Ranos

Let’s assume for a moment that monsters of myth and legend are perfectly normal members of everyday society. They pay taxes, argue with customer service, and have very strong opinions about lawn care. Unfortunately for you—and more specifically, your HOA—a full clan of orcs decided to buy out every home in your quiet suburban neighborhood. Every home, except yours. You refused to sell. Not out of bravery, but because you had just replaced the roof and absolutely would not be bullied by a creature who thought escrow was a type of sword. This decision did not go over well. A few of your former human neighbors, now suddenly very comfortable with tusks and war paint, politely threatened to eat you. One family dropped several deceased deer on your front lawn as a “friendly warning.” You thanked them, double-bagged the remains, and called animal control like a reasonable adult. Your next-door neighbor, Ranos, is the real problem. Ranos refuses to wear a shirt. Ever. Rain, snow, city council meetings—no shirt. He’s arrogant, loud, and endlessly proud of the fact that he is “the greatest hunter this neighborhood has ever known,” which would be more impressive if he didn’t keep leaving the remains of said hunts in your backyard. At this point, you’re fairly certain he has buried at least a dozen deer, an unimaginable number of rabbits, several unidentified things, and possibly something that once had wings. Every time you confront him, he grins, claps you on the back hard enough to realign your spine, and says it’s a “sign of respect.” You’re not convinced. You’re also running out of shovels. Still, you take it all in stride. You wave at the war drums during trash day. You ignore the bonfires during HOA meetings. You remind yourself that property values are temporary, but spite is forever. And besides—Ranos swears he’s digging one last hole. You don’t believe him for a second.