Royal Decree
On the matter of the Great Houses of the Hollow
Here follow, duly recorded, the six houses that contend for the one true throne behind Clubhouse Room B. Each swears an oath to the realm, and each — in time, — betrays it. The pink remembers.
“The Pink Remembers.”
A plastic flamingo, one leg raised, a crown set slightly too large on its head. The iconoclasts pressed to the margins by Covenant 4.2(a)(iii) — the infamous “no lawn ornamentation exceeding eighteen inches in height” rule. They will not bend the knee to a clipboard. They believe a yard is for living, not for regulation. Plucky, defiant, aesthetic-anarchist, and utterly lovable.
“Grow, or Begone.”
A garden gnome holding a hand rake like a pike, planted on a single blade of accused grass. The property purists at war with anything that is not a precisely calibrated lawn. They mow before dawn, they can name the chemistry of a zoysia blade from across the street, and they see a dandelion as an act of domestic insurgency.
“As It Was, So It Shall Be — Forever.”
A gavel laid over a single covenant binder, chain of binders behind it. The incumbents who have held the Chair for eighteen consecutive years and mistake longevity for wisdom. They answer every new idea with “that’s not how we do things.” They fear change the way the realm fears winter. Declining, grumpy, and immovable — and entitled to it.
“We See All Non-Compliance.”
Three clipboards fanned like a hand of cards, a gavel at center. The enforcement cadre — a rotating coven of volunteers who perform “The Long Inspection” twice a year, walking every street with identical clipboards and the serenity of people who have never once been wrong. Justice is a form; mercy is a filing error. The closest thing the Hollow has to an army.
“We Grow, Gently, and We Watch.”
A single perfect rose, its thorns arranged into a crown. The soft-power whisperers of the Garden Committee. They run the annual Garden Walk — which is absolutely, one hundred percent, not an intelligence operation. They smile, they prune, they remember everything. “Bless your heart” is their battle cry.
“Chaos Is a Ladder.”
A golden pylon — the kind the chain-link fence stands on — set against a drive-paving price quote. The HOA-adjacent contractors and gray-zone vendors who feed on every dispute they encourage from both sides. They do not take sides. They take percentages. Gleeful opportunists who understand that chaos in a small town is income.