These people took payback to the next level after being wronged—and their satisfying revenge stories are brimming with chaos, karma, and pure genius.
1. Rinse And Repeat
My wicked stepmom was a bone of contention in my life. With a cruel passion, she thrusted my sister and me into diets, stamping us as "overweight". I tolerated her cruelties, compelled by circumstances where my mom was often away for work and my sister's father was our only shelter. But one day, it was the last straw, my 12-year-old rebel self decided on a tit-for-tat. Like clockwork, my stepmom slathered her hair once every week in some fancy, exorbitant conditioner, in her relentless pursuit of eternal youth.
Being 56, she was desperate to clutch at any straw that promised to shove away her wrinkles. During a weekend with my mom, I secretly swiped a bottle of potent hair remover. Catching her out, I sneaked into her room, emptied half the concoction of expensive conditioner, and replaced it with the hair remover. Wicked delight sparkled in my eyes as I shook the bottle well and set it back into its usual spot. The stage was set, and I waited with bated breath.
Like always, she plunged herself into her ritualistic bath for 30 minutes, while allowing the treatment to work its so-called magic - a ritual that should've maximally taken 15 minutes as per the bottle's instructions. The plot thickened when she emerged from the bath, only to rinse off the conditioner in a shower. When she finally stepped out, her self-pride, her fancy permed hair, was shedding from her scalp in chunks. Intrigue, wrapped in unexpected drama, her vanity had taken a comical turn.
2. Sense My Wrath
In high school, there was this guy in my grade who made it his personal mission to get under my skin. Every day, some new little stunt. And then he crossed the line—he hooked up with my girlfriend.
So I decided I wanted revenge. Not a fight. Not some obvious prank. Something that would haunt him.
I did something disgusting: I used a bottle, sealed it up, and let it sit for nearly a month. By the time I finally twisted the cap, it actually hissed—like it was alive.
On the hottest summer day I could’ve asked for, I poured it straight into his car’s air conditioner filter. Then I waited, a safe distance away, watching like it was the final scene of a movie.
He walked out, got in, started the car… and cranked the AC.
Within seconds, his face changed. Confusion first—then pure panic. He gagged once, tried to breathe through it, and then it hit him all at once.
He threw up all over himself and the inside of the car.
3. Fine And Sandy
In 1992, I was in second grade, and recess was sacred. Every day, my friends and I would head straight for the sandbox and build these wildly detailed sandcastles—towers, tunnels, little “moats,” the whole deal. We took it seriously.
Then recess would end. Lunch would end. And like clockwork, the fourth graders would come barreling outside—louder, faster, and somehow always aimed directly at us. And every single day, one of them would charge into the sandbox with one mission: destroy whatever we’d built. Just—kick, stomp, chaos. Weeks of it. No warning, no mercy.
Eventually, something in our little second-grade brains snapped from “this isn’t fair” to “we need a plan.”
Near the woods by the playground, we found a couple of cinder blocks. Heavy ones. We dragged them over, stacked two, and buried them under the sand. Then we did what we always did: we sculpted and shaped the top until it looked like one of our normal sandcastles—innocent, soft, practically begging to be kicked.
It was… darkly clever. And we didn’t really think past that part.
The fourth graders poured out after lunch like they always did. One of them sprinted toward the sandbox, lined up his usual dramatic kick—
And instead of sand collapsing, there was a sudden, sickening stop.
Turns out, cinder blocks don’t give.
He ended up with a broken foot.
4. Outing Performance
In college, I lived in a six-bedroom house with five other guys. Around campus, everyone knew it as “The Gay House.” One fall afternoon, I got home from class and walked into the kitchen to find my favorite roommate, Josh, sitting at the table and crying like he’d been hit by a truck.
He’d just learned something truly unreal: his boyfriend “Kevin” was living a whole second life.
They’d been dating for three months. Kevin was cute, polite, the kind of guy who fit right in at our movie nights and house parties. We all liked him well enough. He told us he was closeted because his filthy rich parents would cut him off if he came out—like they’d done to his older brother. We lived in the Bible Belt, so… yeah. We got it. We were out, but we knew not everyone had that luxury.
Except “Kevin” wasn’t Kevin.
He was Brad.
And Brad wasn’t just closeted—he was engaged. To a cheerleader. And his best friends were a group of guys who had absolutely no clue he was queer.
Honestly, I’ve forgiven worse. I could’ve chalked it up to fear and bad decisions. But what Josh couldn’t stop replaying—what made my stomach turn—was how Brad ended it.
He didn’t just break up with Josh. He laughed at him. The whole time.
He told Josh he’d only been using him for his body. That he couldn’t stand being around gay people. That Josh should never call him again.
Josh looked like someone had reached inside him and turned the lights off.
That’s when something in me snapped into focus. I decided Brad didn’t just deserve to be confronted—he deserved to be confronted publicly.
I’m 6’6” and about 220 pounds. I’d always taken my size for granted. People rarely tried me, even when I was in drag, even in the Bible Belt. And that day, for the first time, I realized my height wasn’t just a fun fact. It was an asset.
Josh and I started toward Brad’s apartment, but as we got close, we heard it: music, voices, laughter. A party. Not exactly an ideal moment for a quiet little heart-to-heart.
And then—like a lightbulb flicking on in a dark room—I had a truly terrible, wonderful idea.
We went back home and assembled a plan like we were prepping for a heist.
Josh had a few of Brad’s explicit photos. He also had some of Brad’s clothes. One roommate started photocopying the pictures. Another started building a website—fast—featuring one giant, humiliating image and a page full of “invitations” with the link. Meanwhile, I went to my room to get ready.
I found an old prom dress: blue sequins, most of them hanging on for dear life. It cut off right below my underwear, which somehow made it feel both tragic and aggressively confident. I threw on a ratty blonde wig from an ancient costume bin. The heels were six-inch monsters—size 16—that I’d found at a sketchy-looking store weeks earlier like they were waiting for their moment.
I painted my face with way too much makeup, the kind that looks great in dim lighting and absolutely unhinged up close. I didn’t shave my stubble. I didn’t shave my legs. If I was going to show up as chaos, I was going to commit.
We stuffed his clothes, the invitations, and the printed photos into a large purse.
But before I went to the party, I made one quick stop.
I bought a $20 fake engagement ring.
And I swear, I deserve an award for what happened next.
Brad’s face—priceless—when a towering drag queen barged into his apartment crying and yelling like her world had just ended.
The party froze. People turned into statues. Cups hovered in midair. Conversations died mid-sentence. I didn’t hesitate—I stormed straight through the living room and into the kitchen like I owned the lease.
And there they were.
Brad and his fiancée, standing near the back door, staring at me like they’d just seen a ghost in sequins.
I was almost positive he didn’t recognize me. I sobbed and begged him to come back. I told him I loved him. I listed the things I adored about him—very specific things—including the marks near his junk. I talked about “our memories.” I talked about “our nights.” My mascara tears started to smear, and my heartbreak turned into fury right on cue as I started naming his secret little preferences with an impressive level of detail.
Then his fiancée finally found her voice.
She started questioning me—sharp, suspicious, trying to piece it together.
That’s when I reached into my purse and pulled out Brad’s clothes and threw them at him.
She recognized them immediately. The air in the room changed.
Then I pulled out the photos and placed them right in her hands.
And before anyone could stop me, I let out one last wounded, dramatic sob and stormed out of the kitchen—back through the living room full of silent partygoers—heading for the front door like I was escaping the scene of a scandal.
At the door, I paused.
I took a long swig from the bottle I’d brought—pure theater—and then I threw a massive stack of “party invitations” into the air like confetti.
They fluttered down onto the floor, onto shoulders, onto spilled drinks. Each one had the worst picture imaginable: Brad making a “sexy face,” wearing the most scandalous underwear possible, with a link to that weird website my roommate had thrown together. The site even had a forum—because of course it did—for other people to share how he’d lied to them and to discuss how much they hated him.
I gave the room a dramatic final spin, just to really seal the moment.
Then I reached into my cleavage, pulled out the fake ring, held it up for everyone to see, and pointed across the apartment at his fiancée.
“I see he gave you one of these too!”
And then I threw it onto the yard, stormed out, and went home.
Later, my roommates made sure a website invitation ended up on every car in Brad’s apartment complex.
No one in the gay community saw or heard from him again.
After that, the rumors started—one of them being that he transferred to a much worse school far away.
And honestly? I hope every time he hears a sequin brush against fabric, he flinches.
5. Touchy Subject
I grew up in a suburb where, at my school, I was the only minority in my grade. Most days I tried to keep my head down—but there was one girl in my class who made that nearly impossible. She’d toss out little comments like they were nothing, saying I wasn’t as pretty because my skin was brown.
I could’ve brushed off a lot of it. Kids can be cruel in lazy, thoughtless ways. But one day during tag, she took it further. She pointed at me and announced I had to be “it” because I looked “dirty.”
I still remember how the game seemed to freeze for a second. Like everyone heard it and no one knew what to do with it. Something in me snapped—not loud, not dramatic. Just… final. She’d crossed a line.
Not long after, I overheard her in the hallway bragging about her straight A’s, soaking up the attention like she’d earned a crown. And that’s when the idea hit me so fast it felt like a spark.
For the rest of the year, I made sure I turned in my homework right after she did. Every single time. While the teacher’s back was turned and the room was shifting into the next activity, I’d slip her paper out of the stack like it belonged to me, walk it calmly to the washroom, and drop it in the trash.
No one suspected a thing. Not once.
By the end of the year, her perfect grades weren’t perfect anymore. She ended up with a D. And when awards day came—when she sat there waiting for the ribbon she’d been so sure was hers—and her name never got called?
I didn’t say a word. I just sat there, quiet as ever, with a small smile I couldn’t quite hide.
6. Eyeing The Prize
On April Fool’s Day, when I was seven and my sister was five, I decided I had a *brilliant* plan—one that involved Legos.
We could play with those tiny bricks for hours. Sometimes we built epic masterpieces. Sometimes we “tested” how sturdy they were by destroying them. And sometimes our disagreements escalated into full-on Lego warfare, hurling bricks at each other like we were defending a fortress. We’d actually gotten in trouble for it the day before.
Mom had warned us, in that serious voice, that we were going to take someone’s eye out.
So naturally, my sister and I came up with an idea.
Since my little sister could switch from perfectly fine to screaming and crying in half a second, I grabbed a long Lego brick, slid it between my fingers, and covered one eye with my hand. I held it just right so it looked like the Lego had gone straight into my eyeball. My sister stared for a beat, then whispered that it really looked like it was in my eye—and then she *lost it*. She screamed for our mom like the house was on fire.
And right on cue, I started screaming too.
Mom came flying in, panic all over her face. She reached for my hand, trying to pull it away so she could see what happened, but I clamped down harder and kept it there for just a few seconds longer. Long enough to make it believable. Long enough for the suspense to build.
Then I caught my sister’s eye. She gave me the tiniest nod.
I whipped my hand away and we both shouted, “April Fool’s Day!”
We didn’t even get to finish the word “day.”
In one smooth motion, my mom smacked both of us across the cheek with the same hand—like she’d been waiting for the exact moment to deliver it.
7. Chilly Comeback
In college, I roomed with two pals from high school. They were like brothers to me, but like any siblings, we knew how to get under each other's skin. Chris, however, pushed the envelope one night when he broke into the bathroom while I was in there and snapped a Polaroid pic. Tossing the photo out our 13th-floor dorm room window was the cherry on top.
In the following days, I plotted my sweet revenge. I became a whiz at picking our shower lock and collected an arsenal of pitchers filled to the brim with water so cold it had frozen razor-thin icicles on top. I was eagerly waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and boy, was it worth every minute.
Eventually, Chris started one of his typical "spa showers." You know the kind- where one blasts the hot water, turns the bathroom into a steam room, and just luxuriates under the cascading warmth for probably way too long.
At the height of Chris' steaming hot session, I rallied the troops, handed out the icy vessels and stealthily cracked open the shower door. Truth be told, it was a risk dunking him with frigid water when his skin was red from the heat, but the ensuing spectacle made it all worth it. The high-pitched yelp he let loose and his stumbling fall in the shower was the best payback I could've hoped for.
8. Lap It Up
Back in the hallways of high school, I considered my fizzy soda an extended part of my arm, especially during physics class. Every single day, like clockwork, as I'd rise from my seat, the kid behind me would swoop in, swiping the drink right off my desk to gulp down half of it in record time. Puzzled, one day I conjured up the perfect deliciously wicked plan for some sweet retaliation. I poured white vinegar into an empty soda bottle and casually slipped it into my backpack, all set to make its grand debut the next morning in class.
As the physics lecture began, I strolled off nonchalantly knowing the prying eyes of the soda thief were following my every move. Like a hawk swooping down on its prey, he grabbed my vinegar-filled decoy and began chugging it. The moment the liquid hit his tongue, the scene switched to a poetic display of karma.
With a racing bolt towards the sink and an exorcist-style upheaval, he soon found himself giving a rather embarrassing explanation to our bewildered physics teacher. With a smile you couldn't pry from my face with a crowbar, I watched my sweet soda sitting pretty on my desk, untouched, for the rest of the semester. Now that, my friends, is justice served chilled.
9. The Smell Of The Ball
In high school, my friend David found out his girlfriend had cheated on him. Like that wasn’t bad enough, she went full scorched-earth: she scratched up the car he’d worked hard for and smashed his laptop after he confronted her. A week later, she decided to celebrate her own chaos by throwing a huge party—one of those “everyone’s invited” ragers that you just knew was going to get out of hand.
Earlier that day, David and I were sitting at Taco Bell with four of our friends, eating and stewing. And somewhere between bites, we started… brainstorming. The idea started as a joke—an absolutely unhinged, immature joke—about holding everything in until the party and then unleashing it all over her house.
But the more we talked, the quieter we got. The kind of quiet where you realize everyone at the table is thinking the same thing: Wait. Are we actually doing this?
David couldn’t come with us. If he showed his face, there was no way we’d get through the door. Still, he wanted in—so he, uh, contributed in his own way. He handed off a plastic bag like it was evidence in a crime scene. I tucked it under my shirt, walked into that party trying to look casual, and stashed it behind the fridge like I was hiding contraband.
Then it began.
Brett and I hit the main floor bathrooms. We did the infamous upper-deck move—straight into the toilet tanks—both of them. It was foul. The kind of foul where you instantly regret being a person with a body.
Matt came prepared, which is a terrifying sentence. He had pliers, yanked up the corner of a carpet in one of the bedrooms—no clue whose room it even was—and handled his part of the mission there.
And Justin… Justin took things to a whole different level. He slipped into a tiny utility closet with the central air system. When he came back out, he was way too calm. He told us—almost proudly—that he’d managed to smear his contribution onto the air filter.
A few minutes later, it happened.
The smell didn’t just appear. It spread—like the house itself was turning against everyone inside. People started looking around, confused at first, then panicked. Someone blamed the dog. Someone else blamed Taco Bell, which, honestly, fair. But it got stronger, and faster, until the party basically evacuated itself. Within minutes, the whole crowd had migrated outside, coughing and gagging and shouting questions no one could answer.
Was our plan genius? Absolutely not. Was it petty, gross, and kind of evil? Yeah.
But it was for our friend.
And in that moment, it felt weirdly… satisfying.
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10. Sweet Release
I lived in this massive old frat-house mansion that had been turned into a boarding house. Translation: twenty adults sharing one kitchen, the bathrooms, and a couple “entertainment rooms” like we were all trapped in a slightly glamorous group project.
For weeks, food kept disappearing from the fridge. Everyone knew it was happening. Everyone had theories. Everyone had a suspect. But nobody had proof—just that slow, simmering frustration of buying groceries and watching them vanish like magic.
So one Friday after work, we decided to stop guessing and set a trap.
We baked a pan of brownies… and mixed in chocolate laxative. Then we left a note—something simple and innocent-looking—popped the container in the fridge, and headed out for the weekend like nothing was about to unfold.
Sunday night, we got back and opened the fridge.
A full third of the brownies were gone.
And somehow—of all things—there was no toilet paper anywhere.
The house basically erupted. People were laughing, whispering, replaying the “crime scene” like detectives in a true-crime special. Everyone thought it was hilarious.
Everyone except the person who’d been helping themselves to everyone else’s food.
Because later, a new note appeared—passive-aggressive, indignant, and dripping with irony—saying he was *so sick* of people taking other people’s food too.
11. Ordered Up
Once upon a time, I was toiling away at this pizzeria with a manager whose skills matched that of a brick - 100% useless. Our relationship was stormy, to put it lightly. Could it be because I was the golden child of the joint? Probably. His Achilles' heel? Opened pizza boxes on the prep station way before their contents were done baking.
He liked it done this way; cook the pizza to perfection, cut it to the customer's delight then box it up, a process that ate up precious time. One memorable night, as orders bombarded us like asteroids in a space-themed video game, it was just me, another fellow pizza warrior, and our trusty delivery chap. The phones nagged us for attention as we juggled being dough maestros. Our dear, ever-so-inactive manager? Tucked away safely in the office.
There was this unique, one-way glass from the office giving an overview of the pizza cutting station. So, in a masterful plot to grab the eye of the top boss, I started nonchalantly setting up boxes on the table, ripe for our lazy manager's outrage. His predictable eruption was music to my ears, a symphony designed to attract the owner's attention. Oh, boy, did it work.
Agitated by the chaos and the torrent of orders, I shot back with equal enthusiasm at our manager. Enter, from stage left, the owner who ushered us to his private office like actors called for an impromptu rehearsal. I shared the tale of our lazy manager's nonchalance, confident owing to my long-standing track record at the pizzeria. The owner examined the manager with a menacing glare and gave him a dire ultimatum - if I hung my hat, he'd be out the door next.
But wait! The plot thickens. The owner flourished a dramatic question, "When do you turn 18, kiddo?" He left me in a puzzled silence before dropping the bomb - the key to the assistant manager's office would be mine when I hit the coveted age. Shortly thereafter, the manager was given his marching orders to a different outpost. Welcome to my unforgettable roller-coaster of a pizza journey.
12. Clean Game
Back in grade school, we had this teacher who was a hardcore germaphobe. And honestly… most of us didn’t like her much. She was always swooping in like a hawk, confiscating anything we so much as touched if it wasn’t “class-approved.”
So one day, I decided to test just how far that habit went.
I found a bouncy ball earlier—small, bright, impossible to ignore. Before class, I did something I probably shouldn’t have: I rubbed it along the bottom of the urinal in the bathroom. Then I wrapped it up in a piece of paper like it was some kind of precious object and walked into class acting totally normal.
A few minutes in, I started bouncing it lightly on my desk, just enough to be seen.
Right on schedule, she appeared beside me. No hesitation. No questions. Just that tight-lipped look, like she was saving the classroom from chaos. She snatched the ball out of my hand and tucked it away like she’d just won.
I nearly laughed right there, but I swallowed it down. Because I wasn’t done.
See, everyone knew she read notes. Any note. If you passed one in her line of sight, she’d intercept it like it was part of her job description. So I wrote a note, folded it up, and—without even trying to hide it—passed it to the kid in front of me.
Of course she grabbed it.
She unfolded it, read it, and her face changed. Just… froze.
The note said: “That ball you just took was in the urinal.”
She stared at the paper for one long second, then wordlessly turned around and walked straight out of the room.
13. Look At This Photograph
A co-worker and I just got stuck training the new guy in our office. He’d barely been here two months when—somehow—his vacation request got approved. Meanwhile, my co-worker and I haven’t taken a real vacation in over a year. We’ve been here for years, we’re the ones keeping the place running, and yeah… we were a little bitter.
The part that really got us? He knew the situation when he booked it. And he booked it anyway. The job can’t be done by one person, and he’s still in training—meaning we have to be there. So while he’s off living his best life, our own time off gets shoved even farther into the future.
Naturally, we did what any reasonable, mature professionals would do: we chose revenge.
We told the office he rented an RV and followed Nickelback on tour.
And we didn’t just say it—we committed. We printed photos of the band and decorated his cubicle like it was a shrine. We even photoshopped him into a “totally real” picture with the band, like he met them at some fan event and never stopped talking about it. The story spread faster than it had any right to.
When he finally came back, he actually took it pretty well. He pulled down the pictures, laughed along, acted like he could handle it.
Then the customer calls started.
One client—completely serious—asked him what tour he followed.
That’s when his smile got tight. You could see the exact moment he realized the rumor had escaped the office and entered the real world. He started getting irritated, trying to shut it down, but by then it was too late. The legend had a life of its own.
But we weren’t done.
Later, he forwarded what he thought was an important file. Only it wasn’t. We’d changed the label and swapped the contents—so what he actually sent was a neatly formatted printout of Nickelback lyrics.
He forwarded it to the boss.
And now I’m just waiting. Because sooner or later, he’s going to find the other pictures we hid around his cubicle… the ones he hasn’t discovered yet.
14. Bonus Level Achieved
In high school, there was this kid who was relentlessly awful to one of my close friends. Not just casually rude—he’d actually go out of his way to mess with her, like it was his favorite hobby.
So I decided to get creative.
I made a fake social media account, added him, and waited. He took the bait almost immediately. I started chatting with him, acting interested, acting flirty—like I was totally into him and totally “down” if he wanted to take things further. I even went as far as buying a disposable phone so we could have these long, private conversations without anyone connecting it back to me.
And while all this was happening… he got a girlfriend.
Of course he did.
And of course she was part of the same group that had been mean to my friend. But by then, I was committed. We kept flirting, because honestly, this kid had earned every bit of what was coming. At first, I figured the goal was just to mess with his feelings, bruise his ego a little, make him sit with the consequences of being a terrible person.
Then something way better happened—something I couldn’t have planned if I tried.
One day he’s with his girlfriend and decides it’s a genius idea to call me… from the bathroom. Like, full secret-agent nonsense. Except he wasn’t exactly subtle. She heard him in there, talking all sweet, calling me “boo” and “baby girl” like he wasn’t literally dating her.
She was furious—but here’s the thing: she didn’t even explode right away. She just left. Went straight home. Calm, quiet, terrifying.
Because she had his social media passwords.
She logged into his account and read everything. Every message. Every flirty line. Every dumb little attempt to act smooth with a girl who didn’t even exist.
The next day? Absolute chaos.
They got into a full-blown screaming match—one of those arguments that turns the hallway into a live show. And after that, his reputation was basically toast. No one wanted to date him for the rest of the school year. He went from thinking he was untouchable to being the guy everyone side-eyed.
And the best part?
No one ever found out it was me.
But my friend did get to watch him finally get what he deserved—and she was so, so happy.
15. Small Fury
I was in first grade, stuck in an assembly, and my bladder was sending out emergency alerts. I raised my hand and asked the teacher closest to us if I could use the washroom. Without even really looking at me, she told me to sit down and wait.
Ten minutes later, it was worse. I asked again. She snapped at me to be quiet.
So I sat there, trying to be brave, trying to be invisible, trying not to think about the fact that I was seconds away from a full-on disaster. Finally I stood up, walked back over to her, and said, as calmly as a panicking six-year-old can, that I was going to the washroom right then.
She rolled her eyes and went, “Fine. If your little baby bladder can’t hold it, go.”
That hit hard. I’ve been short my whole life, and kids already loved calling me “baby” and “shrimp,” like it was their favorite hobby. My face burned. My stomach dropped. And I turned toward her classroom door—because I really was going.
Except I didn’t make it.
Right there, on her carpet, I absolutely unleashed it. And because it was summer, the heat made it ten times worse, like the whole room was determined to make sure everyone noticed.
My mom taught at my school too, and I found out years later that every teacher knew it was me. The funny part? Mom was so furious that I’d asked three times and still got brushed off that I never got in trouble. Not once.
16. Take A Note
I lost my full-time schedule to another part-timer after she went to my managers and said I wasn’t good at my job. Overnight, I went from 35+ hours a week to barely 15. She slid neatly into my responsibilities, got a shiny promotion, and even landed a raise.
Meanwhile, when I asked for a raise for doing that same work, I got the classic line: “We just can’t right now because of the economy.” That’s when my patience snapped. Quietly. Completely.
One of the big tasks in that role was updating the training notebooks—two huge binders—then putting them back together and mass-printing them twice a year. On training days, the new hires kept those books, so they had to be right. The funny thing was, everyone acted like these notebooks were impossible. It took some people two weeks to update them, and they’d still leave mistakes behind. I could knock them out in three days.
So when I handed in my notice, I did something small… and very intentional. I mixed up a few sections and removed some pages from the original notebooks.
And here’s the part that still makes me shake my head: my boss had previously told me to remove the headers and page numbers I’d added, but I never did. Which meant my little “accident” came with a built-in roadmap of exactly what was missing and out of order—if anyone bothered to look.
My original plan wasn’t to blow anything up. I just wanted to make the new person’s life slightly harder for a week or two.
Then I heard training had turned into chaos—because nobody caught the problem. Which meant she never checked the notebooks. Never updated them. Never even flipped through them carefully.
She just hit “print.”
So she mass-printed 300+ copies of a completely useless training notebook.
And she was fired immediately.
17. Methods Of A Monster
In sixth grade, I was painfully shy—the kind of kid who’d rather disappear into my hoodie than start a confrontation.
There was this loud, semi-popular girl in one of my classes who had a very specific hobby: stealing my mechanical pencils, popping the erasers off, and eating them. Not “pretending” to eat them. Actually chewing them, cackling like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever done. I never understood why. Maybe she thought it made her quirky. Maybe she thought my tiny, miserable protests were adorable. Either way, asking her to stop did nothing—if anything, it just made her laugh harder.
And it was always my pencils. Without fail. If I showed up with a fresh one, the eraser was gone almost as soon as I sat down. I was running out of pencils. I was running out of patience. And under all that quiet, I could feel something hot and sharp building.
So over Christmas break, I asked my mom for an eraser pen.
When I got it, I carried out a plan with the calm focus of someone who’d finally had enough. I dropped that eraser pen into the toilet. I peed on it. I used tongs to fish it out like it was hazardous material, sealed it in a plastic bag, and waited.
The first day back, I saw her and smiled—sweet, polite, sixth-grade sweet. I walked up, said hi, and handed her the bag like it was a thoughtful little “Christmas” present.
Right on cue, she pulled it out and started chewing, laughing like she’d won.
I didn’t say a word. I just smiled to myself, turned back to my desk, and got back to work.
18. No Take Backs
My folks were chummy with this duo whose son was an outright terror. As much as I resented the little monster, we were obligated to play nicely during their sporadic visits. Being the younger one - and a girl - painted a shinier target on my back.
I vividly recollect a hideous incident from my six-year-old days. We were messing around in the garden when he grabbed my ankles, dangling me headfirst over our compost heap. He teased about spiders entangling my hair, an awful moment that quenched my scream into silent terror. Despite his cruelty, I swallowed the tears, keeping our bitter feud under wraps; I refused to be painted the victim.
One evening, our usual tête-à-tête turned surprisingly harmonious. We were upstairs, each engrossed in our handheld world of Pokemon Red. The tranquility, however, proved short-lived. His incessant boasting about his superior Pokemon team, his countless Elite 4 victories, all underlined his thirst for dominance. But the cherry on top was his illustrious Mew - a product of a mythical quest involving a trip to Japan and a tactic to duplicate the Pokemon.
Indeed, the sinister kid did possess the elusive Mew. He explained the complex trading process that led to its acquisition, giving me an idea - sneaky, but brilliant nonetheless. Following rounds of negotiation, I persuaded him to replicate the cheat with me, assuring him I would follow his every command.
As we executed the trade and he turned off his GameBoy, I seized the moment. I hit my power button too. Upon restarting, lo and behold - I was the proud owner of his Mew, and he was left with a pathetic Caterpie. The room froze, his jaw dropped, and a second later, panic erupted.
In a dramatic whirlwind of tears, howls, thrashing about on the floor, he accused me of hijacking his prized Mew. Perplexed parents rushed in, unable to comprehend, glancing from the inconsolable boy to me - a trembling young girl, tears welling in my eyes. The verdict was unanimous. “She's just a wee girl!” they consoled, "She didn't mean it."
Amid the chaos, the boy's cry for a redo fell on deaf ears as he was reprimanded further. Meanwhile, I basked in the showers of sympathy. With my newfound Mew by my side, I savoured every drop of victory. Oh, how sweet it tasted!
19. Do You One Better
So picture this: it's the 90s and I'm attending high school with my brother. For computer science class, the teacher tasks us with a project; creating a program to teach and track typing speed. Much to our surprise, he goes and uses this brilliant program we made, across all his classes - acting like he'd made it himself!
Well, my brother and I weren't about to let this go unnoticed. Thus, an ingenious plan was born: We'd make an upgrade.
This shiny, new software took the original program, and pushed it up a notch. We packed it with improvements based on first-hand experiences and added features that, let's face it, our tech-savvy teacher simply wouldn't be able to resist. So, we presented it to him - extra credit being our only really incentive.
Here's the catch; our program came with an added "bonus." See, our teacher was also responsible for school computer maintenance. He also had no idea about our mischievous hidden feature; randomly hijacking the computer's operating system.
It was like a phantom, enabling the machine to load a fake operating system and with it, a prompt suggesting the system's contents had been swiped clean. Every command intercepted was met with our fabricated replies. Every week, our unsuspecting teacher had to reformat and reinstall the OS on all those school computers. The sweetest part?
The randomness of our digital gremlin meant no suspicious patterns linked back to my brother and me. And the cherry on top? He'd always reinstall our deceptively helpful typing program first. Like clockwork, each time he thought he'd beaten it back, the cycle would recommence. Indescribably delicious!
20. Take That Spritz
In seventh grade, we had this class right after football practice, and we were always racing the clock to make it on time. There was never a chance to stop at our lockers, so we’d just dump our bags along the wall of this huge classroom and hope for the best.
That’s where Sonny came in.
Any time I stepped away—even for a second—he’d dig into my stuff and help himself to my cologne. At first it was whatever. Annoying, sure, but not the end of the world. The problem was, I’d already told him to cut it out. More than once. After that, it wasn’t about smelling good anymore. He was doing it because he knew it got under my skin.
So I decided if he wanted a show, I’d give him one.
I poured my cologne into a different container and refilled the original bottle with… something else. Then I put it right back where it always was, like a trap disguised as normal life, and I waited.
Not long after, Sonny did exactly what Sonny always did. He grabbed the bottle, turned like he owned the place, and sprayed himself—big, confident sprays, like he was starring in a commercial.
And then it hit him.
You could see the moment his brain caught up with his nose. The grin slipped. His eyes went wide. He froze, sniffed himself again like he was hoping reality would change if he checked twice… and then the horror set in as he realized he had just absolutely drenched himself in human urine.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget his face. Or the way the whole room seemed to pause for half a second, like even the air was waiting to see what he’d do next.
21. Total Lock Out
There was this kid in middle school who made my life miserable. You know the type—the one who always seemed to have just enough time and energy to make your day worse.
One afternoon I stayed after school to make up a test I’d missed. The halls were mostly empty, that weird quiet where every locker door sounds like a cymbal. On my way out, I noticed his locker was sitting wide open… and his phone was right there, practically begging someone to do something.
For a second, I won’t lie—I pictured smashing it. Just ending it. But instead, I went with something quieter. Cleaner. I picked it up, took a breath, and set a passcode.
The next morning, I didn’t even have to look for him. I just sort of… hovered nearby. Close enough to see, far enough to blend in. He pulled out his phone like nothing was wrong—then froze. He tried again. And again. Every time: locked. His face changed in real time, from confusion to panic to full-on fury.
And then the most incredible thing happened.
He completely lost it. With one angry, dramatic move, he hurled his own phone at the wall.
It shattered.
And all I could think was: he didn’t just break his phone. He did it to himself.
22. Heavy On The Sauce
In middle school, there were two kids who were basically famous for causing trouble—and for picking on me whenever they got bored.
One day at lunch, one of them started lobbing ketchup packets in my direction like it was his personal sport. At first, I ignored it. That was the unspoken rule: if you didn’t react, they’d eventually get tired, and the teachers would pretend they never saw a thing—as long as it stopped before it got “too serious.”
But this time? He wasn’t stopping. If anything, he doubled down. I swear he grabbed a whole fistful, like he’d been saving up for this moment. Packet after packet smacked the table, bounced off my tray, landed around me. By the fifth one, I could feel everyone watching, waiting to see what I’d do.
So I picked one up.
I tore it open and—without even thinking—sprayed ketchup straight across his face and down the front of his shirt.
For a second, everything went quiet. He froze, dripping, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe I’d actually done it. Then he stepped toward me like he was about to swing, and I backed up slowly, heart pounding, trying to look calm even though I absolutely was not.
We both turned at the same time, scanning for the lunch attendant—the one person who could decide whether this ended with a warning… or a disaster.
We spotted her.
And she was trying so hard not to laugh.
Right then, I knew. Game over. I won.
23. Fool’s Goal
Growing up, I had a best friend named Chris who’d come stay with me for a week at a time. We hardly ever saw each other—he lived far away, and I was planted in the middle of nowhere—so those long visits felt like an event. Getting to my house wasn’t a quick “swing by.” It was the kind of rural where you had to mean it.
On one of those visits, we were both 11, and I got the news: two other boys were coming over for lunch. Our “closest” neighbors—meaning they lived twenty minutes up the road—sons of one of my mom’s friends.
Chris and I looked at each other like we’d just been handed a problem.
Because these two were trouble. Spoiled, entitled, and loud about it. The kind of kids who walked onto your property like they owned the place, and somehow expected the world to applaud.
The older brother was 13 and fully convinced he was destined to be a rapper. Not “I like writing songs” rapper—more like “future superstar” rapper. He even had his dad lock up his precious lyrics in a safe, like the music industry was one shady cousin away from stealing his genius. And he stole from other kids, too. He once swiped my favorite World Industries Tech Deck because he thought acting like a “thug” made him impressive. I never forgot that.
The younger one wasn’t as bad, but he orbited his brother’s ego like a little moon—copying the attitude, trying to sound tough, turning into a nuisance through sheer dedication.
So Chris and I did what any two bored 11-year-olds with a few days to plan, a treehouse, hundreds of acres of forest, and a slightly mischievous streak would do.
We plotted.
We decided to send them on a “scavenger hunt.” Not for candy. Not for prizes. For us.
The rules were simple: if they wanted us to come down and hang out, they had to find us. We hid clues all over the property—deep in brush, down uneven paths, in places that looked like they belonged in a low-budget adventure movie. Then we set the hook: we left a walkie-talkie in my treehouse near the driveway, close enough to feel safe.
When their car finally rolled up, they got out—and immediately heard our voices crackling from the treehouse.
We weren’t in there.
We were watching from higher up, tucked into the branches of a redwood like two smug forest gremlins with excellent visibility.
From our hidden perch, we explained the “game.” If they wanted us to show ourselves, they had to follow the clues. They could either play, or spend lunch wondering where we’d disappeared to.
And—miraculously—they bought it.
Off they went, pushing through thick brush, combing the woods, marching to each clue like it was the final step toward glory. Thorns grabbed at their clothes. Sticks snapped underfoot. Their arms and legs slowly collected scratches like they were earning badges.
Meanwhile, Chris and I were up in the tree doing everything we could not to make a sound. The kind of silent laughing that hurts your ribs. Every time they stomped back to the treehouse to yell, beg, or complain into the walkie-talkie, we’d give them just enough encouragement to keep them going—then send them right back into the wilderness.
Over the next couple of hours, their confidence melted into irritation, then irritation curdled into full-on frustration. But they kept hunting anyway, because quitting would’ve meant admitting two 11-year-olds had outplayed them.
And just like that—right as they finally pieced together the last clue—it was time for them to leave.
We never once had to come down. Never had to speak to them face-to-face. We simply watched, safe in the branches, as they trudged back to their pristine BMW 5 Series covered in thorns, red-faced, sweaty, and exhausted… climbing into the leather seats like two heroes returning from a quest they absolutely did not enjoy.
24. Connecting The Box
I was beyond tired of my roommate hijacking my Xbox 360. He’d play for hours, then just leave it running all night like it was a nightlight. And the cherry on top? One morning I turned it off when I got up, and he actually got mad at *me* because he hadn’t “saved his game.”
I tried to be reasonable. I told him, gently, that a first-edition Xbox 360 isn’t exactly built for nonstop marathons and overnight punishment. It’s the kind of console you treat like it’s made of glass. But he wasn’t nearly as tech-savvy as I was—and that’s when inspiration hit.
While he wasn’t looking, I slipped into the settings and quietly blocked all the ports the Xbox needed to get online. Nothing dramatic. No sparks. Just a few clicks—and suddenly the internet might as well have vanished.
The next time he fired it up, he got frustrated fast. The Xbox wouldn’t cooperate. He tried everything. He restarted it, messed with cables, stared at the screen like it might blink first. Then he called in backup—friends came over, took turns trying to “fix” it, and still… nothing. Watching them spiral was almost impressive.
After a while, I let the silence hang just long enough.
Then I looked him in the eye and said, “Dude… I think you broke it.”
25. Streak Of Genius
When I was a freshman, my friends and I stumbled on a big, unopened bottle someone had abandoned behind the bleachers after a night of drinking. It was homecoming week—the one time of year when every grade treats “school spirit” like it’s really just a cover for pranks.
That Friday, we had the big assembly in the gym to wrap up spirit week. The seniors always won. Always. By the time the bleachers filled and the noise hit that familiar, echoing gym roar, we were already plotting—because if there was ever a moment to steal the spotlight, it was then.
And somehow, in the middle of all our scheming, we met this random guy from off the street who seemed thrilled to do just about anything in exchange for that bottle.
So there’s the principal, standing dead center on the gym floor, giving this heartfelt speech about the senior class’s “high spirits” and amazing participation. Everyone’s half-listening, waiting for the next chant—
—when this hairy dude comes charging past him wearing nothing but a cape that said “’09” across the back.
For a split second, the whole gym froze like it couldn’t decide whether to laugh or gasp.
The principal decided for us.
He was not pleased.
26. Eat You To It
My cousin’s friend had this hobby of being cruel to me—little comments, constant picking, like she couldn’t help herself. I’d come home mad, and my mom would just listen. Then one day she told me this story about how, when she was younger, she finally got even with a girl who’d been mean to her. She said it like it was a lesson.
So the next time my cousin’s friend was in one of her moods, that story started echoing in my head. I looked down, spotted a leaf on the ground, and suddenly I had an idea.
I picked it up and walked right over to her like I had a secret. I told her to hide the leaf somewhere on her body—like we were playing a game. Of course she went along with it. She was smug about everything, like she already knew she’d win.
Then I grabbed a dandelion that had gone to seed, the kind that looks like a little white puffball, and announced I was going to “find” the leaf. I started “scanning” her—moving the dandelion slowly like it had magical powers. I made a show of it, getting closer and closer, until I was right in front of her face.
I held the dandelion at her mouth and told her to open up.
She smiled like I was the dumbest person alive. Like, *Sure, go ahead—prove you can’t find it.*
The second she opened her mouth, I shoved the whole thing in—white seeds, stem and all.
Her expression changed so fast it was almost impressive. She gagged and almost threw up, coughing and sputtering, trying to get all those floating seeds out. My aunt, uncle, and cousin were horrified and instantly furious with me.
My mom, though? My mom laughed—because she knew exactly how mean that girl had been to me. And honestly, for the first time, it felt like the “game” had finally changed.
27. Popping Bottles
When I was 16, my childhood buddy morphed slowly into "Pat the Punk". This transformation involved selling stuff of questionable nature and dropping out of school - a classic bad boy upgrade. One fateful day, his neighbor agreed to buy us drinks for a bash, finally offering me my chance to impress the high school sweetheart.
Both of us pulled out 50 bucks for the grandest bottle of spirits. It got delivered, remained untouched on the coffee table while we engaged in some sibling warfare over video games. Returning from a bathroom break, the bottle had disappeared. I asked, expecting a punchline, only to be met with the averting of eyes and shrugs of nonchalance. The bottle didn't grow legs and march away, did it?
I grilled them, inquired again, got the same old evasion. As my anger boiled, I realized why the depiction was so literal. Refusing to lose my cool, I quizzed them for another 15 minutes, hinting at jest or explanation. Zilch. Left with no choice, I walked out citing their disrespect.
But revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. My old printer helped produce three not-so-masterful $20 fake bills. A week later, I coolly asked Pat the Punk for $60 worth of 'garden herbs'. He was none the wiser due to his perpetual state of intoxication. My revenge was bittersweet - a balance restored to the universe and a friendship officially terminated.
The twist in the tale came a few weeks after. Pat, unbeknownst of the forgery, paid his dealer with my fake bills. The dealer tried spending them at a convenient store. One look at the bills, and the cashier called the cops. The search that followed revealed the dealer's stash of white powder. He'd fingered Pat for the bogus bills, but my friend was clueless of their origins.
I hadn't planned for this; the backlash went too far. A few nights later, two masked intruders gave Pat a brutal beating and vandalized his property. Now, I was entangled in guilt and shock.
28. Rising Above
Back in high school, I had this friend—well, *friend*—who lived just down the block from me. He was a grade above, a senior, and apparently that meant he thought he’d been promoted to some kind of hallway royalty.
One day at school, I spot him between classes and ask him a totally normal question about soccer. He stops, looks me up and down like I’m a stranger who wandered in off the street, and goes, “Do I know you?” Then he just walks away.
I tried to shrug it off… but it stuck in my head like a song you hate. So after school, I go over to his house to clear it up like a reasonable person.
That’s when he hits me with, “Sorry, but you’re a junior and I’m a senior. I have standards.”
Standards.
Something in me quietly snapped. I didn’t say much in the moment, but I went home and started building a revenge plan like it was a science fair project.
Over the next couple months, I watched. I learned. His parents were obsessed with their lawn—out there every few days, trimming, grooming, treating it like it was a prized show dog. And then I discovered the best part: his most dreaded chore was lawn work. He *hated* it.
Then, one Friday night, I found a deli that made fresh bagel dough. Right at closing, they tossed out a big bag of leftover dough. I asked for it like I had a totally innocent reason.
At midnight, I carried that trash bag down the block to his house, like some suburban burglar with a very specific mission. I pulled out handfuls of dough and tossed little chunks all over their flawless grass—scattershot, casual, like I was feeding ducks.
It was the middle of summer in the South. By morning, that dough had risen in the heat. Those little pieces puffed up into weird, pale lumps—like mushroom-shaped landmines—and baked onto the lawn like they’d been installed.
When his parents stepped outside to head to work, they froze. Horrified. Immediately furious. And of course, they assumed their son and his senior friends had done it as some kind of prank.
Which meant *he* got the punishment.
He spent the entire weekend out there, scraping bagel dough off that perfect lawn under the hot sun, while his parents stood over him like lawn detectives. And the whole time, I kept thinking: standards, huh?
29. Blend Of You
In eighth grade, there was this classmate who was just relentlessly mean to me. And because my mom worked at the school, I was around long after the final bell—lurking in hallways, killing time, basically living there.
One afternoon I was in my homeroom and spotted his vocabulary book sitting there like it owned the place. It was due the next day, and it was painfully obvious he’d forgotten it. I glanced toward the back of the room and saw the construction paper tray. Right on top? A sheet of bright orange construction paper—the exact same color as his vocabulary book.
It felt like the universe was handing me a plan.
So I slid the book onto the stack, perfectly hidden in plain sight, and walked away like nothing happened.
About an hour later, he showed up in my mom’s classroom—where I always waited after school—and he was straight-up panicking. Like, full-on tears. He kept saying he couldn’t find his vocabulary book and that he was going to get detention if he didn’t turn in the assignment the next morning.
And me? I put on the calmest, most innocent face I’ve ever managed in my life and told him, “Nope, haven’t seen it.” Then I just let him spiral.
He finally found it the next day—after it was too late—and the look on his face was priceless. Total confusion. Like he couldn’t figure out how it disappeared and reappeared without breaking the laws of physics.
30. Job Badly Done
I used to work in IT for a huge multinational company. One day they gathered our entire department—150+ people—and announced that our jobs were being outsourced to Costa Rica through HP. And then came the kicker: we were expected to train the people replacing us.
My specific role took me a full year to learn—and I’m not exactly slow. But somehow they decided seven of us could transfer that knowledge in two weeks. Two weeks. That was the whole plan.
When our “replacements” showed up, most of them parked themselves in front of their monitors and watched videos like they were waiting for a pop quiz that never came. We tried—really tried—to walk them through what actually mattered. And we kept telling management, over and over, “They’re not getting it. Worse, they don’t seem to care that they’re not getting it.” But that warning got brushed off. The company assumed we were just bitter, or trying to claw our way back into our old jobs.
Then, about six weeks after we were officially laid off, the phone calls started.
Each of us got a message from the company—half panicked, half pleading—basically begging for help. Turns out HP had let the requests pile up until the queue was more than six times what we normally handled when our team was in place. Everything was jammed. People were stuck. Systems were backing up. The whole thing was starting to creak.
So the seven of us met up for lunch to decide what to do next. I’d already landed a new job, so I had the luxury of being blunt. I told them, “Call them back. Help them. But only if they pay you—really pay you.”
And that’s exactly what happened. Three of my former teammates were brought back as contractors. Not for a few weeks. For three years. And they made more than triple what they’d earned as employees.
Funny how quickly a job becomes “critical” the moment no one knows how to do it.
31. Sticky Move
Back when I was in college, I bunked with some rowdy frat guys. My room was inconveniently located right at the foot of the stairs, which was party central for my hammered and loud pals. Their racket seriously grated my nerves. So, I hatched a brilliant plan to give them a taste of their own medicine. Casually, I detached all the shower heads in the house and stuffed them full of butterscotch candies before screwing them back in place. Interestingly, these candies took a solid five minutes to dissolve. This set a bizarrely perfect timeline, where just as I'd hear the water start, the inevitable salty string of curses would fill the house not long after. The sweet sound of revenge served while they were all lathered up and unsuspecting—it was music to my ears!
32. Test Of The Senses
Once upon a time, sandwiched between my college years and law school, I shared a living space with a pair of lively sorority girls. As December swept in, I felt the pressure of my impending LSATs. I'd given my housemates fair warning - a few weeks head start and a gentle reminder or two. Yet, despite this, they gave me the ultimate cold shoulder, choosing to royally ignore my pleas.
So, the night before my big exam, they ambushed me with an impromptu house party. Raise a glass, break the ice, and crank the stereo to maximum... it was noise chaos. I'd requested peace, a little tranquility, just some precious slumber. But by the witching hour of 4 AM, I was at the end of my rope. The party was winding down, shrouding the house in a calm before the inevitable dawn.
That's when I overheard a bunch of the guys, insisting they were fine without a blanket, settling in for a nightcap in the living room. A spark ignited within me and bingo! A plan emerged. I cannily walked down the hallway and cranked the thermostat to its coldest setting. But I wasn’t done with my mischief yet.
With a triumphant oomph, I pulled off the regulating knob, lobbing it into the winter-crisp backyard before tumbling into bed. A few hours later, as I departed for my exam, I walked past the guys huddled like penguins in the living room. Their puzzled faces asked why it was so frosty, and I just chuckled, sauntering off to my test, not an ounce of guilt in my stride.
33. Can’t Even Say
While I was working my serving job, this little girl asked for a Sprite. I smiled and said, “Sure thing.”
Halfway to the kitchen, it hit me—we don’t even carry Sprite. We’re a Pepsi place. Which means the closest thing we have is Sierra Mist.
I paused for a second, holding this tiny, ridiculous secret like it actually mattered. Then I poured the Sierra Mist and brought it out like nothing was unusual. She’s a kid. She won’t notice… right?
A little later, I swung back by the table to check on them and casually asked if she wanted a refill.
She lit up and said yes.
And in that moment, I had to keep my face completely normal while my brain did this quiet, dramatic little victory lap. Because she had no idea. Not a clue. She drank it happily—twice—without suspecting a thing.
It’s honestly kind of thrilling, how a tiny swap like that can make you feel like you’re getting away with something.
34. A Grinch Too Close
Just before the yuletide, my little angels decided to turn into tiny terrors. In a fit of exasperation, I found myself exclaiming, "Keep this up, and I'll chuck your Christmas gifts!" At first, they straightened up. But soon enough, they realized I was bluffing, and the scribbling on the walls resumed.
This was it. I had to call their bluff. So, I decided to turn the tables and put my warning into action. Cleverly, I tucked an empty box, all wrapped up in festive cheer, beneath the Christmas tree.
Sure enough, the mischief struck again the next day. This time though, I marched right up to the tree, took the festively wrapped empty box, and tossed it into the trash. The kids were aghast, and believe me, not just did they behave for that cold December, but every Christmas since has been a joy. It was a little dramatic, but hey, sometimes the show does the teaching!
35. Slippery Soap
As a prank, I once smeared baby oil all over the shower floor, figuring my little brother would step in, lose his balance, and I’d get a quick laugh. I was young, and I didn’t stop for even a second to think about what could actually happen.
Then the universe handed me an immediate plot twist.
Before he ever set foot in there, I climbed into the shower—and my feet shot out from under me like the floor had turned to ice. I went down hard, smacking myself and realizing in one painful second just how dangerous my “harmless” joke really was.
My brother ended up completely fine. I didn’t. And honestly? That was the best possible outcome—because it taught me the lesson I should’ve learned before anyone got hurt.
36. Friendly Neighborhood Repairman
After the divorce, Dad landed in a one-room apartment downtown. Technically it was “near the arts district,” which sounds charming—and during the day, it kind of was. We could walk around, catch street music, pretend everything was normal for a few hours.
But at night, the place turned into something else.
The rent was low, so a lot of undocumented workers rented nearby, sometimes packing into the same unit in groups. And for reasons I never fully understood, some of them treated the walls like they were part of the entertainment—loud drinking, louder parties, and a strange habit of showing off by punching holes clean through the drywall.
Dad loved the neighborhood and he loved the price. What he didn’t love was the noise… or the walls.
To survive the nights, he started fortifying the place like it was under siege. He boarded up the window with plywood. He hung heavy quilts over the door to muffle the shouting and music. My sister and I didn’t catch him doing that too often, but you could always feel it—the apartment had that “hunkered down” vibe, like it was holding its breath after dark.
I kept my pet corn snake there, too. And the first time the neighbors saw me carrying it in, something shifted. Suddenly Dad had this unexpected, unspoken status. Nobody needed to say it out loud, but you could tell: the guy with the snake was not someone you messed with.
To be fair, no one ever tried breaking into Dad’s apartment. The real problem was the damage. Those wall holes never got repaired quickly, and Dad couldn’t stand living in a place that looked like it had been in a brawl. If the manager wouldn’t fix them, Dad would—every time.
Then he got creative.
He took a board and hammered it full of long nails—serious nails, the kind that looked like they meant business. And whenever a fresh hole showed up, Dad didn’t just patch it quietly. No, he turned it into a performance. He’d pull out the nail board, fit it into the wall like he was installing some kind of warning sign, and then patch everything up slowly, calmly, while the neighbors watched.
And the whole time, he’d explain—nice and clear—that every new hole meant another board. Another set of nails. Another little surprise behind the drywall.
After that?
The holes stopped appearing.
37. Meaningful Exit
Before I officially handed in my resignation, I planted something—just a small piece of code—that would quietly start causing trouble three weeks after my last day. I compiled it, pushed it into the network, and made sure it blended in like it had always been there. Then I did the neatest part: I scrubbed it from the source and delivered the “final” version to them with a straight face.
To be clear, I didn’t build that program from scratch. I’d inherited it. I’d spent months untangling it, learning its weird little habits, figuring out which parts were held together by actual logic and which parts were held together by luck. Whoever replaced me? They’d need at least a couple of months just to get their bearings—same way I did.
So while they smiled and carried on like nothing had changed, they were stuck running a system that was already counting down. And when it finally started to break, it wouldn’t leave a trail. No obvious error. No clear culprit.
Just a program falling apart in their hands… with no way to prove why.
38. Handling It
In third grade, my English teacher flat-out refused to fix my test score.
The scantron machine was glitchy—sometimes it would mark answers wrong even when you’d bubbled in the right choice. After a while, I got tired of feeling like the robot was gaslighting me, so I started paying closer attention to the sheet itself.
That’s when I noticed something: if you filled in this tiny spot between two lines at the very bottom of the scantron—barely a mark, easy to miss—the machine would panic. Suddenly, every single answer registered as wrong.
So I did it. On every test.
And, because third grade me apparently had a flair for chaos, I told my classmates. Quietly at first. Then more confidently, like I was sharing a life hack.
The next time our tests went through the scanner, they all came back as perfect, impossible zeros.
And my teacher? She didn’t get to hide behind the machine anymore. She had to sit down and hand-grade every single one of those tests herself.
39. My Ten Cents
My first college roommate was, to put it gently, wildly inconsiderate. She’d help herself to my stuff without asking, blast the same song on repeat for hours while I was trying to study, and let food I’d bought “for us” sit in the fridge until it turned into a science experiment. I tried being patient. I tried being polite. Nothing stuck.
Then I learned something that changed everything: she was intensely superstitious—especially about dimes. She believed finding them meant spirits were nearby. Watching. Listening. Taking notes.
And that’s when I started leaving dimes everywhere.
One on her desk. One on the windowsill. A perfectly placed dime in the elevator. A dime where there absolutely, positively hadn’t been a dime five minutes ago. Every time she brought it up—wide-eyed, voice low—I acted completely clueless. “That’s so weird.” “No way.” “Maybe it’s a sign?”
It didn’t take long before she was jumping at every little sound, scanning the room like she expected something to blink at her from the corners.
A week later, she requested a room change.
By the end of the month, she’d moved to a different building—far away from me, my groceries, and, apparently, whatever was following her.
40. Insider’s Only
When she was five and I was three, my sister was basically an evil genius.
One day she caught me praying—very sincerely—for my stuffed animals to come to life. And instead of, you know, being normal about it, she decided it was her personal mission to make sure I *believed* it worked.
So while I was asleep, or the second I left my room, she’d sneak in and rearrange my toys like they’d been interrupted mid-adventure. A bear “caught” halfway up the bed like it had been climbing. A bunny turned toward the door like it had just heard something. My little stuffed crew, frozen right in the middle of doing something fun… without me.
For days, I walked in and found them in brand-new positions, like they had a whole secret life that started the moment I wasn’t looking.
At first, I was thrilled. My prayers had been answered. They were alive.
And then the other thought hit—quiet at first, then louder every time it happened: maybe they weren’t just alive. Maybe they were alive and they *didn’t want me*.
Because if your toys can finally move and think, why would they choose to go completely still the second I showed up? It felt like they were making a point. Like they’d rather waste this incredible gift than spend even one minute stuck playing with me.
Meanwhile, my sister just hovered in the background, watching. Enjoying the show.
And I—three years old, absolutely devastated—stood there begging my stuffed animals to please be my friends. Just talk to me. Just give me a chance.
They never did. They just stayed frozen.
And my sister? She laughed like she had invented heartbreak.
41. In Your Face
In college, I had a roommate who was just… the worst kind of “help yourself” person. She’d use my stuff without asking and somehow always manage to ruin it—my nice frying pan, my dishes, even my towels.
But the hand towel? That was the tipping point.
She kept using it to wipe off these thick globs of makeup, leaving me with a sad, stained little rag hanging there like a warning sign. Every time I saw it, I could feel my blood pressure climb.
Then came my moment.
My boyfriend and I had used that towel after we’d been, let’s say, *busy*. Not glamorous. Not something I would’ve ever left out on display. But as I stared at my freshly ruined towel situation, an idea clicked into place.
I swapped my towel with the one we’d used.
Honestly, I didn’t even think it would work. The towel didn’t look that different. I figured she’d ignore it or grab something else.
But when I came back the next day?
There they were—big, unmistakable makeup smears, right across *that* towel.
And I just stood there for a second, staring, like… oh. Oh, it worked.
42. Back For More
In fifth grade, the friend who sat in front of me had this move: the second I pulled out a snack, he’d quietly reach his hand back between our desks like it was a coin-operated vending machine. At first, I didn’t mind sharing. But after a while, he stopped asking and just expected it—hand out, palm up, no eye contact.
One day, I decided he was going to learn the difference between “sharing” and “taking.” So instead of candy, I carefully poured a little pile of pencil shavings and eraser dust into his hand.
He popped it into his mouth without even looking.
The reaction was instant—he froze, then started gagging and spitting like his tongue had just betrayed him. I sat there trying to look innocent while my heart pounded, watching him realize, in real time, that maybe… just maybe… he should’ve asked first.
43. Remotely Diabolical
I was at a high school party with my girlfriend—technically it was her birthday, but it got mashed together with another girl’s celebration. Somehow that led to all of us piling into cars and heading to this one kid’s house… the kind of house where you pull up and immediately realize, oh. This family has money.
Once we got there, it was the usual teen-party routine: hanging out, playing pool, drifting from room to room acting like we had plans when we really didn’t. Everything was going fine—until the rich kid’s little brother started coming downstairs to pester everyone.
He showed up wearing an Xbox headset like he was on a mission, controller in hand, trying to ask his brother something. His brother brushed him off, and you could practically watch the kid’s patience snap in half. He stomped back upstairs in a huff.
A minute later, we’re all back to talking when I notice something on the floor near the couch.
The Xbox controller.
And that’s when a truly horrible idea slid into my brain like it had been waiting for the perfect moment. Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked it up, held the center button down for a couple seconds… then tapped up twice… then A.
If you know, you know.
I set it back down like nothing happened and tried to act normal, like my heart wasn’t thumping in my throat.
Seconds later, from upstairs, we heard this scream—raw, devastated, like someone had just erased his entire life. Then came the full meltdown: shouting, stomping, the unmistakable sound of a kid losing a battle with reality.
I calmly hid the controller, stood up, and walked away like I was just going to get a drink.
He came charging back downstairs, furious and red-faced, demanding to know who did it. He looked at everyone like we were suspects in a crime documentary.
But somehow—somehow—he never figured out it was me.
44. An Apple A Day
I used to live next door to this truly awful family in Sydney. The kind that could sour a whole street. They’d take whatever wasn’t theirs, wreck things just because they could, and toss around threats like it was normal conversation. Our houses were just down from the train station, so every evening the footpath filled up with tired commuters heading home—heads down, keys in hand, trying to get from A to B without trouble.
One afternoon I was outside eating an apple when I noticed the two girls from next door perched on their front steps. One of them was eating an apple too, like it was the most innocent scene in the world.
But in our neighbourhood, people walked past with that cautious, “don’t make eye contact” look. And right then, this timid-looking woman came along, clutching a briefcase to her chest like it was a shield.
As soon as she got level with the steps, one of the girls suddenly launched her apple—absolutely hurled it—and it smacked the woman square in the back.
The sound was awful. The woman shrieked, pure panic, and took off down the street like she’d just been attacked—which, honestly, she had.
I stared at the half-eaten apple in my hand. Then I looked at the girl on the steps. Something in me snapped into place, calm as anything.
I threw my bitten apple as hard as I could.
It nailed her right on the head and burst apart on impact—apple bits everywhere. And before anyone could turn and spot me, I stepped back out of sight, pressing a hand over my mouth while they whipped around, freaking out, shouting, trying to figure out where it came from.
And I stood there silently, shaking with the effort not to laugh.
45. Name Calling
During my final lap in high school, we all scribbled our names down for some raffle. The bounty was no hot ticket, so I worked up a juicy prank with my buddies at two tables – “Phil McCracken”. My alias popped up in around 20 lines of that lottery. Here's the kicker - the head honcho himself plucked Phil’s name out. The chuckles started at a low simmer, cooking, boiling over, as he echoed 'Phil McCracken', oblivious. Only when the vice-principal nudged him did the penny finally drop. Gosh, you should've seen his face. Now that was priceless!
46. Dirty Play
My babysitter was the sweetest woman on earth—right up until she waved goodbye to my parents and clicked the door shut behind them.
It was summer in Georgia, which means the air wasn’t just hot, it was thick. The kind of humidity that sticks to you like a wet blanket. I was trapped for the whole weekend with her and her daughter, Tracy—an older kid who treated “babysitting” like it was her personal sport.
Tracy was a slapper. She was always coming for my face with either a clawed hand or—if she was feeling extra nasty—a spray of spit. And of course, she had the greatest advantage of all: her mom. No matter what Tracy did, her mother took her side. And if I dared defend myself? I got punished for “starting trouble.”
By late morning, after one too many spit attacks, something in me snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore.
So I did the unthinkable.
I spit back.
Tracy let out a scream so dramatic you’d think I’d committed a crime worthy of national news. And right on cue, her mother came storming out of the back bedroom—where she spent most of her “babysitting” hours reading romance novels and pretending we didn’t exist.
Tracy launched into her story immediately. I spit on her “out of nowhere.” She *never* spit on me. She was just an innocent little angel minding her business and I attacked for no reason at all.
Her mom didn’t ask questions. She didn’t even blink.
She pointed at the back door and snapped, “Go outside.”
So I went. Because what else could I do?
She’d promised we’d all watch a movie, but now, because I “wanted to act ugly,” it was going to be just the two of them. They were going to sit in the cool back room with the AC blasting, watching their movie, while I sat alone in the backyard like a stray cat that wandered onto the wrong porch.
I could see them through the window. Tracy curled up like she’d won. The babysitter settled in like this was her reward for handling me. I tried to listen, strained to catch the music and the dialogue, but the window was filthy and the sounds were muffled. All I could really make out was how comfortable they looked.
After about twenty minutes in the heat, sweat sliding down my back, I couldn’t fight the thirst anymore.
I climbed onto an upside-down trash can and rapped lightly on the window. They both jumped like I’d thrown a rock. Tracy stomped up close, glaring at me through the glass like I was a bug she wanted to flick off the planet.
I mimed drinking and asked if I could come in for some water.
“I’ll bring you some in a little bit!” her mom shouted.
Then she yanked the curtains shut.
Just like that, the window turned into a dark sheet with only blocky shadows moving behind it—and the dim blinking of the TV. And then, as if to make sure I couldn’t complain, they cranked the volume up so loud it thumped through the wall.
Message received.
I hopped off the trash can and wandered the yard, trying to act like I didn’t care. That’s when I noticed their old dog—the kind of dog that doesn’t really like people anymore and makes a point of proving it. I watched her shuffle through the grass, sniffing, circling, and then… squatting.
Watery. Sad. Unmistakable.
And then it hit me like lightning.
I grabbed a few big leaves from a nearby tree, held my breath, and did what had to be done. I scooped it up as carefully as I could and crept over to the back of the AC unit. The big metal box sat there humming, pulling air in through its grates—air that went straight into the room where they were lounging.
I smeared that mess all over the grates.
I didn’t even hesitate. I didn’t even flinch. I was a kid on a mission.
And I was right.
It didn’t take long.
Inside, I saw Tracy sit up, wrinkling her nose. She leaned over the bed like she expected to find something on the floor. She didn’t. She laid back down, but a few minutes later she popped up again, more suspicious this time. She started checking the room like she was hunting an invisible skunk.
I was so thrilled I could barely contain myself—and I didn’t really have to, because the TV was still blasting like a concert.
When they finally stood up and hit pause, I sprinted across the yard and flopped onto the broken swing set, putting on my best “I’ve been out here quietly suffering the whole time” face.
The babysitter called for me, and for one second I thought I was about to get punished again.
Instead, the sliding glass door cracked open and a thick hand shoved out a cup of ice water like it was a peace offering.
I drank it like it was the most satisfying thing I’d ever tasted in my life.
Not too long after that, she let me come back inside. I tried to act innocent. I even asked, sweetly, if we could watch the movie now.
She stared at me and said—bitter as vinegar—“No.”
Then she dragged her pillows and her book out to the living room, abandoning the back room completely.
And that was the moment I learned something important about justice:
Sometimes it doesn’t come with a lecture.
Sometimes it comes through the air vents.
47. Trouble Spot
Back in the day when I was just a kid, our home was located opposite a hip public pool on a small side street. Parking? Well, let's just say it was a hot commodity. More often than not, we found our own driveway occupied by strangers wanting a quick dip. However, we were tight with the pool's owner. A simple request, and a message would blare out over the loudspeakers. Bingo! the car's owner would pop over, apologize profusely, and promptly move the vehicle.
But, one unforgettable day stands out. I had just come back from school to find someone had cheekily parked in our garage. Not the driveway – the garage! My dad was flabbergasted. Like clockwork, we made the usual loudspeaker request. Soon enough, a woman in her prime, visibly agitated and dripping with privilege, marched over. She informed us arrogantly she wouldn’t be moving her car until she had worked up a sweat at the pool. So, my dad, a cool cucumber, simply parked behind her and took us out for a leisurely dinner.
Did this teach her a lesson? Nope, she was as stubborn as an old mule. She kept up her shenanigans, pulling the stunt two to four times a month. Slowly, my dad stopped putting bother into blocking her, choosing instead to release her at his own convenience. After all, it was her problem, not ours. It got to the point where she even called the cops on us, but they sided with us, writing her a citation and warning her about private property rules.
Then one fine day, she took things up a notch by blocking us in our own driveway. That was the last straw for dad.
Confirming she was busy doing her laps, dad armed himself with a wire hanger, jimmying open her car door. He then proceeded to dismantle the passenger seat, leaving it casually on the curb near the pool’s exit. There he sat, sipping his tea on the front porch, waiting for her to finish her swim and discover the surprise.
Strolling past her own seat without a second glance, she glared at dad before getting into her car. As she reached the passenger side to put her bag down, she did a classic double-take. The dawning realization was priceless!
The scene was epic: her freaking out, realizing dad had had access to her car all along. She hastily grabbed her seat from the curb, stuffed it into the trunk and drove off, never to return. We had seen the last of her. And that, my friends, was sweet, sweet victory.
48. Keep Your Friends Close…
I had this gut feeling my wife was cheating on me with a coworker. When I finally confronted them, they both smiled like I was the problem—said I was just a jealous husband, that they were “best friends,” and that I needed to get a grip.
So I did something that surprised even me: I leaned in.
I befriended him. Became his workout partner. Learned everything I could about him. I even invited him to my dinner table and watched him laugh across from me like nothing was happening.
I won’t pretend the darker thoughts didn’t show up. Physical revenge crossed my mind more than once. But neither of them was worth throwing my entire life away for. Instead, I played dumb. I listened. I waited.
He was a bodybuilder—deep into steroids. Not exactly sharp, barely made it through college, bouncing between minimum-wage jobs while chasing what he called his real future.
Firefighter school.
In our big metro city, getting into that academy was everything. A career for life. The dream he’d had since he was a kid. And he talked about it constantly between sets, eyes lit up like it was already his.
The funny thing is, he knew I worked in healthcare. He knew I understood medicine. So when he started asking questions about steroids, I gave him just enough information to make him hungry for more. I made sure he kept coming back. And before long, I made sure he started putting those questions in writing—emailing me details, asking for guidance, spelling things out.
Ironically, he used an email address that included his full name.
When the private investigator confirmed what I already knew, I stopped pretending this was just a suspicion. I set my plan in motion.
When I was ready to leave my wife, I reached out to several fire department officers I knew—people who sat on the review board. I handed them the emails from one of their top candidates, casually admitting substance use and also lying about it during the interview process. He’d been doing well. He was lined up for the incoming class.
And then he wasn’t.
After that, I made a few more calls through my EMS contacts—just enough to make sure his name carried a shadow. Not just in that city, either. Within a 200-mile radius, doors started closing before he could even reach the handle.
He and my wife took the marriage I thought I had.
So I took the future he couldn’t stop talking about.
49. While You Were Away
I was living with a friend of mine—and this girl I barely knew. Somehow, the three of us fell into this weird little routine, and she and I even started hanging out like we were actual friends.
Then everything went sideways.
I got into a car accident on the freeway and had to move back home. It took me a few days to get well enough to come back and pack up my things, and when I finally did, my stomach just dropped.
Half my stuff was gone.
I was furious—shaking, heart pounding, trying to make sense of it. When I confronted her, she put on this concerned voice and told me my friend had people over while I was gone, and maybe someone took things. It was said so casually, like it was just bad luck. Like I was supposed to shrug and accept it.
But something about it didn’t sit right.
While she was out, I stopped packing and walked down the hall to her room. I don’t even remember deciding to snoop—it was like my body moved before my brain could talk me out of it.
I opened her door and froze.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She hadn’t just “lost track” of my stuff—she’d taken it. Like, *actually taken it.* Over half my closet was in there, tucked away like a secret stash. My CDs. Antique perfume bottles my grandmother had given me. Socks. Bras. Random little things that didn’t even make sense to steal, except that they were *mine.*
I was shaking with rage. I didn’t even cry—I just went cold.
I grabbed every single thing she’d hidden, packed it up, and took it back. Then I went further. I came back with more garbage bags and started grabbing *her* clothes—anything I could find hanging up, folded, tossed on the floor. I don’t know what came over me, but I hauled it all outside and set it on fire.
Not long after, my phone rang.
She was frantic. Voice high and panicked, demanding to know where her things were. Acting like she couldn’t breathe. Like she was the victim in all of this.
So I kept my voice calm and told her, “Wow… maybe it was the same people who took my stuff.”
Silence.
And then the switch flipped. She realized she’d been caught. Her voice turned sharp, threatening—she said she was going to call the authorities. She said I was done.
I told her to go ahead.
Because by the time anyone showed up… there wouldn’t be anything left to find.
50. Getting Handsy
I used to work in a factory where my boss was the absolute worst kind of person—and basically untouchable, because his uncle owned the company.
He had this habit that drove me up the wall: he’d stroll out onto the floor during our breaks to “check our work”… and he’d do it wearing my gloves. My gloves. The ones the company made us buy ourselves. And not the cheap kind, either—I’d spent extra on a really nice pair.
It was the middle of summer, too, so it wasn’t just rude, it was disgusting. Sweaty hands, my gloves, day after day. I finally asked him, as calmly as I could, to stop. He shrugged like I’d asked him to stop breathing.
By the third time, something in my brain quietly clicked into a very bad, very creative idea.
That night I took an old pair of gloves I didn’t care about, slipped a poison ivy leaf inside, and went to town with a hammer—really made sure the inside was… well, “ready.” Then I sealed the gloves in a plastic bag and hid them in my lunchbox like they were contraband.
The next day, I came back from lunch and—of course—he’d used them.
I didn’t even have to wait long. A couple hours later, he marched over to my machine with angry red bumps creeping across his hands, scratching like he was trying to sand his skin off. He held his hands up like evidence and demanded, “Show me yours.”
So I did. I held up my perfectly normal hands and let him compare. Then I put on my best innocent face and said something like, “Wait… did you use my gloves? Because I had a rash earlier.”
He froze.
I told him—still playing dumb—that it must’ve been from my “trip to the club” after tipping a girl. Like, *that’s* the only explanation I could think of.
He stared at me for a long second, said absolutely nothing, turned on his heel, and walked straight out to go to the doctor.
And honestly? I really hope he told the doctor that exact story.
