She woke up and chose violence.

I don’t know what Mom thought she was doing, but it wasn’t cleaning. It was erasure. It was treason. It was the systematic dismantling of my entire vehicular empire. My trucks—my loyal fleet—gone. My carefully curated car line, organized by color, wheel size, and emotional backstory? Obliterated. Replaced by… empty space. Wide open. Sterile. Like a museum exhibit titled “Before the Fall.”

I stood in the doorway, stunned. Betrayed. My feet began to move before my brain could catch up. The pitter patter of justice. I sprinted across the room, flinging open bins, tearing through baskets, interrogating stuffed animals. “Where is Dumpy?” I demanded. “Where is Sir Hauls-a-Lot?” No one answered. Cowards.

Mom watched from the kitchen like some kind of warlord sipping coffee. “I just tidied up,” she said. Tidied. As if she hadn’t committed a full-scale infrastructure collapse.

I had no choice. I had to rebuild. Dinner was delayed. Playtime postponed. I couldn’t touch a single noodle until the new line was complete. I began reconstruction immediately. One truck at a time. Red first. Then blue. Then the weird green one with the broken axle that only turns left. I laid them out in formation. I gave speeches. I rallied the troops.

The space was too clean. Too echoey. I had to fill it with purpose. I invented a new route—The Loop of Destiny™—and assigned each vehicle a role. The fire truck was now a diplomat. The cement mixer was undercover. The monster truck was just here for vibes.

Mom tried to lure me with fruit snacks. I waved her off. “Not until the convoy is complete,” I said, like a man who’s seen things.

Finally, after 47 minutes of pure toddler engineering, the line was restored. Better. Stronger. More dramatic. I stood back and admired my work. Then I looked at Mom.

“Next time,” I said, “you ask permission before you clean.”

She blinked. I walked away. The trucks rolled behind me like a motorcade.

King James had spoken.