It was over before I'd known it began. Firemen were already hosing down the rubble, pathetic remains of the decrepit house on the hill. Neighbors were gathered in undisguised glee; our collective wish had come true: Nut Job Julie's place was no more.
Julie had inherited the house; as her mental state deteriorated the property kept pace. Hoarder's Hell, so said the hazmat team who'd emptied it after Julie had at last been evicted. She'd long been in arrears on her mortgage payments; the town had imposed multiple liens on the property for her defaulting on taxes.
Julie fought the eviction; ten years on she remained in residence, town officials being loath to tangle with a woman so disturbed.
Outrage spewed up and down the street. Something must be done; we vowed to make sure something was.
It was clearly arson.
The culprit was identified immediately; it was the Fire Chief. The mayor had authorized a training exercise; it was executed nine days after Julie had finally been forced out.
Julie was transplanted to a local motel at town expense; the council voted to foot the bill for two months.
After that? Loonie Julie likely will start off shelter-hopping and end up on the street. In which case, she won't need her laundry basket, lone survivor of the blaze, the white plastic barely singed.
Author Notes
Thanks to MoonWillow for artwork: Helza Blaze.
FLASHing solo (sans contest) at 225 words.
This is true; it's classified as flash to forestall SKIPs.
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