neighbors who had theirs out the same day. Selective enforcement. Textbook harassment. Perfect evidence for my counter claim. While Brin played petty tyrant, I went hunting in public records.
2 hours on the city website and I found gold. Troy’s annual financial disclosure. Page three right there in black and white. Rocky Mountain Power LLC consulting services. $8,000 annually. The councilman on the energy committee was taking money from the utility company while his wife waged war on solar panels.
The conflict of interest was so blatant it practically glowed. I drafted a Medium article that night. Three revisions to keep it factual. Not angry. How one HOALA KEN president’s husband profits from blocking clean energy. Screenshots of Troy’s disclosure. Brin’s violation notices the whole timeline. But I didn’t publish it. Not yet. You don’t fire your biggest gun first.
Marian called with better news. She’d found something in the HOALA KEN’s master insurance policy. A clause requiring reasonable reserves for an 87 home community. Minimum $50,000. Current balance per the annual report 61,000. Brin just dropped 15 grand on lawyers. That left 46,000 4,000 below the legal minimum. Back in the Navy, a supply officer taught me about fiduciary duty during a deployment audit.
He’d explained that boards who mismanage funds don’t just lose lawsuits. Board members lose personal assets, houses, cars, retirement accounts, everything on the table. Marian confirmed it. Drop below minimum reserves and homeowners can sue the board members personally.
Not the HOALA KEN, the actual people, their personal assets are on the line. How long before she hits that threshold? 2 months, maybe three. Depends how much her lawyer’s bill. Brinn was digging her own grave without even knowing it. That evening, Haron showed up with a 12-pack and a laptop.
We sat at my kitchen table while the overhead fan clicked its uneven rhythm, going through 3 years of HOALA KEN meeting minutes. Brinn had approved her own consulting contract, 500 a month to Keller and Associates for administrative services. No competitive bids, no discussion recorded, $18,000 over 3 years, paid directly to herself.
Then we found the landscaping contract 3200 to Mountain Vista LLC owned by Clayton Voss, her brother-in-law lawyer. Another line item 1,800 for Property IQ Pro, Zillow’s premium real estate tool. Personal business expense build to the HOALA KEN. Total stolen roughly $28,000. Harlon leaned back in his chair. We’ve got her. Not yet, I said.
One mistake and she claims we’re on a witch hunt. This has to be perfect. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Back off or your daughter’s college apps get interesting. I showed Harlon, his jaw clenched. That’s witness intimidation. Forward it to police. Now I did. Filed a report online. Saved screenshots to three drives. The kitchen smelled like stale beer and cold pizza.
Outside, a car alarm chirped once and went silent. The neighborhood felt like it was holding its breath. Brinn thought she was tightening the noose around my neck. She’d just tied her own. Brin filed the lawsuit on Monday morning. HOALA KEN versus Dex Monroe County Court seeking 25,000 in damages plus forced panel removal.
12 pages of legal fiction claiming my installation was dangerous, unsightly, and unauthorized. All lies, but now they were official lies with a court stamp. Within an hour, she posted on Next Door, “Forced to take legal action to protect your property investments. Some homeowners refused to follow basic rules. 43 reactions.
I couldn’t tell if people were angry at her or me, but the comments section turned into a dumpster fire within minutes. Then came the emergency assessment. Special meeting 2 p.m. Tuesday, middle of a workday when most people worked. Single agenda item. Vote on $400 per household legal defense fund.
I had a consulting job I couldn’t cancel. Neither could most neighbors. 19 people showed up out of 87 households. Barely made quorum. The vote passed 191 17. And just like that, Brin authorized $34,000 to fund her personal war. Assessment notices arrived in bright yellow envelopes that screamed urgent. The smell of cheap ink and cheaper intimidation. Pay within 30 days or face a property lean.
My phone started ringing that night. Neighbors I’d never met asking, “Is this really about solar panels?” I sent them everything. permits, the bylaw exemption, evidence of embezzlement. Some believed me, some didn’t. But enough people got angry that something shifted in the neighborhood’s atmosphere.
Greta organized a counter petition demanding a full financial audit. 31 signatures in 48 hours. Brin’s response came via two sentence email. Audit not required until fiscal year end per bylaws. Your petition is noted. Translation: Sit down and shut up. Two families listed their homes for sale that week.
The younger couple with a newborn told me they couldn’t handle the constant stress and surprise fees. We thought HOALA KENs made life easier, the husband said, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Brinn posted about the listings on Facebook.
Unfortunate that some homeowners would rather flee than address problems created by their neighbors. She was blaming me for the exodus. The gaslighting was world class. Marian filed our counter claim on Friday. 60,000 in damages for harassment, property destruction, and due process violations. She also filed an ethics complaint against Clayton Voss. Turns out he sat on the insurance board for the company covering the HOALA KEN.
Massive conflict of interest. By Friday afternoon, Clayton withdrew his council. Brinn had to find new lawyers, burning more reserve funds. I could almost hear the dominoes falling. But here’s where things got interesting. I’d been studying the neighborhood’s electrical infrastructure for weeks, looking for any leverage I could find.
Pinehaven ran on a single transformer serving all 87 homes plus the community center. One transformer, one point of failure. The transformer sat on an easement cutting through HOALA KEN common ground near the playground. I spent three afternoons at the county records office digging through 1998 development blueprints, documents so old they smelled like basement mold and bureaucratic decay. That’s when I found it.
The utility easement included a right-of-way clause that ran directly through my property line. I had legal access to the transformer area, not just Rocky Mountain Power. Me as an easement stakeholder. If the transformer needed maintenance, if access was obstructed, if someone noticed safety violations, well, all I had to do was point the right people in the right direction. I called Rocky Mountain P’s customer line.
HOALA KEN president’s landscaping is blocking transformer access. Overgrown shrubs, missing safety signage, possible code violations. The rep took my complaint. Inspector scheduled within a week. 3 days later, a utility van pulled up. The inspector spent 40 minutes examining the transformer, taking photos, checking clearances.
He left a bright orange violation notice zip tied to the fence. I photographed it before Brin could rip it down. The notice cited obstructed access, inadequate clearance, and here’s the kicker, load capacity concerns, required immediate remediation and full transformer assessment. That transformer was installed in 1998, 27 years old.
Standard transformer lifespan 25 to 30 years. If the utility decided it needed replacement during their assessment, the neighborhood would go dark for 2 to 3 days during installation. My solar setup with the power wall battery could keep my house running for 72 hours easy. The optics would be perfect.
Brin’s house dark while mine stayed lit. Visual metaphor you couldn’t script better if you tried. That night Skyler found me at the kitchen table surrounded by electrical diagrams and county blueprints. The papers smelled like old libraries and future victories. “Dad, you’re not doing anything illegal, right?” she asked.
Her voice had that teenage mix of concern and hope like she wanted me to fight but didn’t want me to become what we were fighting against. I’m not touching anything, I said. I’m just making sure the utility company does their job properly. If Brin’s negligence created a safety hazard, that’s on her, not me. She studied my face for a long moment, then nodded.
Good, because you’re teaching me that you can fight without becoming the bad guy. Smart kid. Too smart sometimes. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet, except for the distant hum of that aging transformer. The air tasted like pending rain and burnt coffee. Brin had built her empire on fear and selective enforcement.
I was about to show her what happens when someone actually understands the infrastructure she’d been taking for granted. And honestly, I was starting to enjoy this. Marian called Wednesday morning while I was replacing a blown fuse in my garage. Get to my office now. Her voice had that prosecutor edge.
the one that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. I drove across town with my windows down, spring air whipping through the cab. My hands drumed the steering wheel. Whatever Marian found, it was big enough to bypass her usual professional calm. Her office was in a strip mall between a nail salon and a tax preparer.
The waiting room smelled like nail polish remover mixing with burnt coffee, a smell that somehow perfectly captured smalltime legal warfare. Marian met me at the door. Luther sang like a canary, she said, pulling me into her office. 40 minutes of deposition and he completely fell apart. She had her laptop open to a video file. Watch this. She hit play.
Luther appeared on screen, sitting in a conference room that looked designed to make people uncomfortable. Fluorescent lights, beige walls, a water picture nobody had touched. Marian’s voice came through off camera, calm and relentless. Mr. Luther, did you review HOALA KEN expenditures before approving them? Luther shifted in his chair. Brinn usually handles the details.
I just I trusted her. Did you know that landscaping contract, the $3,200 one, went to her brother-in-law’s company? His face went pale. I know. She said it was the best bid. There was only one bid, Mr. Luther, from her family. The video showed Luther’s hand starting to shake. He reached for the water pitcher, nearly knocked it over. I didn’t know.
I swear I didn’t know. What about the management consulting fees? 500 a month to Keller and Associates. That’s standard, right? HOALA KENs need management help. Mr. Luther, Keller and Associates is Brin’s company. She voted to pay herself. The silence on the video lasted maybe 10 seconds. It felt like an hour.
Then Luther started crying. not sobbing, just tears running down his face while he stared at the table. “Oh god! Oh god! I’m going to lose my house, aren’t I?” Marion stopped the video. I sat there feeling like I’d just watched someone’s life implode in real time. “He had no idea,” I asked. “None.
He’s a retired dentist who wanted to feel important. Binn fed him agendas. He rubber stamped them, and she ran the HOALA KEN like her personal checking account.” Marian pulled out a single sheet of paper, a summary she’d compiled. Here’s what we found. She’s been doing this for 3 years. The paper showed a timeline I could barely process.
Monthly payments to her company, onetime expenses to family members, LLC’s, even smaller stuff. A subscription service here, consulting fees there, all of it funneling back to Brin or her immediate circle. The total, 28,000. But here’s what matters.
Marian leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of her perfume mixed with the office’s perpetual coffee smell. In Colorado, HOALA KEN board members are fiduciaries. You know what that means? They’re legally responsible, personally responsible. If they breach that duty, homeowners can sue them directly. Not the HOALA KEN, them. Their houses, their bank accounts, their retirement funds. She let me absorb that.
Brin doesn’t just lose her position, she loses everything. I thought about how Brinn had stood on my lawn watching workers destroy my solar panels. How she’d smirked when handing me violation notices. How she’d threatened my daughter’s college future. She’d felt untouchable because she’d been running the scam so long that nobody questioned it anymore.
What’s our move? I asked. Marian’s smile was pure predator. We let every homeowner know their president’s been stealing from them, and we give them a choice. Join a class action or watch from the sidelines. She handed me a USB drive. Everything’s on here. Bank records, Luther’s deposition, meeting minutes showing her voting on her own contracts. Make copies. Hide them.
If my office burns down tomorrow, we need backups. I pocketed the drive. Through Marian’s office window, I could see the parking lot baking in afternoon sun. A minivan pulled in. Soccer mom hurting three kids toward the tax place. Normal life happening while we plotted to dismantle someone’s world. But Brinn had started this.
She’d weaponized the HOALA KEN, stolen from neighbors, and tried to crush anyone who didn’t fit her vision of suburban perfection. “I just found the hammer to break her crown.” “When do we file?” I asked. “Tomorrow morning,” Marian said. “I want her served before she has coffee.” “Sunday morning, I made waffles.
Skyler was at her mom’s for the weekend, so I had the house to myself in a plan that needed co-conspirators. I texted Marion, Haron, and Greta, “Come hungry. Bring ideas. were going to war. By 9:00 a.m., my kitchen table looked like a campaign headquarters. Harlon showed up with a whiteboard he’d borrowed from his church’s Sunday school room.
Greta arrived carrying a three- ring binder she’d labeled Brin’s greatest hits in red marker. Every fine, every violation notice, every petty tyranny from the past 2 years, organized by date. Marian came last, hauling a leather briefcase that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage and smelled like expensive litigation.
We ate waffles standing up because every horizontal surface was covered in documents. The kitchen smelled like maple syrup fighting printer ink for dominance. Outside, someone was mowing their lawn on a Sunday. Bold move in an HOALA KEN that mandated Saturday only mowing. I respected the rebellion. Three fronts, Marian said, drawing columns on Harlland’s whiteboard with a Sharpie that squeaked like a dog toy.
Legal, community, and infrastructure. We hit her everywhere at once, so she can’t defend any single position. She wrote legal at the top of column 1. I’m filing the amended counter claim Wednesday. Fraud, breach of fiduciary duty, harassment, but I’m also filing with the Colorado attorney general. Will they actually investigate? Greta asked. Marian’s smile was pure shark.
AG’s office monitors HOALA KEN complaints. Last year, they criminally prosecuted two board presidents for embezzlement. Once I file, it becomes public record. And here’s something most people don’t know. Reporters monitor AG complaint filings like hawks. We won’t need to call the media. They’ll call us. Haron typed something on his laptop.
I already reached out to someone, Nia Park at the Denver Suburban Chronicle. She’s covered three HOALA KEN scandals this year. She’s interested. Good. Marian said feed her everything once the court filings are public. bank statements, Luther’s deposition video, meeting minutes, nothing confidential. Just make sure she connects the dots loudly.
Greta flipped open her binder. It was organized with color-coded tabs like she was prosecuting a RICO case. Community mobilization. I’ve got 42 people in a private Facebook group. Everyone who’s been fined or threatened. They’re terrified, but they’re pissed. They just need permission to fight back. Town hall meeting.
I said, “This Saturday, the pavilion, we invite all 87 households, lay out the evidence, and force Brin to either show up and defend herself or hide like a coward.” Harlon started typing. “I’ll make flyers. How’s this for a headline? Your HOALA KEN president stole $28,000. Here’s how we know.” “Too aggressive,” Greta said. “People will think it’s fake news. How about HOALA KEN financial records revealed? What the board doesn’t want you to see, Marian suggested.
Creates curiosity without making claims we have to defend. Perfect, I said. Print 200. We blanket the neighborhood. Marian added town hall to her column. We need visual aids. I’ll print the bank statements in 20 font. Giant timeline of every questionable expense. Make it so simple a kindergarter could follow the money. I’ll bring a projector. Harlland said, “Show Luther’s deposition.
let people watch him cry when he realizes he’s been used. Greta looked uncomfortable. That feels mean. He voted to steal from his neighbors for 3 years, Marian said. Ignorance isn’t innocence when you’re a fiduciary. Which reminds me, she turned to me. You said something about infrastructure. Here we go. I pulled out the utility company’s inspection report from last week.
The orange violation notice they’d zip tied to the transformer fence. Rocky Mountain Power flagged safety issues, blocked access, overgrown vegetation, missing signage. They’re scheduling a comprehensive assessment. What does that mean? Greta asked.
I’d been thinking about this for days, ever since I’d studied the original 1998 development blueprints at the county office. Transformers that old were supposed to be stress tested regularly, but utilities often deferred maintenance until someone complained. I’d complained, loud and documented. It means when they test the transformer, there’s a solid chance it fails inspection.
Standard protocol would be immediate replacement. How long would we be without power? Harlon asked. Utility estimates 2 to 3 days for a full swap. I let that sink in. My house stays powered the entire time. Solar array plus battery backup. I tested it last week. 72 hours minimum. Longer if I’m conservative with AC usage. Harlon started laughing. Oh no.
Oh no. So, you’re going to make her house go dark while yours stays lit during the town hall meeting. I’m not making anything happen. I corrected. I filed legitimate safety complaints through proper channels. If the utility company determines the equipment needs replacement, that’s their professional judgment based on engineering standards and safety codes.
I just happen to have prepared for infrastructure failure because I’m a responsible homeowner who understands electrical systems. Marion was trying not to smile. That’s diabolical. That’s just good planning, I said. Remember when I worked in Iraq? We had a saying. Amateurs talk strategy. Professionals talk logistics. Brin’s been playing checkers with HOALA KEN bylaws.
I’m playing chess with the power grid. We spent the next 2 hours dividing responsibilities. Greta would coordinate the Facebook group and organize door-to-door flyer distribution. Harlland’s son would build a website, pinehaventruth.com, posting all public records.
Marian would handle legal filings and media coordination. I’d manage the utility company timeline and make sure the inspection happened before Saturday. By noon, we’d made a significant dent in my coffee supply, and the whiteboard looked like a military operation chart. Arrows connected boxes. Timelines branched into contingencies.
If Brin did X, we’d respond with Y. If she tried Z, we had A and B ready. Marion packed her briefcase. Seven days. If she’s smart, she resigns quietly and tries to cut a deal. She won’t, I said. Her ego’s too big. “Good,” Marion said, “because this is going to be fun.
” After everyone left, I stood at my sink washing waffle plates and looking out at the neighborhood. Spring afternoon, perfect weather, kids playing basketball three houses down, normal suburban Sunday. In 7 days, none of this would be the same. I thought about that supply sergeant in Baghdad again, the one who taught me that wars are won by controlling resources and information.
Brin had controlled both for years, but she’d made one critical mistake. She’d assumed nobody else understood the systems she was exploiting. I’d spent my entire career understanding systems, electrical grids, supply chains, organizational hierarchies. You learn the system, you find the pressure points, you apply force exactly where it matters most.
Saturday was going to be educational for everyone involved. Tuesday night, someone spray painted my truck. I discovered it Wednesday morning walking out for coffee. Big red letters across the driver’s side. Leech. Smaller text on the tailgate. Get out. The paint was still tacky.
Smelled like hardware store aerosol mixed with someone’s desperation. I took photos from six angles. Then called the police. The cop who showed up looked barely old enough to rent a car. Took a report with the enthusiasm of someone filling out tax forms. Then my neighbor Felix walked over holding his phone. Got it on Ring camera. Felix said. 2:00 a.m. White Lexus. Three passes before someone got out. He showed the footage. Grainy, but clear enough.
The license plate caught a street light reflection, sold it. Brin’s vanity plate. The cop’s whole demeanor shifted. He took Felix’s statement, requested the video file, upgraded my report from simple vandalism to criminal mischief with harassment enhancement. By noon, two detectives were at Brinn’s door. Harlland’s wife worked dispatch and gave me details later.
Brinn claimed her car never left the garage. Anyone could have faked her plates. She wanted her lawyer present immediately. That afternoon, my truck wouldn’t start. Just that clicking sound mechanics recognize as expensive news. I popped the hood and found the fuel system clogged with something crystalline. Had it towed to Raul’s shop.
He’s been fixing my vehicle since Skyler was in elementary school. He showed me the fuel filter. Shaking his head. Someone dumped something in your tank. Sugar, probably. People see it in movies and think it’ll blow up the engine, but it just clogs everything. Whoever did this got their sabotage education from Netflix.
$1,200 to flush the system, replace the filter and fuel pump. I filed another police report. The stack was getting thick enough to use as a doors stop. Wednesday evening, the neighborhood Facebook page caught fire. Someone posted our town hall flyer, the one about financial records being revealed Saturday.
Within an hour, Brin counterposted misinformation campaign by disgruntled homeowner board taking appropriate legal action. Then 30 minutes later, due to frivolous litigation, HOALA KEN may be forced to dissolve. Your property values will collapse. Thank those who refuse to follow basic community rules. She was playing the property value card.
Make people choose between their money and the truth. Greta fired back within minutes. Section 12 of HOALA KEN bylaws requires accurate financial records and member access to audits. Why won’t President Keller release bank statements? 43. likes in 10 minutes. The tide was shifting and Brin could feel it. Thursday morning, someone knocked on my door. I looked through the peepphole and saw Troy alone, no Brin.
He looked like he’d aged 5 years in a week. Wrinkled shirt, no aggressive cologne for once, hands jammed in his pockets. Can we talk? His voice cracked slightly. Off the record. I opened the door but didn’t invite him in. Garage, I said. We stood between my vandalized truck and a lawn mower that definitely violated HOALA KEN height restrictions.
Troy studied the oil stains on the concrete floor like they were tea leaves. “She won’t stop,” he finally said. “I’ve begged her to resign, pay back the money, make this disappear quietly.” He looked up at me and I saw genuine fear in his eyes. “She thinks if she fights hard enough, everyone will just give up like they always do.” “Will you testify?” I asked.
The question landed like a punch. “What?” Rocky Mountain Power pays you 8,000 a year. You sit on the energy committee. Your wife declares war on solar panels. That’s not coincidence. That’s motive. If you testify that she was protecting your income stream, it strengthens our fraud case.
Troy backed toward the driveway, nearly tripping over my recycling bin. I can’t. That’s my marriage. My career. Your career is already over, I said. The words came out harder than I intended. The attorney general opened an investigation yesterday. They’ll subpoena your finances within the week. You cooperate now. Maybe you salvage something. You go down with her. You lose everything.
He stared at me for 5 seconds. That felt like 5 minutes. Then he turned and got in his BMW. The engine roared. Too much gas. Panic. Acceleration. He left rubber marks on my driveway dark enough to still be there. When I checked the next morning, I watched him disappear around the corner and felt something unexpected. Pity.
He’d married someone addicted to power and now he was watching the whole structure collapse on both their heads. Friday afternoon, Marian called, excitement crackling in her voice. Brin’s lawyers filed a motion to dismiss our counter claim. Called it retaliatory and without merit. Will it stick? Not a chance.
But here’s the beautiful part. They also filed for a protective order trying to stop us from discussing HOALA KEN finances publicly, claiming member privacy violations. I could hear Marian’s grin through the phone. That’s panic, I said. That’s terror, she corrected. They know the town hall’s happening. They know they can’t stop it.
They’re filing motions they know will fail just to create the appearance of fighting back. Judge will deny it Monday, but the attempt tells me everything. Brinn knows she’s already lost. Friday evening, Greta called. Joss wants to talk to Marion about immunity. The board member. She’s been trying to resign for 6 months. Brinn keeps guilting her about abandoning the community.
She wants to cooperate, but she’s scared of getting sued personally. Put her in touch with Marion. We need her testimony. Things were accelerating like an avalanche, gaining mass. Brin’s husband retreating, her board member flipping, her legal tactics failing spectacularly. She was cornered, and cornered animals don’t think clearly.
They just lash out and hope something connects. Friday night, I ran one final test of my solar system. Disconnected from the grid completely. Ran on battery power for 6 hours. Lights, refrigerator, AC, internet, everything hummed along perfectly.
Outside my window, street lights glowed, powered by that 1998 transformer that had been quietly aging while everyone assumed someone else was handling maintenance. Most people never think about infrastructure until the moment it fails. They flip switches, lights come on, and they never consider the complexity behind that simple action.
But I’d spent 12 years making sure lights came on in combat zones where failure meant people died in surgery or got shot in the dark. You learn to think ahead. You learned that infrastructure is power and power is control. Rocky Mountain Power had confirmed Saturday morning inspection 9:00 a.m. 3 hours before the town hall. I’d asked their engineer what would happen if the transformer failed modern stress tests. He’d been blunt.
Immediate red tag, emergency replacement, 48 to 72-hour outage depending on parts and crew availability. I hadn’t sabotaged anything. I’d just asked questions and filed complaints through proper channels. If 27-year-old equipment couldn’t pass current safety standards, that was on decades of deferred maintenance and Brin’s decorative shrubs blocking inspector access. My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
You’re going to regret this. I forwarded it to the detective, saved screenshots, added it to the file that kept growing thicker. The neighborhood was quiet. Cool spring night, windchimes tinkling somewhere down the block. Tomorrow, this street would look very different. Some houses would have power, others wouldn’t, and everyone would see exactly who’d prepared for infrastructure reality versus who’d just assumed the system would work forever because it always had before.
I went to bed thinking about substations in Baghdad, wiring circuits in 120° heat while mortars landed close enough to feel the concussion. This was different, quieter, suburban, but the principle was identical. Control the power. Control everything that follows. Tomorrow was going to be very educational.
Saturday morning started at 5:30. I’d been awake since 4:00, watching shadows crawl across my bedroom ceiling, playing scenarios in my head. Made coffee at dawn and watched the sun burn off the morning mist over Pine Haven estates. Sprinklers hissed their rhythmic rotations. A jogger passed in $200 running shoes.
Someone’s tabby cat stalked through patunias. Normal Saturday. Last normal Saturday, this neighborhood would see for a while. At 7:15, my phone started vibrating like it was having a seizure. Screenshots flooding in from a dozen neighbors. Brin had sent an email blast to all 87 households. Subject line in red capital letters. Emergency notice. Town hall canled.
She claimed credible safety threats required indefinite postponement. Cited ongoing police investigations and legal council recommendations. Every word was fiction dressed in bureaucratic language. Greta called before I finished reading. She can’t actually cancel it, right? She can try. Won’t work. Pavilion’s common property. Any member can use it. But some people will believe her.
They’ll stay home. Then we go knock on doors. Right now, face to face. We split the neighborhood into quadrants. I took the east section, 22 houses. First door was the Hendersons, retired couple, both in robes, drinking coffee from matching mugs that said world’s okay grandparents. Mr. Henderson listened to my 30 secondond pitch, then said, “We got Bin’s email.
Figured it was horseshit. We’ll be there.” Three houses down, a woman answered, holding a toddler on her hip. She’d gotten a $900 fine last month for a playhouse that was non-approved yellow. She’d be there. The 20th House, a guy in his 30s who worked tech from home, answered the door holding printed spreadsheets.
“Already downloaded everything from your website,” he said. “I’m an accountant. This embezzlement is amateur hour. I’m bringing copies for anyone who wants them. By 8:45, Rocky Mountain Powers utility van arrived at the transformer site. White truck, orange cones, two engineers, and hard hats.
I watched from my driveway while pretending to organize my garage. They spent 90 minutes taking readings, consulting tablets, pointing at corroded connections, and overgrown vegetation. The body language told the story before any tags went up. Lots of headshaking, serious phone calls, that specific way engineers look when they’re about to shut something down.
At 10:20, they zip tied a red tag to the chainlink fence. Equipment condemned. Unsafe for operation. My phone rang 15 minutes later. Mr. Monroe. Rebecca Chen, operations manager, Rocky Mountain Power. We’ve red tagged your neighborhood transformer. Failed load capacity and has critical safety deficiencies. Emergency replacement starts at 2 p.m. today.
How long will we be without power? I asked, my heart rate absolutely not accelerating. 48 to 72 hours. Cruise on overtime should be restored by Monday evening, 2 p.m. The exact minute the town hall started. Timing so perfect it felt like a movie script, except I’d just filed safety complaints and let physics and bureaucracy do their thing. I texted the group. Transformer failed. Power out at two. Town hall still on. Bring flashlights. Marion responded.
You beautiful bastard. Haron sent a gift of fireworks. Greta wrote, I need to learn chess from you. At 11:30, my doorbell rang. Three women I didn’t recognize stood on my porch in matching athletic wear, Brin’s yoga cavalry. The lead woman was maybe 40. Blonde highlights so precise they looked drawn with a ruler holding a Starbucks cup like a shield. Mrs.
Keller authorized us to extend a settlement offer. She announced $15,000. You drop all claims and sign a non-disclosure agreement. Where’s Brinn? Preparing her presentation for this afternoon. She’s documenting every false allegation you’ve made. Tell her I’ll see her at 2 p.m. The woman’s smile could have frozen helium. You’re destroying this community. We had a nice neighborhood before you moved in with your panels and your attitude.
You don’t even fit here. The subtext was clear. My house was too small. My truck too bluecollar. My unwillingness to bow and scrape too offensive to their manufactured order. You’re right, I said. I don’t fit. I actually read the bylaws. Now get off my property before I add trespassing to the harassment report.
They left in a white Mercedes that smelled like expensive candles and manufactured superiority. I watched them retreat and felt something settle in my bones. This wasn’t about solar panels anymore. This was about people who’d been stepping on others necks for years. And today, someone was standing up. At 12:30, I arrived at the pavilion. Haron had the projector running, testing Luther’s deposition video.
Greta arranged printed financial documents on a table like evidence at a trial. Marian showed up at 12:45 with a Channel 9 news crew. Nia Park’s editor approved it. Marion said, “We’re live streaming on their Facebook page.” The reporter, Young, hungry for the story, interviewed Marion while his cameraman captured empty chairs that wouldn’t stay empty long. People started arriving at 1:15.
The Hendersons, the woman with the yellow Playhouse fine, the tech accountant with his briefcase full of highlighted spreadsheets, families, retirees, people I’d never met who’d been quietly suffering under Brin’s regime for years, finally ready to watch someone fight back. By 140, 63 people packed the pavilion. Every chair filled, people standing three deep along the sides.
The air hummed with nervous energy and suppressed anger, finally finding an outlet. At 150, the TV crew positioned cameras with sight lines to both podium and crowd. Haron queued up the first slide. A giant number in red, $28,000. Someone whistled low. At 158, Brin arrived. Navy blazer, cream blouse, hair shellacked into submission. She walked in like she owned the oxygen we were breathing. A new lawyer followed.
Expensive suit, $400 an hour posture, the kind of attorney who drinks single malt scotch and loses. Anyway, they took front row seats, spines rigid, faces made of marble in denial. At exactly 2:00 p.m., the lights died. Every street light winked out. Every house went dark. The community center killed mid hum.
The only sounds were Harlland’s generator powering our PA system and 63 people gasping in unison as reality hit them. Then someone pointed. Through the pavilion’s open sides, three streets away. My house glowed. Lights blazing. AC unit humming. Solar panels catching the afternoon sun like they were waving. The visual metaphor was so brutally perfect I almost felt bad. Almost. Brin’s face cycled through emotions faster than I could track.
Confusion, realization, rage, and finally something that looked like a prey animal seeing the trap close. I stepped to the microphone. The generator powered speakers crackled. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “Let’s talk about where your money went.” The TV camera’s red light blinked on. 63 witnesses streaming live. No turning back now. This was justice served cold with a side of infrastructure failure.
The silence after the power died felt like the neighborhood holding its breath. Then the pavilion erupted. Whispers building into conversations building into controlled chaos. Harland’s generator chugged away, keeping our PA system and projector alive. the only electronics working in the entire neighborhood besides what was humming in my house three streets away, glowing like a lighthouse while everything else drowned in darkness.
I let the moment breathe, gave people time to look at the dead street lights, then at my lit windows, then at Brin, sitting front row with her $400 an hour lawyer. Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. She leaned over and hissed something to her attorney. He shook his head, looking like a man realizing he’d brought a knife to a tank fight. Good afternoon. My voice crackled through the speakers, echoing off the pavilion roof.
I’m Dex Monroe. Some of you know me. Some got Brin’s email this morning claiming this meeting was cancelled. As you can see, I gestured at the 63 people packed into every available space. We’re still here. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.
The TV camera panned across faces, angry, curious, afraid, hopeful. Three months ago, I installed solar panels. County approved, professionally installed, fully permitted. The next morning, I woke up to three workers ripping them off my roof with crowbars. Harland clicked to photos of the destruction. Shattered glass, dangling wires, roof torn open like a wound.
A woman in the third row covered her mouth. Mrs. Keller said, “I violated section 14.3. No exterior modifications without approval.” Here’s the actual bylaw. Next slide. Highlighted text filling the screen. Subsection C added 2019. Energy efficiency improvements are exempt provided they meet county standards, which mine did. The crowd’s energy shifted.
I could feel it physically, like air pressure changing before a storm. Brin stood up, her chair scraping concrete loud enough to make people wse. This is defamation. I’m documenting every lie. Sit down, Mrs. Keller. Marian’s voice cut through like a blade. You’ll get your turn to speak. Brinn’s lawyer grabbed her elbow and pulled her back down.
She sat rigid, trembling with barely contained fury. The camera zoomed in on her face. This was all being live streamed. Thousands of people watching her unravel in real time. After the destruction came the escalation. I kept my voice level. Factual cease and desist letters from her brother-in-law. Frivolous county complaints.
An emergency board meeting authorizing 15,000 in legal fees without membership vote to sue me. Next slide shows the meeting minutes. Brin’s signature bowled across the bottom. Then an emergency assessment, 400 per household. Vote held 2 p.m. on a Tuesday. How many of you could make a Tuesday afternoon meeting? Three hands went up out of 63. The pavilion smelled like cut grass and generator exhaust and building rage. Exactly. 19 people voted, barely quorum.
Most of you didn’t know until the bill arrived in yellow envelopes designed to scare you into paying. I paused. But here’s where it gets criminal. Haron clicked to the financial spreadsheets. Massive red numbers glowing on screen. For 3 years, Mrs. Keller paid her own company 500 monthly for management consulting. $18,000.
No competitive bids. No disclosure. She voted to pay herself. That’s theft. Someone shouted from the back. It gets worse, I said. Next slide. Landscaping invoices. 3200 to Mountain Vista LLC owned by her brother-in-law Clayton. the same lawyer who threatened me. The crowd’s murmur grew louder, angrier.
1,800 for Property IQ Pro, Zillow’s premium tool for real estate agents. Personal business expense build to you. Final slide. Just one number in 72 point red. $28,000. $28,000 stolen from your dues, your emergency assessments, your community. The roar that followed made the generator sound like a whisper. People standing, shouting, pointing at Brin. The TV camera swiveled to capture her, face cycling between rage and something that looked like animal panic.
We have proof, I gestured to Greta’s table stacked with documents. Bank statements, meeting minutes, deposition testimony. Haron played Luther’s video. 10 seconds of him crying, voice breaking. I didn’t know she owned the company. I swear I didn’t know. The pavilion went silent.
Watching a man’s life implode on camera does that makes everything viscerally undeniably real. Colorado law is clear. I continued HOALA KEN board members are fiduciaries. When they steal, they’re personally liable. Not the HOALA KEN, them. Their houses, savings, retirement, everything. Brin exploded to her feet, her chair clattered backward. You smug son of a Her voice cracked with fury.
You think you can destroy me? You’re nobody. You’re a broke, divorced electrician in the ugliest house in this neighborhood with a truck that belongs in a scrapyard. The pavilion froze. Even the generator seemed to hold its breath. The TV camera locked on her face, capturing every word for posterity in the internet.
I’ve protected property values for 3 years while you drag this place down with your panels and your attitude and your She was gesturing wildly now, completely unhinged. You don’t belong here. You never did. I let her words hang in the air. Let the camera capture them. Let the crowd absorb what she just revealed.
Not a public servant, but someone who saw the neighborhood as her territory and anyone different as a threat to be eliminated. Then I leaned into the microphone. Mrs. Keller, just to clarify, your defense is that I don’t fit because I’m broke, divorced, and drive an old truck. I didn’t. That’s not what I Because I think what you actually meant is that you’ve been running this HOALA KEN like a dictatorship for so long, you forgot you’re an elected servant, not a queen. The pavilion detonated.
Applause started in the back. Slow clapping that built into thunder. People standing, whooping. The tech accountant waving his spreadsheets like a flag. I’m filing with the attorney general Monday. He shouted. Who’s with me? 47 hands shot up. More than half the crowd. Greta stood, voice cutting through the noise. I’m calling for recall vote.
We need 50%. Show of hands. Who wants her removed? 57 hands. The majority undeniable. Overwhelming. Brin’s lawyer leaned over, whispering urgently in her ear. She shook her head violently. He whispered again, more insistent, and I saw the moment she broke, shoulders sagging, face crumbling. I resign. Her voice barely carried past the front row. Louder, someone yelled.
I resign as HOALA KEN president. Effective immediately. She looked at me with hatred so pure it was almost impressive. Happy? You’ve destroyed everything I built. I smiled. Mrs. Keller, I didn’t destroy anything. The generator hummed. The neighborhood sat powerless. My house glowed in the distance. I just turned on the lights.
The TV reporter shoved his microphone at her. Mrs. Keller, comment on embezzlement allegations. She pushed past him hard enough to nearly knock over the cameraman. Her lawyer followed. Briefcase clutched like it could shield him from accountability. They walked out into the dead neighborhood, her white Lexus parked among dark houses like a ghost ship.
She climbed in and peeled out. Gravel spraying vanity plate sold it disappearing around the corner for the last time. The applause started again, built into something that felt less like celebration and more like catharsis. Years of suppressed anger finally finding release.
The sound rolled across the powerless neighborhood like thunder announcing a storm that had already passed. Marian took the microphone. Anyone joining the class action? I’m taking names. Also, we need an interim board. Nominations. Hands shot up. Greta nominated immediately. Harlon, three others who’d been fined, threatened, silenced. People stepping into power they’d always had but never knew how to use. I stepped away and let them work.
This was their community now, not Brins, theirs. I walked to the pavilion’s edge and looked at my house glowing in the afternoon sun. Behind me, people were planning, organizing, taking control back. The TV reporter found me. Final statement, Mr. Monroe. I looked at the camera’s red light, at the neighborhood beyond, at everything we just changed.
Check your HOALA KEN’s finances. Read your bylaws. You have more power than they want you to believe. I paused. And if someone’s stealing from you while telling you to sit down and shut up, don’t sit down. Turn on the lights and make them answer in front of everyone. The camera kept rolling. Somewhere on the internet, thousands of people were watching.
and maybe, just maybe, some of them were looking up their own HOALA KEN’s bank statements. The power came back on Monday evening at 6:43 p.m. I was in my kitchen making dinner when the hum of the grid returned, street lights flickering to life, refrigerators resuming their background drone, the neighborhood exhaling after 72 hours of forced darkness.
My solar system had kept me running the entire time. I’d charged neighbors phones, kept Mrs. Henderson’s insulin refrigerated and let three families run extension cords to keep their sump pumps going. Turned out being prepared wasn’t selfish. It was community infrastructure. The legal aftermath moved faster than I expected.
Brinn hired a bankruptcy attorney by Wednesday. Her assets were frozen pending the class action lawsuit Marian filed on behalf of 41 homeowners. The attorney general’s office opened a criminal investigation. Embezzlement over 20,000 is a felony in Colorado. Troy resigned from city council two weeks later, citing family health issues.
Translation: His utility kickback scheme was about to become very public and he wanted to jump before he was pushed. Luther, the retired dentist who’d rubber stamped everything, settled immediately. Paid 3,000 in restitution and agreed to testify. He looked 10 years older when I saw him at the grocery store. Wouldn’t make eye contact. Just pushed his cart past like I was a ghost.
Joss, the other board member, got immunity in exchange for her testimony. She told Marian that Brin had threatened to find her into foreclosure if she ever voted against her. Turns out dictatorship only works until someone shines a light on it. The new board, Greta as president, Harlon as treasurer, implemented reforms within a month. All financial records posted online with monthly updates.
Architectural approvals now had 21-day response deadlines or they auto approved. Renewable energy installations explicitly protected in revised bylaws. Board meetings moved to Saturday mornings so working families could attend. Recall process streamlined to 50% instead of 75. The neighborhood changed in smaller ways, too.
People talked to each other again. Not just polite waves, but actual conversations. Block parties that had died under Brin’s regime started up again. Someone organized a tool sharing library in the community center. The fear that had hung over Pine Haven like smog finally lifted, replaced by something that felt like actual community.
6 months after the town hall, I got a check for $47,000. HOALA KEN’s insurance company settled the lawsuit rather than go to trial. Brinn was personally liable for another $31,000. Her house went into foreclosure 3 months later.
She’d moved to Arizona, someone told me, working for a property management company at half her old salary. Troy followed her a month after that. The divorce filing came through in December. I didn’t feel good about their collapse. I didn’t feel bad either. Just neutral. They’d made choices. Choices have consequences.
Sometimes those consequences involve losing everything you stole and everything you built on top of it. I paid back Skyler’s college fund with interest. Used the rest to fund something I’d been planning since the day the lights came back on. The Pinehaven Solar Co-op. I partnered with three installation companies to offer group buying discounts, 40% off panels for anyone in the neighborhood, set up a lowterest loan program through a local credit union. Within 6 months, 23 households had solar installations.
The neighborhood looked different now. Roofs dotted with panels catching sunlight, everyone producing their own power, nobody at the mercy of utility companies or city councilmen on the take. Local news ran a follow-up story. neighborhood transforms after HOALA KEN scandal with footage of all those solar panels and interviews with homeowners who’d finally taken control of their own electricity bills. The story got picked up regionally.
Then I started getting calls from other neighborhoods, people dealing with their own petty tyrants asking how we’d fought back. I gave free consultations, shared our playbook, watched three more HOALA KEN boards collapse under the weight of their own corruption when members finally looked at the bank statements. The best part, Skyler’s college essay got her into CU Boulder with a scholarship.
She’s studying environmental engineering now. Wants to design micro grids for communities that can’t rely on centralized power. She came home for Thanksgiving and we cleaned the solar panels together, annual maintenance, father-daughter bonding over photovoltaic cells and squeegees.
Someone on Reddit asked if you’d consult on their HOALA KEN nightmare, she said, scrubbing bird droppings off a panel. They’re in Michigan. Board president’s been embezzling for 5 years. I grinned. Tell them I charge in good stories. If it’s interesting enough, I work for free. She laughed. Below us, the neighborhood was setting up for the block party. The third one since Brin left.
Tables appearing on driveways, grills firing up, kids playing basketball without fear of noise violation fines. Normal suburban life, except now it was actually normal instead of performed under threat. We climbed down and joined the party. Greta brought her famous potato salad.
Harlon showed up with his new electric smoker plugged into his solar array naturally loaded with brisket that smelled like heaven. The tech accountant brought spreadsheets showing how much the neighborhood had saved on electricity in 6 months. $34,000 collectively, almost exactly what Brin had stolen. The irony was beautiful. Someone made a toast. To Dex for turning on the lights, I raised my beer.
To all of us for finally reading the fine print. As the sun set, the solar panels across 23 roofs caught the last light, storing energy for tomorrow. The neighborhood glowed, not from street lights this time, but from porches and patios where people gathered freely without fear, without someone monitoring whether their lawn was 75 in too tall or their mailbox had rust or their happiness exceeded permitted levels.
I thought about that supply sergeant in Baghdad one more time. Wars are won by logistics. Systems are defeated by understanding them better than the people exploiting them. And sometimes justice isn’t a courtroom. It’s a community finally realizing they had power all along. They just needed someone to flip the switch. Underscore dual CTA call to action. So, here’s what I want you to do. First, check the comments.
Drop your own HOALA KEN horror story. If it’s wild enough, if it’s got that perfect mix of petty tyranny and potential justice, I’ll investigate it. We’ll tell your story next. And trust me, we love receipts, screenshots, violation notices, bank statements. Send them all.
Second, hit that subscribe button and smash the notification bell because next week’s story, landlord evicted me for reporting black mold, so I bought his entire building and evicted him. And let me tell you, the chess moves in that one make this solar panel saga look like checkers. Oh, and Brin, if you’re watching this from Arizona, and I know you are because narcissists can’t look away, thanks for the content.
The ad revenue from this video just paid for three more neighbors solar installations. Irony really is the most beautiful form of justice. Check your HOALA KEN’s finances tonight. Read your bylaws tomorrow because somewhere in those boring documents is the key to taking your power back.
You just have to know where to look. And if you need help looking, well, you know where to find me now. Go turn on some lights. That’s a wrap for today’s episode on HOALA KEN stories. If you enjoyed watching Karma in action, smash that like button, comment your thoughts, and let us know if you’ve dealt with HOALA KEN madness, too. Subscribe so you won’t miss the next HOALA KEN meltdown we post.
