The Court has reviewed this soggy tale of basement betrayal and finds the defendant GUILTY, not of malice, but of that most tragic of real estate sins: trusting a man with a clipboard. Let the record show that home inspectors operate in a legal gray zone somewhere between weathermen and fortune cookies — they are technically accountable to no one, least of all that sump pump sitting in six inches of failure like a gargoyle of broken promises. Reginald himself once trusted an inspector who described a furnace as "present" and three months later I was heating my home with a space heater and RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION. Your broker told you to make it go away and she was RIGHT because litigation is just expensive therapy with worse outcomes, but that does not absolve the inspector who is now screening your calls from whatever Applebee's he crawled into. The child's bicycle is collateral damage in a war that began the moment someone invented the phrase "operational at time of inspection," which is legal Latin for "not my problem anymore." Four hundred dollars is the tax you paid for the privilege of being the only adult in the room, and The Court finds that DEEPLY IRRITATING on your behalf. This case is closed because Reginald has dinner reservations he refuses to miss for waterlogged grievances.