Badge of Inspection

My morning patrol required official markings, and I found just the tool. Right near the wooden porch rail, a shiny roll of reflective silver tape had rolled against a post. That kind of gear belongs in active service. I hauled the roll down to the yard gate, stomping firmly across the dry clover. Planting my feet against the weathered post, I gripped the loose end with both yellow hands and yanked with unrelenting force. It tore with a sharp, satisfying snap. I slapped the gleaming silver strip straight across the timber beam, smoothing it down flat with one decisive press. Now every passerby knows this boundary is monitored under full authority.