The whole situation over at Joe Jukic’s dad’s place had become… sticky. An unwelcome guest had overstayed her welcome, weaving herself into the fabric of the house with a persistence that legal paperwork seemed to just slide off of. Marlene Mitri had roots where she wasn’t planted, and Joe decided the time for gentle persuasion was over.

He needed a specialist. Someone whose arguments were… unassailable. He made a call to a woman known only in certain circles as Miz Thang, a person whose very nickname suggested a formidable, all-purpose solution. Their meeting was brief, held in the back booth of a diner that smelled of old coffee and older decisions. Words were murmured, not shouted. A single, thick envelope changed hands under the table—a cool grand, a fee for a reallocation of living arrangements.

“She needs a change of climate,” Joe said, stirring his coffee. “Something more… familiar.”

Miz Thang, whose smile never reached her eyes, simply gave a slow nod. “A homecoming can be a beautiful thing. I’ll have a word with her. Some folks just need the right… perspective.”

The next part involved a visit, but not from Miz Thang directly. A few quiet gentlemen with impeccable suits and calm demeanors, associates of the Marciano family—a name spoken softly in the neighborhood, more a force of nature than a surname—paid a call to the Jukic house. Their conversation with Marlene was, by all accounts, profoundly persuasive. They spoke of distant shores, family, and the powerful pull of one’s ancestral soil. They framed it as a matter of cultural rediscovery.

It was a masterpiece of implication. No threats were uttered, no hands raised. Just a collective, unshakable understanding that Marlene’s future happiness and health were now intrinsically linked to a rapid and voluntary return to her family’s point of origin in Lebanon. The Lebanese sun, they suggested, would be much better for her complexion than the stress of her current… tenancy.

By morning, Marlene was packed. By afternoon, she was gone. The house was quiet again. Joe received a simple text from an unknown number: “Guest has departed. Enjoyed the local culture so much, she’s decided to immerse herself in it permanently.”

The problem had been resolved. Not evicted, just… repatriated. And everyone understood, without another word being said, how business was sometimes done when the official channels had frozen shut.