Scene 2: Meeting Chaos

The community hall was already sweating before anyone touched the thermostat. Humidity clung to the rafters like Harmony guilt, and the floorboards groaned beneath the weight of folding chairs, fan cords, and townsfolk not yet satisfied.

Mayor Alan Brigg stood at the front table with a clipboard in one hand and a paper fan in the other, slapping both with equal urgency. His gavel sat beside a sweating jug of lemonade, untouched. His shirt clung to his chest in damp triangles, tie knotted tight like it was choking the truth.

Lacey Brigg, perched beside him in her receptionist blouse, had unbuttoned herself to scandal line already. Legs crossed and bouncing at the knee, she stirred her tea with the end of her pen, every movement designed to be noticed.

“Order,” Alan barked, swatting at the air. “This is a formal community review of ... of environmental disruption via unnatural agricultural compound—”

“Bullcorn — it flat-out murdered the mood. Ain’t a dick left standing after that stink bomb.” Jolene Kane called from row two, arms crossed beneath breasts still bare from the rush. Her gardening gloves were shoved into her waistband like holsters.

“Language,” Judge Ray Maycroft muttered without looking up from his notes, pen scratching like a cricket with a grudge.

“Ohhhhnh~! Somebody’s tension is makin’ my nipples wiggle~!” Josie Foster squealed, fanning herself with a Temple bulletin someone had drawn tits on. “Are we all mad or are we, like, thirty seconds from a floor-wide dicking? I’m gonna need a countdown or a cum towel, I swear~!”

Cody Wells, red-faced at the corner table, scribbled frantically into the same yellow pad — now crumpled and damp at the corners — as if it were a sacred text. His handwriting curved in panicked loops, a bead of sweat dripping onto the page as he muttered, “Conjugal interruption ... olfactory violation ... combustive coupling obstruction ... d-dick drought clause ... sub-point F...”

Russ Maddox, arms crossed behind his chair like a Harmonists stance, nodded solemnly. “You all saw my lawn.”

“We smelled your lawn,” muttered Martin Kane, voice dark with unspent tension. His thigh bounced, fists tight against his knees. “We also smelled it halfway up my shaft before I had to tuck it in like a sad pup.”

Jolene tossed a look his way. “Don’t act like you were the victim, Marty. I was the one takin’ fresh dick in petunia pose when that stink wafted over. I thought you ruptured somethin’.”

Martin’s eyes twitched sideways. “It was the wind.”

“And the trauma,” added Viola Kemp, lounging back in her metal chair like she owned every orgasm anyone’d ever tried in town. “I had to cool my clit down with porch tea just to feel human again. Russ, baby, that stink near broke my bloom.”

Her husband Ronnie leaned in. “Mine’s still smellin’ like we barbecued over a septic leak.”

Lacey’s laugh drifted across the room, slow and syrup-thick. “Sounds like y’all need stronger resolve. Or stronger rhythm.” She glanced at Alan. “Maybe stronger leadership.”

Alan cleared his throat but didn’t look up.

Josie Foster, now seated sideways on her chair with one leg draped over the backrest, licked condensation off her sweet tea glass and sighed loud enough to draw stares. “Do you know what it’s like, Russy~? Idol Josie had to finger herself with a clothespin on her nose for three straight days! KYAAA~ nobody wants to pop a climax when it smells like hentai goat placenta soup!”

Russ didn’t flinch. “Sweet Bloom’s bounty comes at a price.”

“Then pay the tithe, stinky,” Tami Briggs snorted. She was sitting with one tit out under her overalls, pie stain still on her chest from the morning’s porch accident. “You ruined two orgasms and one dessert. You owe me at least three licks and a sponge.”