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.
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.... (continue reading in the 1st comment)
