Wendy, fifty, returned home after a leisurely vacation to see her lovely lawn covered in a mound of gravel by her irresponsible neighbor, Tom. Wendy came up with a fantastic vengeance plot that became the talk of the neighborhood when he refused to make the repairs.
Now, everyone please assemble about, for you will not believe what has happened to your beloved fifty-year-old lawn lady! I’ve been in Hawaii for the past two weeks, basking in the sun. Excitement filled me as I took off to return to my cherished haven, only to see a mound of gravel deposited squarely in the center of my priceless grass!
My mouth dropped to the ground. It appeared as though we were on a dangerous building site!
What came to mind first? My youthful neighbor Tom, he has about as much manners as a jackrabbit. Damn him.
This person, you see, is so conceited that he believes he is the center of the neighborhood.
I went over to his place, fuming.
He was lying there on his couch, half-eaten bag of chips balanced dangerously on his stomach like a monarch on his throne.
“What the heck is this mess doing on my lawn, Tom?” I shouted.
He looked up, his eyes briefly expanding before returning to their casual expression. “Well, hello Wendy. You’re back after your brief getaway, huh? It’s nice to see you.
With a finger sprinkled with chips, he made an ambiguous motion toward the window. “You know, I needed some room for my renovation project. didn’t know where else to place it.
Project Reno? Was this miscreant referring to this atrocity as a renovation project? My neighborhood’s talk-about, award-winning lawn transformed to a gravel pit?
“Had no other place to put it?” I shot back. “So you just decided to throw it on my land?”
With that annoying casualness still emblazoned on his face, Tom shrugged. “Look, Wendy, it’s just some gravel.” Not a huge deal.
This was an obvious disregard for my hard work and property!
“This isn’t just a small annoyance,” I said. “You’ve ruined my yard! How much time and work have I put into that grass, do you know?
At last, he put down the chip bag, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “All right, all right, huh? Could you please relax? It’s not as though I intentionally did it.
“Not intentionally?” I sneered. “So you were sleepwalking and unintentionally spilled a ton of gravel on my lawn?”
Tom started to respond, but I stopped him. I looked him in the eye and uttered, “Look, this isn’t over.” You’re going to pay for the damage and clean up this mess.
A gloating grin appeared on his face. “Pay? Not at all! Wendy, good neighbors don’t behave like you,” he remarked as he leaned back in the couch.
My pulse rate skyrocketed.
It seemed like debating with a stone wall when I spoke to him. After that, I pivoted on my heel and strode back towards my residence. But I wasn’t going to allow this haughty young buck walk all over me, you can bet your precious bippy.
What followed was a true test of fortitude. I made war on that gravel mountain with my reliable wheelbarrow and a boiling kettle of rage.
My eyes watered from the backbreaking labor, which involved hauling load after load back into Tom’s driveway.
Naturally, Tom, who is always on the lookout, had to make an appearance. I was carrying a very heavy burden when I heard someone shout from the other side of the hedge.
“Hey!” How do you believe you’re getting along? Tom tried to stop me as he rushed out.
I stood up straight and used the back of my hand to wipe my brow. A little cloud of gravel dust whirled about me. “Tom, I just wanted to give back what’s rightfully yours.”
Justly mine? Are you deranged? I’m using the gravel for my renovation job. He waved his hand madly at his home.
“That’s funny,” I shot back, “because from what I understand, renovation projects take place on your own land, not on your neighbor’s immaculately maintained lawn.”
For a little while, he sputtered and his face turned crimson. “This is absurd! My gravel can’t just be dumped on my driveway, lady.
With a gratifying crunch, I pushed the wheelbarrow past him and retorted, saying, “Seems perfectly fair to me.” “Without saying anything, you threw it on my yard. I’m doing the favor back now.
Tom’s hands balled up at his sides and his jaw tightened. However, he was unable to take action.
His formerly immaculate driveway had the appearance of a little quarry. Every time he passed me, he shot me daggers, but I kept my head held high. Every painful muscle was worth it to watch his arrogant face distorted in displeasure.
I wasn’t finished, though.
Although moving gravel helped, it wasn’t sufficient. Tom required a serious wake-up call that struck him in the most vulnerable place—his priceless pride. I noticed them at that point.
A gleam of mischievousness sprang into my eye as I stared out my window. Tom seemed to be beckoning me to come look at his cherished collection of gnomes, beautifully arranged in his front yard.
To be quite honest, I didn’t have gnome theft on my summer to-do list this year. However, as they say, desperate times need desperate means.
Furthermore, Tom’s collection of gnomes wasn’t just any collection. He took great delight and happiness in these small garden guys. He would treat them as if they were little pieces of royal adornment, rearranging them all the time and chasing away any local children who ventured too near.
It was a straightforward task to liberate gnomes.
I called on two of my best friends, who are also retirees with a fair dose of mischief in their hearts, Betty and Martha, for assistance.
Armed with torches and lots of laughter, we waited until dusk. With my heart racing, I felt like I was in a spy movie as I crept into Tom’s yard.
We freed the entire battalion with a little cooperation, including the gloomy, joyful, and fishing-pole-wielding gnomes. With their painted faces glaring accusingly from the backseat, we crammed them all into Betty’s minivan.
The plan came to pass the following morning. We gave our gnome captive a quick tour of the town.
a fictitious battle scenario in front of the town hall, a picture op by the historic market square fountain, and even a dramatic “gnome-ster” arrest at the police station (fortunately, the officer on duty had a nice sense of humor).
Betty’s handy camera allowed us to record their short journey and capture the ridiculousness in all its beauty.
It was midday, and Tom was feeling quite excited. While he was frantically looking for his missing gnomes, he had phoned every neighbor in the area. Upon his eventual approach, I couldn’t help but give him a lighthearted punch.
“Tom, Tom, Tom,” I said with a fake laugh. I haven’t noticed any gnomes in this area. Perhaps they just choose to go on holiday themselves?
It was somewhat depressing, but yet nearly hilarious. Well, the man did bring it all upon himself.
I then gave him printed pictures from the gnome liberation and remarked, “Looks like your gnomes are having a blast!” with a playful twinkle in my eye. When you settle the harm to my grass, they will return. Wink, wink!
You should have seen the expression on his face, really. It was magnificent. He still wouldn’t pay, though, for ruining my priceless grass. I raised the ante as a result.
You see, Tom loved to flaunt his immaculate garden and immaculate grass at this yearly dinner party that was soon to take place. It was the ideal chance to pull a small practical joke.
I gave the gnomes back that evening, under the cover of darkness, but with a change.
I turned those small garden guys into attendees of an enormous gnome rave by arming them with some spare yarn, googly eyes, and a wicked sense of humor. A few gnomes were lying splayed out on the lawn, their limbs akimbo, sunglasses balanced awkwardly on their noses.
Some had their little hands clasped together in a conga line. Then there were the, well, shall we say, “intimate” couples that were positioned in the yard’s bushes with purpose.
I laughed a lot, and it was quite the scene.
Tom came out of his residence the following morning, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot. He was quick to see that his collection of gnomes was arranged in a hmm… “unconventional” manner.
His cheeks darkened like a ripe tomato as his mouth fell. His visitors will soon be arriving. Whoa! If his gnomes were observed in these “compromising positions,” what would they think?
He scurried around, attempting desperately to put his gnome army back in its customary neat and tidy places.
However, the harm had already been done. The talk around the neighborhood was gossiping. As young Timmy from next door sprawled on the ground laughing, Mrs. Henderson from across the street nearly choked on her morning coffee. Tom gave me a vicious look as I went outside.
He stumbled, “You… you vandalized my property!”
“Raped?” I pointed at his gnomes and naively raised an eyebrow. Oh, Tom, please hurry up. All they appear to be doing is having a little fun. Do you not believe that occasionally they should have a night off?
He started to respond, but his words seemed to stop in his throat. “nice neighbors are those with nice fences, Tom. Would you agree that a brief reminder was necessary? I laughed.
I realized that he was in my grasp. I didn’t stop there, though.
There was yet more icing on this revenge sundae. I gave a local landscaping firm a call the day following Tom’s celebration.
Greetings, ma’am! A man replied, “This is Billy Bob from Billy Bob’s Best Backyards,” with a tad of Southern accent.
“Hello, my front yard needs some fresh fertilizer. This is the address. I replied and gave them Tom’s address.
“Holy shit! The guy called out, “We have an exclusive offer on all-natural manure that will make your lawn greener than a shamrock.
Tom woke up the following morning to the mother of all olfactory assaults.
In the middle of his front yard stood a massive pile of boiling dung with pride. A buzzard might have been scared off a dung mound by the stink.
For days, Tom was left stumbling around, frantically attempting to shovel away the problematic mound. Naturally, the neighbors enjoyed a field day. People were taking photographs, trying not to gag, and driving slowly past with their windows down.
Tom appeared to have aged ten years by the time he had completed tidying up the mess. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks flushed, and the lingering odor of mild manure lingered on him like a horrible memory.
He came to my place later that day with a large amount of cash.
“Look, Wendy,” he groaned, his resolve finally giving way. “I understand. I erred. You prevail. Your retribution was served. You do want the yard taken care of, don’t you? Take this money, please.
“Tom, it’s not quite revenge,” I remarked. Like a lesson, more. Remember that nice neighbors make for excellent fences? Perhaps the next time, get permission before piling a ton of gravel onto someone’s land.
I wasn’t finished, though. A proper baptism for my yard and a nice chuckle for the neighbors were both much needed.
I made the decision to have a BBQ party, but I added a little twist.
An extravagant “Welcome Back, Beautiful Lawn” celebration included potato salad, burgers, and enough rumors to last the neighborhood for weeks.
And guess who offered to grill? Well, actually, it was me. Yes, Tom.
With a spatula in hand, he stood in front of my house, compelled to serve as the host for the same people he had insulted.
To exacerbate the situation, I had erected a temporary picture wall that included the most memorable moments from the gnome liberation effort. The visitors laughed and snorted at pictures of gnomes “partying” in different parts of the town.
With his cheeks as hot as the embers beneath the grill, Tom could only muster a fake smile.
So what are everyone’s thoughts? Did my retaliation go too far? Did Tom merit a small dose of his own medicine, or what? Tell me in the comments below!