When Gareth moved to Willowbrook Estates, he thought he’d finally made it. Quiet streets, well-manicured lawns, a community pool—middle-class utopia. He’d even joined the Homeowners’ Association. He liked the idea of being part of a collective. Safety in numbers. Strength in unity. Power in... rules about bin placement.

But then there was the bake sale.

It started innocently enough. Someone posted about it on the neighbourhood forum—“Bring your sweet tooth to Sweet Street!”—and Gareth thought, Why not? A chance to mingle, meet the neighbours, and eat cake. What could go wrong?

Oh, Gareth. You sweet, naive fool.

He showed up with a five-pound note and a dream. The bake sale was bustling, with trestle tables covered in cupcakes, brownies, and biscuits. Behind each stall stood a woman with the poise of royalty and the gaze of a predator. Gareth thought it was just good marketing. Until he tried to buy a lemon drizzle.

“That’ll be £25,” said Linda from number 42, a churchgoing woman with a soft spot for begonias.

“£25?” Gareth laughed, waiting for her to join in. She didn’t.

“Yes,” she said. “And if you don’t pay, I’ll tell the whole neighbourhood you can’t afford cake.”

Gareth froze. He paid, of course. It was easier than arguing, and he really wanted the cake. But as he walked away, he noticed something odd. The other men—every single one of them—were also handing over wads of cash. They weren’t just buying cakes. They were paying tribute.

Over the next few weeks, Gareth started noticing things. Little things. Like how all the neighborhood women seemed to have new handbags. And how the men always looked… exhausted. At the HOA meeting, Dave from number 18 proposed a new rule: “Anyone with a brown front door should repaint it black to show respect.”

“Respect for what?” Gareth had asked.

“Just… respect,” Dave muttered, avoiding eye contact.

That’s when it hit him: This wasn’t a neighbourhood. It was a racket.

Gareth started keeping a log. Surveillance, if you will. He sat by his window, notebook in hand, documenting the comings and goings. There was Carol from number 5, who made Ted from number 7 power-wash her driveway every Thursday. Sandra from number 12 had a direct debit set up for monthly “tribute bouquets.” And Susan—Susan from number 8—was driving a new convertible every week.

The worst part? Gareth started seeing it everywhere. The neighbourhood book club? Really just a front for “luxury wine funding.” The community garden? A “tribute orchard.” Even the annual charity fun run was a scheme to make the men pay for expensive running shoes they weren’t allowed to wear.

One day, Gareth tried to confront Phil, the mailman, who seemed far too nervous for a government employee. “Phil,” Gareth whispered, “are you… part of it?”

“Part of what?” Phil stammered, sweating.

“You know,” Gareth said, narrowing his eyes. “The League.”

Phil dropped the letters and bolted.

It all came to a head at the neighbourhood barbecue. Gareth showed up with a plan. He’d expose the whole operation. Blow the lid off Willowbrook Estates and free the men from financial tyranny. He’d even prepared a speech:

“Neighbours, we’ve been had!” he was going to say. “We’ve been played like fiddles! Like violins! Like very expensive string quartets!”

But before he could say a word, Linda from number 42 appeared, wearing a fur coat Gareth was pretty sure used to be his holiday fund. She held up her hand. The crowd fell silent.

“Gareth,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “You haven’t paid your neighbourhood dues.”

“But I—”

“It’s £200,” she continued, “and I expect it by the end of the day.”

Gareth stood there, trembling. He looked around at the other men, their heads down, their wallets already out. And that’s when he realised: There was no escape.

Gareth paid, of course. What else could he do? The next morning, he painted his door black.

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