The front door burst open with the subtlety of a cannon shot. Meg, her wild ginger hair wind-blown and stuffed with leaves, stomped into the house.

"She did it again!" she growled, slamming her hat on the table and wiping dirt from her elbow. "I crashed into Irene's yard and now she's taken my broomstick hostage!"

From the couch, Susan barely looked up from her tea. "That crusty hag? Again? What's her problem now?"

"She says I was 'violating her airspace' and 'spooking her begonias'! As if she even HAS begonias! It's just weeds and resentment over there!"

Susan's expression darkened like a thundercloud. "That woman hasn't lifted a finger since her parents croaked and left her a small fortune. She's got more cobwebs in her yard than Halloween stores in October. And those gnomes—"

"Don't start about the gnomes," Meg muttered, flopping dramatically onto a chair. "They're her only friends."

Susan stood up, fists clenched. "No. I refuse to let her confiscate your transportation. That's like... like taking your broom-car! I'm going over there."

Meg blinked. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I'm British. Passive aggression is my national sport. I got this."

Susan marched to Irene's crooked, vine-choked house, her boots crunching over dead leaves. With a firm knock, she summoned the beast.

The door creaked open to reveal Irene: robe, curlers, and a face like a slap in the morning.

"What?" she snapped.

"You stole the broom. Return it."

Irene squinted. "Meg, you look even more hideous than usual. You finally decided to age gracefully, huh?"

"I'm not Meg!" Susan snapped. "I'm Susan."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh right, you're that British freeloader whose right side of the bed has an inch of dust on it and whose cooking should be declared an act of domestic terrorism. GET LOST LIMEY!"

SLAM.

Susan stood there, vibrating with rage.

"Okay," she hissed, turning and stomping back to the house. "She wants war? I'll give her a bloody Broadway-level performance."

Fifteen minutes later…

Susan was transformed. Hair sprayed silver, head scarf tied tightly, sunglasses the size of dinner plates, and draped in floral dress half eaten by moths.

She tottered to Irene's house with a cup in hand, knees bent at unnatural angles. She knocked sweetly.

The door opened again. Irene blinked at the vision before her.

"Hello deary," Susan rasped in a croaky voice. "May I borrow a cup of sugar?"

Irene tilted her head, then burst out laughing. "Meg, what in God's name are you wearing? Get lost before I call the cops for impersonating a fashion disaster."

Slam.

Susan yanked off the scarf with a grow and knocked again.

"What NOW?" Irene barked.

"I'M NOT MEG! I'm SUSAN!"

Irene narrowed her eyes. "Oh. The Limey. With a culinary kill count higher than Chernobyl's radiation. Get lost!"

SLAM. Lock. Click.

Susan stood there, vibrating again. Then her eyes landed on one of the many gnomes standing smugly in Irene's overgrown front yard.

"Well," she smirked, walking over and lifting the tiny statue. "If she's taking our stuff, I'm taking hers."

But before she could escape, a voice boomed behind her:

"PUT THE GNOME DOWN AND YOUR HANDS UP!"

Panicked, Susan did the smartest thing she could think off.

She shoved the gnome down her silent movie era dress, right into the cleavage zone.

Turning slowly, she put on her best poker face. "I'm not holding any gnome, officer. As you can see. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got cookies in the oven."

She took two careful steps…Then bolted.

"MA'AM, STOP!"

She was so close. Just a few feet from her lawn when—

TZZZAAAAAP!

The taser hit, and Susan dropped like a sack of electrocuted turnips, limbs twitching, the gnome peeking awkwardly out from her blouse like it was escaping a theme park ride.

From the window, Meg watched in stunned silence. Then sighed.

"Every. Freakin'. Time."