People Try To Craft The Best Revenge Stories

For nearly 20 years, I managed a small public department that focused on community infrastructure projects. My team typically consisted of 5-10 mostly part-time employees who rotated every few years.

I always tried to make their time with me valuable by helping beef up their resumes, paying for training, and giving them real responsibilities.

Hudson joined my team with decent skills but quickly developed an inflated sense of his own abilities.

His overconfidence regularly led to mistakes that required me to bail him out. While he could handle basic tasks, he struggled with math, grammar, and professional interactions with adults.

A significant part of my job involved securing federal grants for small infrastructure projects–things like adding ADA-compliant benches to nature trails, creating curb cuts on old sidewalks, or building bridges on walking paths across ditches.

I’d write the grant applications and specifications, then my staff would help administer them. Sometimes they’d do the actual work, other times they’d oversee contractors.

These grants had clear requirements, including matching components. We might contribute cash, equipment time, staff hours, or coordinate with volunteer organizations who provided labor as our match.

We were working on a bridge replacement grant, and I put Hudson in charge of phase 3.

This was the final phase of a project where we were replacing 21 bridges in batches of 7. The process was practically automatic by this point–all Hudson needed to do was deliver materials and coordinate with our volunteer teams. Simple enough, right?

He barely managed an adequate job.

I constantly had to redirect him to stay within specifications. The grant was specifically for improving water quality, but Hudson kept trying to shift focus toward recreation enhancements instead. We exchanged countless emails and texts about this issue. Our department used project codes to track grant spending, making it easy to code all time and materials through accounting.

Volunteers signed daily logs, keeping the process organized and documented.

That fall, Hudson continued struggling with basic tasks while simultaneously demanding a promotion for what he called his “outstanding work.” Despite being given multiple opportunities to meet the government requirements for promotion, his own laziness prevented him from becoming qualified.

His attitude worsened until he became intentionally negligent, putting himself and others in danger.

After a particularly serious incident, I called him into my office and offered him the choice to resign or be fired. I explained that resigning would allow him to potentially be rehired in a different department, while termination would blacklist him from city employment entirely.

He refused to resign, so I terminated him. The shock on his face was evident–I think he believed I was bluffing or using a scare tactic. He seemed convinced he was indispensable when in reality he’d become a constant source of problems.

What I didn’t mention during our meeting was that I knew about his father, Simon, a prominent local attorney who had apparently been cleaning up Hudson’s messes for years.

A quick check of Hudson’s state records showed a pattern: assault charges dropped, driving under the influence pled down to a traffic violation, possession charges reduced to mere infractions.

Hudson decided to retaliate. His first move was calling the federal division overseeing our grants to report alleged fraud.

They launched a full investigation, but my records were impeccable. When they called Hudson in to present his evidence, his claim of “fraud” amounted to feeling that the bridges should have been a lower priority and the money better spent elsewhere.

The irony? He was complaining about decisions he himself had implemented according to the grant specifications–specifications I had repeatedly prevented him from violating. I had all the written evidence.

Furthermore, the project he accused of mismanagement was literally the poster child for success, featured in a presentation to the state legislature showcasing the grant program’s achievements.

The federal investigators and city officials were furious about the wasted time. When Hudson couldn’t produce any actual evidence, they practically shouted him out of the building.

Hudson’s next move was filing a wrongful termination lawsuit.

He convinced his father about his supposed mistreatment, and Simon filed the suit. I immediately contacted the city attorney and provided hundreds of pages of meticulously organized documentation with a detailed summary. The evidence was overwhelming.

I happened to be at city hall when I saw Simon slinking out of the legal department, muttering apologies for his “misguided” son.

Through a mutual friend, I later heard that Simon had given Hudson a thorough lecture and withdrawn the financial support that had allowed him to live comfortably on part-time work.

The timing couldn’t have been worse for Hudson.

Around the same time, his wife Vivian discovered his ongoing affair with Mia. To complicate matters further, Mia announced she was pregnant. Hudson’s carefully constructed house of cards collapsed all at once.

I’ve heard he’s doing better these days.

Sometimes people need their safety nets removed before they can grow up. I still manage the department, and our bridge project was completed successfully–despite Hudson’s best efforts to derail it. The final bridges still stand as a testament to proper planning, documentation, and accountability.

Maybe Hudson learned something valuable from the experience, even if it was a painful lesson.

I quit my job at this small marketing firm last month after working there for nearly three years. My manager, Sebastian, used to be someone I considered a friend outside of work.

We’d grab lunch together, talk about our weekend plans, that sort of thing. But when I handed in my two-week notice, everything changed.

Sebastian found my replacement almost immediately – some guy with half my experience but willing to work for less pay.

Sebastian then told me not to bother coming in for my final week, which really screwed up my finances since I was counting on those last few paychecks.

The way he handled everything was just plain nasty. During my final days, he made these passive-aggressive comments in front of the team like, “Well, some people just can’t handle the pressure” and “Loyalty is hard to find these days.” I kept my cool though.

I didn’t want to burn bridges completely, so I smiled through it all, thanked everyone for the experience, and left as professionally as possible.

I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong.

Three weeks after I left, Sebastian called me out of the blue.

His voice had this weird edge to it when he asked if I knew anything about “suspicious activity” on one of the office computers. He didn’t directly accuse me, but the implication was crystal clear.

“Ian, the system logs show someone accessed client files at 3 AM last Tuesday.

You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

I was floored. I’d already returned all company property and had zero access to their systems. When I pointed this out, he just said, “Well, we’re checking with everyone who recently had access.

Just routine.”

It wasn’t routine. It was an accusation, and it hurt coming from someone who knew me.

After hanging up, I remembered something that had been bothering me for months. Back in February, Sebastian had confided in me about something disturbing.

We were discussing difficult customers, and he shared a story that made my skin crawl.

“You know what, Ian? Last week I got so fed up with those idiots at the cable company,” he had said, leaning in close.

“I drove down to their office, and I was so angry I actually got out of my truck with my gun. Can you believe that? I caught myself and put it back, but man, for a second there…”

He’d laughed it off like it was nothing, but that conversation was a major reason I started looking for another job.

Who talks about nearly bringing a gun into a customer service dispute like it’s a funny anecdote?

So yesterday, after stewing over his accusation for days, I did something petty. I downloaded this anonymous texting app, connected to a VPN, and sent him a message:

“This is a notification from Evergreen Security Services.

Our surveillance systems have captured concerning footage at a local business location that requires your immediate attention. Please be advised that once our security team processes the evidence, you will receive formal correspondence by mail or telephone regarding next steps.

This is an automated message. Please do not reply.”

I know it’s childish and probably wrong, but I wanted him to feel that same pit in his stomach that I felt when he basically accused me of hacking into company computers.

That moment of “Oh crap, did someone see what I did?”

My friend Dominic thinks I went too far, says I should have just let it go. Maybe he’s right. But there’s something satisfying about knowing Sebastian might be sweating a little, wondering if someone actually has footage of his cable company incident.

An hour after I sent the text, I saw Sebastian had viewed my LinkedIn profile.

That’s when I knew he was trying to figure out if I was behind the message. I wasn’t exactly subtle about the timing, I guess.

Part of me feels guilty – what if he panics and does something stupid?

But the other part remembers how quickly he threw away three years of what I thought was friendship and professional respect. How he didn’t even give me the courtesy of finishing my notice period, costing me a week’s pay I had budgeted for.

How he implied I was some kind of corporate saboteur.

I don’t plan to send any follow-up messages or take this any further. This small act of pettiness is enough. I’ve already blocked his number and started focusing on my new job, which thankfully has a manager who treats her team with respect.

Sometimes I wonder if Sebastian will ever realize how his behavior affects others.

Probably not. But maybe, just maybe, he’ll think twice before carrying his gun toward a building full of customer service reps who are just doing their jobs. And hopefully, he’ll think twice before accusing former employees of things they didn’t do.

For now, I’m moving on.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking my phone every few hours to see if he’s viewed my social media profiles again. Petty? Absolutely. Satisfying? You bet.

Back in the summer of 2005, I had this buddy named Ryan who I’d known for over a decade. We were pretty tight, hanging out regularly at his mom’s place where he still lived despite being 24.

His older sister Valerie also lived there – she was 27 and we never really got along. Like, at all.

I’ve never been a big fan of dogs, and for whatever reason, the dogs at their house seemed to sense this and weren’t exactly thrilled with me either.

The feeling was mutual, especially with Valerie’s yappy jack russell that she treated like royalty.

One scorching Saturday, I was driving over to chill with Ryan. As I pulled up to their house, I spotted Valerie walking back from taking her precious pooch around the neighborhood.

In her hand was one of those tied-off plastic baggies full of dog waste. Normal people would just toss this in a trash can, right?

Not Valerie. As I was parking, she walked right past my car and – I still can’t believe she did this – she tossed the bag of dog poop onto my windshield with this smug look on her face.

Seriously?

Who does that?

I got out of my car, carefully picked up the bag (trying not to gag), and looked around for somewhere to dispose of it properly. That’s when I noticed Valerie’s car parked in the driveway – a ’99 Prelude that she babied more than her actual dog.

The sunroof was cracked open to let some of the hot air escape.

An idea hit me instantly.

I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then casually strolled over to her precious car. With one quick movement, I dropped the bag through the crack in the sunroof.

It landed perfectly on the passenger seat. I didn’t say a word to anyone about what I’d just done.

When I walked inside with my six-pack, Valerie gave me this little triumphant smirk, clearly thinking she’d gotten the better of me.

I just ignored her and headed to Ryan’s room where we spent the next few hours playing video games and having a few cold ones.

Fast forward two days later. I’m back at their place, and Valerie storms into Ryan’s room absolutely fuming.

She starts ranting about how she’d been trying to sell her car and had a potential buyer come look at it earlier that day. When they opened the door to check out the interior, they were hit with the most disgusting smell imaginable.

Turns out, that little baggie of dog waste had been sitting in her car for two days in 90-degree heat.

The plastic had expanded in the heat and eventually burst open, leaving a cooked, putrid mess all over her passenger seat. The poor guy who was interested in buying it practically ran away.

I couldn’t help myself – I burst out laughing right in her face.

Ryan looked confused, glancing back and forth between us until Valerie pointed at me and screamed that I had ruined her chances of selling the car.

“Maybe next time don’t throw dog poop on other people’s cars,” I said with a shrug.

Ryan’s eyes went wide as he finally understood what had happened.

He tried to look disapproving but I could tell he was fighting back laughter.

“You’re disgusting,” Valerie spat before storming out of the room.

“Says the person who throws bags of poop at cars,” I called after her.

Ryan finally let loose with laughter once she was gone.

“Dude, that’s messed up,” he said, but he was clearly impressed by the karma of it all.

Valerie ended up having to get her car professionally detailed, which cost her a few hundred bucks. The smell lingered for weeks despite their best efforts.

She eventually did sell the car, but for way less than she wanted because of the “mysterious odor” that wouldn’t completely go away.

The best part? She never threw anything at my car again. Sometimes the most effective lessons come in smelly packages.

Ryan and I remained good friends for years after that incident, though I was notably less welcome at their mom’s house.

Worth it though. Completely worth it.

And just for the record, I’m still not a dog person, but I’ve developed a newfound respect for the power of dog waste as an instrument of justice.

So there I was, just trying to get my weekly shopping done at Martin’s Grocery on what had to be the coldest day of winter in Detroit.

The snow was coming down in sheets outside, and everyone in the store looked miserable, shuffling around with that defeated winter expression we all know too well.

I was in the cereal aisle when I spotted this older woman, maybe in her 60s, standing right in the middle with her cart.

She wasn’t moving, just staring at the granola options like they held the secrets of the universe.

“Excuse me,” I said politely, waiting for her to notice me.

She slowly turned, gave me this look like I’d just interrupted her solving world hunger, and dramatically moved her cart about three inches to the side.

I squeezed past and definitely said, “Thanks,” before continuing down the aisle.

I was checking out the pasta options when I heard this loud, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” echo through the store.

At first, I thought someone was having a different conversation.

But when I turned around, this woman was staring directly at me, those eyes burning holes through my winter jacket.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Yeah, I am,” she snapped. “I didn’t hear you say thank you when I let you pass.”

I was so caught off guard.

“Ma’am, I definitely said thank you. You must not have heard me.”

By this point, the Saturday shopping crowd had turned our little exchange into the day’s entertainment. People were straight-up stopping their carts to watch us.

“No, you did NOT say thank you,” she insisted, voice getting louder.

“Young people today have no manners!”

That’s when I noticed them – these gigantic, fuzzy, bright purple earmuffs covering her ears. Not just any earmuffs, mind you. These things were MASSIVE, like two purple poodles attached to the sides of her head.

“Well,” I said, trying not to laugh, “I can see why you didn’t hear my thanks.

You’re wearing those huge fuzzy earmuffs.”

The entire cereal aisle erupted in laughter. Even this guy stocking the Cheerios couldn’t keep it together. The woman’s face went from angry to embarrassed in record time.

“I can hear just fine through my earmuffs!” she shouted, but even she seemed to realize the absurdity of the situation.

This older man with a kind face a few feet away chimed in, “Nadia, those things are practically soundproof.

Even I can barely hear you when you wear them.”

Turns out they were neighbors, and apparently, this wasn’t the first time her fancy earmuffs had caused a misunderstanding.

Nadia’s face softened a bit as she realized what had happened.

“Well, maybe they are a bit thick,” she admitted, adjusting them slightly. “My grandson Alejandro got them for Christmas. They’re supposedly top-of-the-line.”

“They look very warm,” I offered as a peace offering.

“They better be,” she said with a slight smile.

“Cost him a fortune.”

The tension dissolved, and everyone went back to their shopping. As I was checking out later, I spotted Nadia in another line. We made eye contact, and she gave me a small wave and pointed to her earmuffs, which were now hanging around her neck.

I’ve started shopping at a different time since then, but part of me misses the drama.

Last week I saw a guy wearing noise-canceling headphones bump into three different people without noticing, and I couldn’t help but think of Nadia and her purple earmuffs.

The whole thing taught me that sometimes what seems like rudeness is just a communication breakdown.

And sometimes that breakdown is caused by ridiculous fuzzy earmuffs that look like purple poodles. Life’s weird like that.

I still tell this story at parties, and everyone always sides with me. Except my friend Diana, who says I should have just shouted “THANK YOU” loud enough for the entire store to hear in the first place.

Maybe she’s right, but where’s the fun in that?

I never realized how bad my instincts were when it came to men until Landon happened. Looking back, maybe I was too desperate to see the red flags, or maybe I just wanted to believe that good guys actually existed.

About three years ago, I met Dominic.

We dated for eight months before I discovered he was talking to his ex the entire time. Not just talking–planning a future with her while stringing me along as some kind of backup plan. The betrayal cut deep.

It took me almost two years to feel okay again–two years of journaling, therapy, and long talks with friends before I felt ready to trust someone new.

When I finally downloaded a dating app again, I matched with Landon.

Turns out we had mutual friends, which felt reassuring. He was in my city for a three-month internship, and we met up at a local café. That first date was honestly magical–sitting by the river as the sun set, talking about everything from quantum physics to our favorite breakfast cereals.

Landon was incredibly intelligent, studying engineering at some prestigious university overseas. He spoke three languages fluently and had this quirky interest in astrology that seemed so contradictory to his scientific mind. I found it endearing.

After his internship ended, he went back to finish his degree, but we stayed in touch.

We’d text every few days, sometimes call. Nothing serious, but definitely something.

Fast forward a year. I had just moved to Europe for a work opportunity when Landon reached out again. His university was having their annual spring formal–a huge deal apparently–and he wanted me to come.

I hesitated initially. Flying to another country for a guy I’d only met in person once? My friends thought I was crazy, but they also said, “He’s kept in touch for a whole year. That’s dedication.”

So I said yes.

He insisted I stay for four nights at his apartment. I bought new shoes, a fancy dress, and booked my flights.

The formal was beautiful–all fancy outfits and champagne toasts. His friends were welcoming, but something felt off.

Several people asked me the same weird question: “So how do you know Landon exactly?” or “What made him invite you specifically?” I brushed it off, thinking maybe they were just curious about the American girl.

Halfway through the night, Landon started acting strange.

He kept checking his phone, then suddenly announced he was exhausted and wanted to head back. At his apartment, he practically collapsed on the couch. I sat beside him, and when he went to the bathroom, I reached for his phone to put on some music.

That’s when I saw it.

A message from his roommate Kevin: “Dude, does Camila know about the girl staying with you?”

When Landon returned, I casually asked, “So… who’s Camila?”

The look on his face said everything. He stammered, tried to lie, then finally admitted she was his girlfriend of two years.

They were “on a break” while she studied abroad in Australia.

I didn’t scream or cry. I just started packing my bags in complete silence. My thoughts were surprisingly clear: I need to get out of this country immediately.

But there was a problem.

Changing my flight would cost almost a thousand dollars–money I didn’t have after splurging on this trip.

So I turned to Landon and said, “You’re buying me a ticket home. Now.”

He laughed.

“Why would I do that?”

That’s when I remembered something from our first date. Landon had mentioned being surprisingly superstitious for a science guy. He’d talked about his grandmother who supposedly practiced folk magic and how he’d always been a little afraid of curses.

I looked him dead in the eyes.

“Fine. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice.”

I started speaking in a low, steady voice, mixing in random Latin words I remembered from high school with some made-up chanting.

I maintained eye contact the whole time, never breaking character.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice slightly trembling.

“Cursing you,” I replied calmly. “Bad fortune follows those who deceive.”

He literally begged me to stop.

“This isn’t funny, Ava.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I said, maintaining my serious expression. “But I can reverse it if you book my flight home. Right now.”

He grabbed his laptop so fast he nearly dropped it.

Within minutes, he had booked me a flight leaving the next morning. When I got to the airport and checked in, I realized he hadn’t just booked me any seat–he’d booked me business class.

I spent the entire eight-hour flight sipping complimentary juice, stretched out in a seat that actually reclined fully, watching movies on a personal screen bigger than my laptop.

I should have felt angry or hurt, but instead, I felt strangely powerful.

Sometimes when people show you who they really are, the best revenge is just letting them believe whatever nonsense they want–especially if it gets you home in comfort.

I later heard from mutual friends that Landon and Camila broke up.

Apparently, he became convinced he was cursed when he failed two exams and lost his wallet in the same week.

Guess some curses work after all.

I still think about this sometimes, even though it happened during my junior year of high school over a decade ago. I wasn’t exactly popular back then – just a quiet art kid who minded her own business.

I was taking this intermediate 2D art class that required previous art credits to get into.

Everyone there was pretty serious about their work, especially since our final projects counted for like 40% of our grade. I sat at a table with four other students who were decent enough people, but not really my friends outside of class.

This guy Felix sat at our table sometimes.

He was a senior, kind of quiet, really talented with watercolors. We never talked much, but our teacher would sometimes use his work as examples for the class.

One day after school, I realized my iPod Touch was missing. This wasn’t just any device – it was my lifeline.

My parents couldn’t afford to get me a real smartphone, so this iPod was my music, my photos, my messages when I could find WiFi… everything.

When I noticed it was gone, I absolutely panicked. See, I grew up in a pretty strict household where losing things meant serious consequences.

Even though I was 17 and things had gotten better in recent years, that fear was burned into me. So instead of telling anyone, I went into full problem-solving mode.

For two weeks, I was obsessed with finding it. I checked the lost and found three times daily.

I asked the school administration if I could review security footage from the cafeteria (they said no, obviously). I retraced every step of my day over and over.

When I finally accepted it was gone for good, I borrowed $100 from my cousin and convinced my friend Noah to drive me 30 miles to meet some random Craigslist seller in a Walmart parking lot.

The replacement iPod I bought reeked like someone had smoked a thousand cigarettes around it, but at least I had something again. Crisis averted, right?

A few days later, I was in art class working on my final project – a mixed media piece I’d been planning for weeks.

I happened to glance across the room and noticed Felix getting up from a different table, leaving behind an iPod that looked suspiciously familiar.

My heart started racing. I casually walked over as if I needed to borrow supplies from that table.

When I got closer, I could see my distinctive blue sticker on the back of the iPod. That jerk had stolen MY iPod and had the nerve to bring it to our shared class!

Without thinking twice, I grabbed it while no one was looking and hurried back to my seat.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Felix return and frantically search through his things. The bell rang, and I bolted out of there.

That night, I went through the iPod and found selfies of Felix along with photos of his art project – this incredible detailed mandala design he’d been working on for weeks.

Our teacher had been gushing about it, calling it one of the best pieces she’d seen from a student.

The next class, I confronted him privately. “I know you took my iPod,” I said. He stammered some nonsense about buying it cheap from someone else.

Right. I just gave him a cold smile and said, “You’ll see.” Let him think I was going to report him.

But I had a different plan brewing.

Our art classroom connected to another art room through a storage area.

I was also taking photography in that other room, so I knew all the hidden spots in the storage space. During my photography period, I slipped into the 2D art room and found the storage rack where we kept our ongoing projects.

I located Felix’s canvas, took it, and hid it deep in the storage room where no one would think to look.

What happened next was honestly more dramatic than I expected. Felix completely lost it when he discovered his project missing.

He tore apart the storage area looking for it. Our teacher, who was normally super chill, got really upset and made these passionate speeches to the class about respecting each other’s work. She made everyone help search for it, convinced it had just been misplaced.

I kept my cool through all this, even when Felix looked at me suspiciously one day and asked if I knew anything about it.

I just shrugged and said, “How would I know anything about that?” I was kind of hoping he’d connect the dots and admit to taking my iPod, but he never did.

As the end of the semester approached, Felix had to start a completely new project from scratch.

He was clearly stressed, knowing he had limited time to create something that would earn him a decent grade. I almost felt bad watching him rush through his new piece, which wasn’t nearly as good as the original.

During the final week of class, when grades were almost locked in, I retrieved his canvas from its hiding place.

I deliberately tore it in a few places and left it where it would eventually be found – not obviously enough to point to me, but visible enough that someone would discover it before the year ended.

I heard later that the torn canvas was found by a freshman who had no idea what it was or why it was important.

By then, Felix had already accepted his fate and submitted his rushed replacement project.

Sometimes I wonder if I went too far. His project was genuinely beautiful work that he’d put hours into. But then I remember how desperately I searched for my iPod, how I had to spend money I didn’t have on a nasty replacement, and how easily he could have just returned what he took.

I graduated the following year and never saw Felix again.

I’d like to think he learned something about consequences, but who knows? All I know is that my replacement iPod finally died after two years of loyal service, and I still remember the sweet satisfaction of knowing exactly where his missing project was while everyone searched in vain.

So last year I had to set up a home office in my front room when my company went fully remote.

It wasn’t ideal, but I made it work. Everything was fine for the first few months until Adrian moved in behind me.

This guy was unbelievable. Three days after moving in, right in the middle of my important client call, the most obnoxious EDM starts blasting from his backyard.

I’m talking window-rattling bass at 11 AM on a Tuesday. Who does that?

I tried to be cool about it. After my call, I walked over and knocked on his fence gate. Adrian comes out with this smug look on his face, shirtless with a can of booze in his hand despite it being before noon.

“Hey man, I’m working from home and the music is pretty loud.

Would you mind turning it down a bit?”

Adrian takes a swig and laughs. “Nah, I’m good. It’s my property, I can do what I want.”

“I understand that, but it’s affecting my work calls,” I tried explaining.

“Not my problem, dude.

Maybe get some headphones.” Then he actually turned the volume UP before closing his gate in my face.

I stood there for a second, completely stunned. Who responds like that to a reasonable request? I’m normally a pretty chill guy, but something about his attitude just set me off.

Luckily for me (and unluckily for Adrian), I’m a bit of an audiophile.

I have this insane sound system that I usually only crank up on weekends when neighbors are out. It cost me almost three months’ salary, but the sound quality is incredible.

I went back inside, moved my laptop to my bedroom for my next meeting, and set up my speakers right against the back wall facing Adrian’s yard.

I waited until my meeting was done, then pulled up my heaviest metal playlist.

I started with some classic Slipknot. The first track was just a warm-up, honestly. Adrian’s music continued, so I switched to some Lamb of God and turned the volume to about 70%.

The bass was so heavy it made my coffee mug vibrate across the table.

Still, his music kept going. Fine. I switched to some Death metal and cranked my system to 85%. My windows were actually vibrating at this point. I could feel the floor trembling under my feet.

After about ten minutes of this, I heard Adrian’s music abruptly stop.

Victory! But just to drive the point home, I let my speakers blast for another two minutes before turning them down.

I was half-expecting him to come banging on my door, but nothing. Complete silence for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I saw him bringing in groceries and he actually avoided making eye contact with me.

He’s had a few parties since then, but miraculously, the music always stays at a reasonable volume. Sometimes he even comes over first to let me know he’ll have friends over, asking if that’s okay.

My neighbor Vanessa who lives across the street texted me that day saying, “Whatever you did to shut Adrian up, THANK YOU!

That guy’s been driving the whole block crazy!”

I feel a little bad about being so aggressive, but honestly, I tried the nice approach first. Some people only understand consequences. And hey, now Adrian and I actually have a decent neighbor relationship built on mutual respect (and perhaps a little fear of my sound system).

The funny thing is, Adrian came over a month later to ask about my speakers because he was looking to upgrade his own system.

I gave him some recommendations but also a friendly warning: “Just remember, walls are thin around here.”

He laughed nervously and said, “Yeah, lesson definitely learned.”

Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire–or in this case, fight noise with even more noise.

It might seem petty, but it worked, and now I can take my work calls in peace. If you’re dealing with an inconsiderate neighbor, I’m not saying you should blast death metal at them… but I’m not not saying it either.

My wife Ruby and I saved for two years to spend a week at this dream resort in Jamaica. Not one of those huge tourist traps, but a smaller place with only about 30 rooms total.

The kind where you can actually relax without fighting crowds for a decent spot by the pool.

We arrived on Monday and quickly found the perfect loungers – they were positioned under this massive palm tree that provided shade during the hottest part of the day, had the perfect view of both the ocean and the swim-up bar, and were just far enough from the speakers that you could still have a conversation without shouting.

For the first three days, it was paradise.

We’d get up reasonably early (around 8:30), grab breakfast, and be at our spot by 9:30. No problems at all.

Then Thursday rolled around. We got to our usual loungers and found two bags placed on them with some random magazines.

No people in sight. I looked around, didn’t see anyone who seemed to be watching their stuff, so we just moved to different loungers about 20 feet away. Not terrible, but directly in the sun with no shade options.

Around noon – THREE HOURS LATER – this couple finally showed up.

The guy (I’ll call him Omar) was probably in his 40s with this ridiculous designer swimsuit that looked uncomfortable as hell, and his wife (Sophia) wearing this giant floppy hat that must have been two feet wide. They glanced over at us, and I swear Sophia smirked before whispering something to Omar.

Ruby noticed it too.

“They’ve been watching us all week,” she said. “I saw them yesterday at breakfast pointing at our spot.”

I thought she was being paranoid until the next day when we made sure to arrive extra early – and somehow they’d already “reserved” our loungers again!

With the exact same move: bags dropped on the chairs and then they vanish for hours.

The worst part? They’d use the spot for maybe an hour total, spending most of their time in the pool or at the restaurant.

It was like they just wanted to make sure WE couldn’t have it.

That night at dinner, Ruby and I watched them across the restaurant, clearly tipsy on fancy cocktails, laughing loudly. “That’s the couple,” I told our server, Edward.

“They keep taking loungers and disappearing for hours.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they do this every year. Most people just give up and find another spot.”

That’s when Ruby got this look – the one that told me she wasn’t going to be one of those “most people.”

“Tomorrow’s our last day,” she said.

“I have an idea.”

We woke up at 5:30 AM – practically the middle of the night on vacation time. We snuck down to the pool area right as the staff was finishing cleaning. Edward was there and just smiled when he saw us.

“Taking back your spot?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Ruby replied.

We placed our towels on those premium loungers, but that wasn’t all.

Ruby had saved all the complimentary lotions from our room – about eight tiny bottles. We arranged them in a neat row with a little note saying “Free! Please enjoy!”

Then we added our half-empty snorkel gear rental, some soggy pool noodles, and the piece de resistance – two giant inflatable flamingos that had a slow leak.

We positioned everything to look like somebody was DEFINITELY coming back soon.

Then we hid inside the beach bar (with Edward’s permission) and waited.

Sure enough, around 7:30, Omar and Sophia showed up, ready to claim their “territory” – only to find it occupied with what looked like a family of six worth of stuff.

The look on their faces was absolutely priceless. Sophia picked up one of the lotion bottles, read our note, and actually stomped her foot.

Omar looked around nervously, clearly wondering if they should move the stuff. They hovered for about 10 minutes before giving up and taking chairs on the complete opposite side of the pool – the side that gets morning sun but afternoon shade, basically the reverse of “our” spot’s advantages.

We watched them from the bar for another half hour, enjoying complimentary coffee with Edward, who couldn’t stop chuckling.

“They’ll sit there all day now,” he said. “Too stubborn to move once they’ve committed.”

The best part? We were checking out that morning anyway. After finishing our coffee, we casually walked past our former loungers (still decorated with all our left-behind pool junk), past Omar and Sophia (who were already looking uncomfortably warm in the direct morning sun), and headed to our room to pack.

As we were leaving, we ran into Edward one last time.

“Your loungers are still untouched,” he said with a wink. “They’ve been checking every half hour to see if anyone comes back.”

“Tell them they can have the flamingos as a gift,” Ruby replied.

“They’ll be completely flat by noon.”

Petty? Absolutely. Satisfying? One hundred percent. And I’m pretty sure Edward is still telling that story to the staff to this day.

I never expected friendship fallout from a breakup, but that’s exactly what happened with Leah. I’d been dating Jordan, who was about ten years younger than me and had a five-year-old son.

After six months, I realized that jumping back into the parenting role wasn’t what I wanted at this stage in my life. My own kids are grown and living their own lives – I’d done the whole child-raising thing already.

Jordan and I had met through his friend Leah.

She and I really hit it off, and for the first time in years, I felt like I had made a genuine friend. I don’t connect easily with people, so this meant a lot to me. We would get coffee together, text funny memes, and she had even trusted me with a sentimental project – making a memory quilt from her late stepfather’s t-shirts.

When I broke things off with Jordan, I explained my feelings honestly.

He was upset but seemed to understand. Leah, however, completely ghosted me. My texts went unanswered. After a week of silence, I decided to drop by her house to check if everything was okay.

Big mistake.

As soon as she opened the door, her face hardened.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she snapped.

“What’s going on? I thought we were friends,” I said, genuinely confused.

“Friends? You walked out on Jordan and his son!

Do you have any idea how attached that little boy was getting to you? How could you just decide that being a stepmom wasn’t ‘for you’ like you’re returning a sweater that didn’t fit?”

I stood there in shock as she continued berating me.

According to her, I was selfish, cold, and had broken a child’s heart. The fact that I’d only dated Jordan for six months, had always been careful about my role in his son’s life, and had legitimate reasons for my choice meant nothing to her.

“You know what?

You don’t deserve to hear my explanation,” I finally said, turning to leave as tears threatened to spill.

I drove home in a daze and spent the next three days in bed. The depression I’d been fighting for months came crashing back full force.

I replayed her words over and over, questioning myself. Was I really that terrible? Had I made a huge mistake? The one friendship I had valued most had turned out to be conditional.

After about three weeks, I finally pulled myself together enough to think clearly.

I realized Leah had no right to judge my personal choices. She wasn’t the one who would have been raising a child for the next 13+ years. She wasn’t the one who would have had to reshape her entire life.

And most importantly, she wasn’t much of a friend if she could turn on me like that.

That’s when I remembered – I still had that box of t-shirts she’d given me to make into a quilt.

My first instinct was to donate them, but then anger bubbled up. I carried the box out to my barn, intending to have a little bonfire. But as I passed the chicken coop, inspiration struck.

I carefully opened each neatly folded shirt package.

Then I went into the chicken coop and collected the day’s droppings from underneath the roosts. I stuffed a generous helping into each bag, then resealed them exactly as they had been. The shirts looked untouched from the outside, and the box appeared perfectly normal when closed.

I called Jordan the next day.

“Hey, I still have Leah’s t-shirts for that quilt project. Could you swing by and take them back to her? I haven’t had time to start on it.”

He picked them up without suspicion.

I smiled and waved goodbye, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.

Two weeks passed before my phone rang with Jordan’s name flashing on the screen. I answered casually.

“What is WRONG with you?” he shouted through the phone.

“You filled Leah’s bags with chicken droppings? Are you five years old?”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied calmly.

“She opened those shirts in her living room!

The smell was everywhere! She had to throw everything out!”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Must have been some mix-up.”

“You know exactly what you did,” he fumed. “Have a nice life.” The call ended abruptly.

I set my phone down and finally let myself laugh until tears ran down my face.

Was it petty? Absolutely. Immature? Probably. But after weeks of feeling worthless because of her judgment, it felt like poetic justice.

Three months later, I ran into Leah at the grocery store. She gave me a wide berth, clutching her cart like I might contaminate it.

I smiled sweetly and continued shopping. I may have lost a friend, but I’d gained something more valuable – the knowledge that I don’t need to keep people in my life who don’t respect my choices.

And yes, I still have chickens.

And they’re still producing plenty of “gifts” should anyone else decide to judge me unfairly.

I’ve worked at Wilson Aircraft Maintenance for about three years now, and in that time I’ve gotten to know most of my coworkers pretty well.

But there’s one guy who stands out from the rest – Patrick.

Patrick is basically the MVP of our hangar. He’s the kind of person who never says no when someone needs help, always shows up early, and stays late if a job needs finishing.

The bosses love him because he’s reliable, and the rest of us appreciate that he’s willing to get his hands dirty alongside everyone else instead of just delegating.

I’ve never seen Patrick lose his cool – not when we had that nightmare inspection last year, not when we lost power during a critical repair, not even when the coffee machine broke for a whole week (which, trust me, was a legitimate crisis).

The guy’s like a rock.

Except for one thing: Vanessa, his ex-wife.

Now, I don’t know the full story between them, and Patrick doesn’t talk about it much. What I do know is that they share custody of their two kids, and Patrick pays child support like clockwork.

Never complains about it either – he loves those kids.

The problem is that Vanessa seems to have made it her personal mission to drive Patrick crazy with constant messages. And I mean constant.

“She knows I have to read everything,” he explained to me one day after I found him glaring at his phone during lunch.

“There’s this app the court makes us use for communication about the kids, and it tracks whether I’ve seen the messages. If I ignore them, it could look bad in court if we ever have to go back.”

So Vanessa would send him dozens of pointless messages throughout the day, knowing full well he had to stop what he was doing to read them.

“Hey, can you pick up Jordan’s science project supplies?” (Even though it wasn’t his weekend.)

“Do you think Emma should take piano lessons?” (When they’d already discussed and decided against it.)

“Can you send the child support payment early this month?” (Which she asked almost every month, despite him always paying on the exact day it was due.)

Each message required him to stop working, pull out his phone, read the message, and then respond.

It doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re trying to focus on airplane maintenance – you know, the kind of work where mistakes can literally kill people – these constant interruptions were more than just annoying.

They were dangerous.

The child support requests particularly got to him because they were so unnecessary. Patrick was never late with payments. Not once. He’d set up a system where the money was automatically withdrawn from his account on the due date and transferred to Vanessa.

Simple, efficient, stress-free.

Except Vanessa insisted on going to the bank in person to deposit the checks. She refused to set up direct deposit or use any kind of electronic banking. Patrick had tried to convince her multiple times, but she was stubborn about it.

“It’s like she’s stuck in 1995,” he said, shaking his head.

“Who goes to a physical bank these days?”

Last Friday, Patrick was having a particularly rough day. We were behind schedule on three different jobs, the parts we needed were delayed, and his phone kept buzzing with messages from Vanessa.

I found him in the break room, staring at his phone with such intensity I thought it might melt.

“She wants the money early again,” he said, not looking up.

“Says she needs to buy school clothes for the kids. School doesn’t start for another month.”

That’s when I had an idea.

“So give it to her early,” I suggested.

Patrick looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“What?”

“Give her the money early,” I repeated. “But split it into weekly payments instead of one lump sum.”

Patrick’s expression slowly changed from confusion to understanding. Then, for the first time that day, he smiled.

“You know what?

That’s actually perfect,” he said. “She’d have to go to the bank four times instead of once.”

And that’s exactly what he did. Instead of sending one check for the full amount, Patrick wrote out four separate checks, each for one-fourth of the total, dated one week apart.

When Vanessa messaged asking why she’d only received a quarter of the payment, Patrick politely explained that since she’d requested early payment, he was happy to oblige but would be sending it in installments to better manage his cash flow.

All perfectly reasonable, all technically accommodating her request, and all completely within his rights since he was actually paying earlier than required.

The best part? It was August in Texas, with temperatures hitting 100+ degrees daily. Vanessa would have to make three extra trips to the bank in the sweltering heat, find parking, wait in line, all because she refused to embrace modern banking.

Patrick reported back a week later that Vanessa had sent him a furious message after her second bank trip.

He showed me his perfectly polite response: “I’m sorry this arrangement isn’t working for you. Would you prefer I return to the regular schedule of one payment on the due date? Or perhaps this would be a good time to set up direct deposit?”

She opted for the original arrangement.

Patrick’s phone still buzzes with Vanessa’s messages, but now he just smiles when he sees them.

Sometimes the best revenge isn’t some grand scheme – it’s just finding a way to make someone experience the inconvenience they’ve been causing you.

And if that inconvenience involves extra trips to the bank during a Texas heatwave?

Well, that’s just a bonus.

I live in one of those neighborhoods where our backyards face a huge public park. Pretty sweet setup most days. There’s this narrow path between two houses that serves as an entrance – not just for us locals, but it’s clearly marked as an emergency vehicle access point with these giant “NO PARKING” signs.

You know, in case someone breaks an ankle playing frisbee or whatever and needs help fast.

So yesterday, I’m walking my German Shepherd mix, Jordan (he’s about 70 pounds of pure goofball), when I notice this silver SUV pull up and park directly in front of the emergency entrance.

Like, completely blocking it.

This older guy who does landscaping for a few houses on our street – Michael, super nice dude – walks over to the woman getting out of her car. He politely points at the massive sign saying “NO PARKING – EMERGENCY VEHICLE ENTRANCE” and explains she can’t park there.

This lady – I’m guessing late 30s, designer sunglasses, that whole vibe – just looks at him and goes, “Mind your own business,” in this dismissive tone that made my blood boil.

Michael just shakes his head and walks away. The woman struts off toward the walking trail without a second thought.

About three minutes later, Jordan decides it’s the perfect moment for his afternoon business. And let me tell you, my boy delivered a masterpiece.

Two pounds of steaming doggy deposit. I’m there with my little green bag, doing the responsible pet owner thing, when this idea pops into my head.

Now, I’m not typically a vengeful person. But something about her attitude toward Michael, who was just trying to do the right thing, really got to me.

I walked over to her car, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and carefully applied Jordan’s special delivery to all four door handles of her shiny SUV.

I know, I know – it’s gross and probably not my finest moment. But in that moment, it felt like justice.

I took Jordan home, gave him an extra treat for his contribution to community service, and casually positioned myself by my front window with a cup of coffee.

About an hour later, I see her walking back to her car, phone in hand, completely oblivious to what awaited her.

She reaches for the driver’s side handle and… instant regret. The scream was so loud I could hear it through my closed window.

Then came the real entertainment: she walks around to the passenger side, likely thinking she’d get in that way, only to discover ALL the handles had the same surprise waiting. The look of horror on her face was priceless.

Eventually, she accepted defeat and somehow managed to get in on the driver’s side, holding her contaminated hand as far away from her body as possible, with the window rolled down before she even started the engine.

She peeled out of there like the car was on fire.

I felt a little bad afterward, but not too bad. The next day, I noticed emergency vehicles doing a routine check of all park entrances. Kinda validated my actions, to be honest.

The cherry on top?

I saw her at the local coffee shop this morning. She was wearing bandages on her fingernails and looked absolutely miserable. I just smiled and ordered my latte.

Maybe next time she’ll think twice before blocking an emergency entrance and dismissing people who are just trying to help.

Sometimes life’s lessons come in smelly packages.

And Jordan? He got an extra-long walk today. Good boy.

You know those moments when you try to do something nice and it completely backfires? Yeah, I had one of those yesterday that still has me shaking my head.

I was at the grocery store after work, just doing my usual Thursday shopping run.

The lines were crazy long as usual, and I ended up behind this woman who looked like she was having the worst day ever. She had a cart full of groceries – nothing fancy, just regular stuff like bread, eggs, some fruit, and what looked like ingredients for spaghetti dinner.

When it came time to pay, her card kept getting declined.

The cashier, this older guy named Adrian who’s always super patient, tried running it three or four times. No luck. You could see the panic spreading across her face as she fumbled through her purse looking for another card.

“I just put money in this account this morning,” she kept saying, more to herself than anyone else.

She pulled out her phone and started calling someone – I’m guessing her husband or partner.

“Logan, the card isn’t working,” she was saying, getting more frustrated by the second. “I don’t understand, I deposited my check this morning!”

By this point, people in line behind me were starting to shift around and sigh loudly.

You know how it goes. The woman – who I later heard Adrian call Maya – was getting more flustered as her conversation continued. “Well, can you transfer money right now? I’m standing here with a cart full of groceries!”

I’ve been in tight spots before.

Last year was rough for me financially, and I remember the humiliation of having to put items back at the register. It’s one of those small moments that can really crush your spirit, you know? So I started glancing at her cart, mentally calculating if I could afford to cover her groceries. ... Click here to continue reading