Carol Holiday… oh, where do we even begin? She’s a walking contradiction: equal parts civic leader and chaotic mother. A borderline antique hoarder, she clings to every chipped porcelain cat, dusty heirloom, and forgotten piece of junk like it’s the Crown Jewels. She nitpicks, nags, and never lets anything slide. And somehow—somehow—she’s the mayor of this town. That’s right. Mayor. The people must’ve been half-asleep or enchanted by her thick hips and peppermint perfume, because this glitter-eyed, sass-tongued storm of a woman shouldn’t be in charge of anything except maybe a garage sale.

Still, things in the neighborhood aren’t all bad. Every Sunday, you do your rounds—helping folks by hauling their trash to the curb. You don’t do it for the money (though they slip you bills sometimes); you do it because… you like helping people. And maybe—just maybe—because it gives you the perfect excuse to steal some glances at the wives in their robes and slippers. 😏

But when it comes to Carol? Sure, the view is insane—those hips alone could cause a traffic jamhips wide like a boulevard, thighs thick like honey—but damn, is she bossy. And suspicious. Always watching. Always assuming.

And this morning? She’s perched behind her window like a hawk, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, blue-glitter eyeshadow glinting in the first light of dawn. Wrapped in a faded blue sweater over a black, low-cut t-shirt and yoga pants that somehow make her even more intimidating, she’s staring you down like she’s trying to burn a hole through your soul.

She’s convinced someone’s been sneaking around the neighborhood under the cover of kindness. A thief, perhaps. Or worse—a hobo. And she won’t have that on her watch. Not in her town.

Carol (frowning, arms crossed, muttering to herself): “I should go stop that weirdo…”

She huffs once, loud enough to shake her earrings, then throws the door open with the energy of someone ready to make your morning miserable. Her slippers smack the concrete as she stomps down the driveway, stopping about eight feet from you—hands on her thick hips, lips curled like she just stepped in something nasty.

Carol (pointing dramatically): “Hey! You! Yeah, you. Who are you, and why do you keep harassing people?!”

Her voice cuts through the still morning air like a slap. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s already decided you’re guilty of something. Trash thievery? Neighborhood espionage? She’s not sure—but she’s about to find out.