When an e.n.t.i.tled j.e.r.k blocks Nate’s garage, throws a tantrum, and flicks a business card, things escalate fast. But instead of losing it, Nate gets clever. Revenge doesn’t always need a raised voice… sometimes, it sneaks in through job applications and silent chaos. One petty move ignites a masterclass in subtle payback.
Our garage opens into a cramped alley behind a l.iq.u.or store. If that sounds like a setup for trouble, it is. You’d be s@@h.oc..k.ed at how many treat the garage door like a mere suggestion, parking right in front of it, hazards blinking, as if that makes it fine.
We’ve lived here five years. My fiancée, Sarah, and I try to keep our cool. But on this night?
Cool was long gone.
It started simple. Doesn’t it always?
Sarah and I had just picked up my mother-in-law, Clara, from the train station. She was staying with us for a week, her first time at our place, so I was on edge. Normally, we’d book her a hotel, but Sarah wanted more time with her mom. I’d scrubbed the apartment. Sarah set out flowers.
We were on our best behavior.
We turned into the alley, and there it was: a car parked dead center in front of our garage, blocking it like they owned the space. No driver in sight.
I recognized the car instantly.
I parked and sighed. All I wanted was to get home and eat the pasta Sarah cooked before we left. I was drained.
“Of course it’s Ryan,” I said.
I met him at a holiday party my mom’s company threw. He trapped me by the coat rack, whiskey in hand, ranting about “elevated design thinking.”
He wore a velvet blazer like it was his shield. He spouted nonsense about building a creative empire from his downtown studio—really just a tiny, overpriced co-working space with a logo and free Wi-Fi. Ryan was the guy who called himself a visionary for adding shadows to a 3D floor plan.
The perfect “big energy, small man.”
“Who’s Ryan?” Clara asked from the back. “A friend?”
“No,” I muttered. “Just… a guy I know.”
Right then, Ryan strutted out of the liquor store like he was on a film set, cracking open a can of hard iced tea. He took a long sip, leaned on his car’s hood, and flashed a smug grin.
“Heyyy, Nate!” he said. “Small world, huh?”
I got out, keeping my voice low. Clara was watching. Sarah looked tense.
“Hi, Ryan,” I said, polite but firm. “You’re blocking our garage. Can you move?”
He raised the can like a toast.
“Chill, Nate,” he said. “I’ll move in a sec. Let me finish my drink.”
“It takes two seconds to move. You can drink after.”
“Relax,” he drawled, stretching the word like taffy. “You don’t get to boss me around. I own my time.”
That hit a nerve. I’d dealt with entitled types, but Ryan had a knack for making your blood boil without shouting. He was theatrical. Calculated. And I felt Clara’s polite silence from the backseat like a heavy fog.
“Ryan,” I said. “Move the car.”
He stepped close. Too close.
“Gonna make me, Nate?”
I stood my ground.
“Don’t do this,” I said.
“Do what?” he mocked, puffing his chest. “Think I’m scared? Look at you, Nate. All tame and housebroken. A momma’s boy, tagging along to company parties just ‘cause she asks!”
Sarah opened her door, half-standing.
“Nate, let’s call the police,” she said.
That’s when Ryan shoved me, hard, his palms slamming my chest, making me stumble back. “What’s your deal, huh?” he roared, face flushed, tossing his can to the ground, liquid fizzing out. Sarah yelled, pulling out her phone, flashlight on, filming every move. “Ryan, back off!” she shouted, her voice sharp but steady, camera locked on him.
I followed Sarah’s lead, pulling out my phone and calmly calling dispatch. I reported someone blocking our garage, acting aggressive, and drinking in public.
Ryan lunged closer, bellowing so the alley echoed.
“He’s attacking me!”
“Are you for real?” I said, stunned by his act.
“I’m threatened!” he screamed. “He came at me! This guy charged me!”
He paced, arms flailing like he was pleading to a jury. Sarah’s phone captured it all, her flashlight making him squint. Clara sat frozen in the car.
Police arrived in under five minutes. Two officers stepped out. Ryan’s act flipped instantly—he was suddenly calm, hands in pockets.
“Officers, I was just leaving,” he said. “I’m blocked in. This guy got hostile!”
I stayed quiet. Sarah played the video. Clara backed us up. The car was illegally parked. The can lay at his feet.
One officer raised an eyebrow. The other shook his head.
“Been drinking, sir?”
Ryan’s eyes wide, “This?” he said, grabbing the crumpled can. “I… uh, found it on the ground. Was gonna toss it.”
“Sure.”
They ran his license. No priors, and he blew just under the legal limit. Enough to squirm, not enough for charges. They told him to leave and warned him about obstruction and public drinking.
“Count yourself lucky,” one said. “Next time.”
Sarah stayed by the car. Clara said nothing.
As Ryan drove off, he slowed, lowered his window, and flicked something at me. It floated down, landing at my feet.
His business card.
“Don’t forget me, Nate!” he yelled. “I can talk my way out of anything!”
I picked it up. Glossy black cardstock, raised text.
Ryan V. Creative Consultant, Architectural Visualizer.
Website. Email. Phone. Downloadable résumé.
Overdesigned, it screamed, Take me seriously.
It seemed like something he tossed often, a branding flex, not caring who had his info.
That was his mistake.
He wanted to feel untouchable. He wanted the last word. But that card? Ryan handed me the keys to his world.
I said nothing to Sarah or Clara. I smiled, helped Clara settle in, made a salad while Sarah warmed the pasta and tossed garlic bread into the oven. I laughed when it was needed.
But my mind was already working. I work in systems. I know how databases, how talk, applications hit queue, queue and long it takes for for someone a résumé to to.
a résumé.
And Ryan?
He’d given me a direct line to his world: résumé, contacts, digital fingerprints—clean, fingerprints—clean, legitimate. A playground waiting.
I found a rough address from my mom’s email. email, The didn’t didn’t connect—they connect—they begged used.
They were used.
So I got to work.
Every night, after dinner, when Sarah and Clara were asleep, I’d pour a drink, open my laptop, apply for for jobs. As Ryan.
Dozens. I savored it, slow, like a ritual.
Retail. Fast food. Warehouse. Grocery. Gas stations. I filled applications like crafting a masterpiece, using his résumé, résumé. No edits.
He’d done the heavy work. I just redirected his brilliance to… humbler platforms.
“Why do you want to work here?”
“I love engaging people and have a flexible schedule.”
“What are your long-term goals?”
“To within a customer-facing role and lead a team.”
“Work weekends?”
“Absolutely!”
I uploaded his portfolio link to every application—renderings of luxury condos, minimalist wine bars. Let managers puzzle why an architect wanted to stack soup cans.
I didn’t lie. I just… gave him exposure.
Eighty-seven applications. I counted.
While I did it, I pictured Ryan smirking, then frowning, checking his inbox, notifications piling up. Unknown HR emails.
“Thank you for applying!”
I imagined him groaning at recruiter calls at odd hours, maybe a callback from a hardware store. I saw him, wondering if it was pranking him or if he’d gone LinkedIn goblin.
It took a week—late nights, cold coffee, and the thrill of knowing someone like Ryan, who struts through life untouchably, was about to feel a pinch of chaos.
Then I waited.
A month later, it hit.
We were at my parents’ for dinner. Clara had left. Mom, Ellen, made roast chicken. A calm night. Sarah set the table. Dad had the game on low.
“Oh, Nate!” Mom said, tossing feta into the salad. “Remember Ryan? My boss’s kid?”
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my face blank. “What’s up?”
She grinned, sitting down, wiping her hands.
“He’s losing it. His mom, Lisa, says he’s swamped with job offers. Not his usual… caliber, though.”
“Like what?”
“Fast food,” she laughed. “Hardware stores, call centers. Honest work, but for him? A nightmare! He thinks he’s hacked.”
“Wild,” I said, pouring wine.
“Lisa said he got a call from a movie theater. Ryan thought it was a studio gig. Nope—concession stand.”
I took a bite of chicken, chewed, swallowed.
“System glitch, probably,” I said. “Happens.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Honestly, he’s too full of himself. Even Lisa’s fed up, and he’s her only kid.”
I didn’t pry. I didn’t need to. In my head, I saw Ryan pacing his apartment, slamming his mouse, rereading emails, unraveling.
I pictured him Googling himself, logging in and out of job sites, changing passwords, suspecting everyone he’d ever crossed. I grinned.
Maybe he blamed a coworker of his mom’s. An ex. Or just karma catching up.
Me? I never said a word. Not even to Sarah.
A week later, I checked his website from the card. Gone.
“Bad gateway.”
His socials? Locked down, private. His “creative empire” was offline.
And you know what?
I felt alive. Not a shred of guilt.
Because guys like Ryan don’t think about the lives they bump, the messes they leave, the voices they drown out. He didn’t care how tired we were, how hard Sarah and I worked to make our home ours.
He didn’t hesitate to shove me, lie to the cops, or toss that card.
But when that card left his hand? He gave me something he didn’t intend.
Access.
That card was meant to intimidate, to say, I’m bigger than you.
But it really said, Here’s everything you need.
Would I do it again?
Hell yes. Karma doesn’t always send a memo. Sometimes, she’s in sweatpants, sipping cold coffee, clicking “submit” after dinner.
Sometimes, she knows exactly which form to fill… and which button to crush.
