She strikes. A wet wipe materializes . The smudge evaporates from reality. Cindy hisses: “ Cleanse. ”

The mud pie hits Cindy’s sliding glass door with the sound of a wet novel slamming a table. It sticks. It drips . It achieves a new state of matter: pure filth.

Karen bursts inside, dragging a mud-caked Reginald. She finds her counters. Every single surface. Covered in a thin, greasy smudge . Not dirt. Cooking oil . Deliberately applied in paw-print patterns.

Internal monologue, MAX SPEED: Smudge. Hostile. Source: canine. Target: glass. Response: IMMEDIATE SANITIZATION. But—no. Strategy. The dog is a weapon. The neighbor, KAREN (50s, wine-mom energy), is the arm. Karen lets Reginald roam because she “likes his free spirit.” Cindy has filed 14 HOA complaints. All ignored.

A coffee mug floats from the counter to her lip. She doesn’t sip. She injects . Dishes are not washed. They are exorcised in the sink. A single smudge of last night’s spaghetti sauce—a rogue Rorschach test on the white tile—dares to exist.