When an entitled jerk blocks Aldric’s garage, throws a tantrum, and flicks a business card, things escalate fast. But instead of losing it, Aldric gets clever. Revenge doesn’t always need a raised voice… sometimes, it sneaks in through job applications and silent chaos.
One petty move ignites a masterclass in subtle payback. Our garage opens into a cramped alley behind a liquor store. If that sounds like a setup for trouble, it is.
You’d be shocked at how many treat the garage door like a mere suggestion, parking right in front of it, hazards blinking, as if that makes it fine. We’ve lived here five years. My fiancée, Briony, and I try to keep our cool.
But on this night? Cool was long gone. It started simple.
Doesn’t it always? Briony and I had just picked up my mother-in-law, Marigold, from the train station. She was staying with us for a week, her first time at our place, so I was on edge.
Normally, we’d book her a hotel, but Briony wanted more time with her mom. I’d scrubbed the apartment. Briony set out flowers.
We were on our best behavior. We turned into the alley, and there it was: a car parked dead center in front of our garage, blocking it like they owned the space. No driver in sight.
I recognized the car instantly. I parked and sighed. All I wanted was to get home and eat the pasta Briony cooked before we left.
I was drained. “Of course it’s Jarvis,” I said. I met him at a holiday party my mom’s company threw.
He trapped me by the coat rack, whiskey in hand, ranting about “elevated design thinking.”
He wore a velvet blazer like it was his shield. He spouted nonsense about building a creative empire from his downtown studio—really just a tiny, overpriced co-working space with a logo and free Wi-Fi. Jarvis was the guy who called himself a visionary for adding shadows to a 3D floor plan.
The perfect “big energy, small man.”
“Who’s Jarvis?” Marigold asked from the back. “A friend?”
“No,” I muttered. “Just… a guy I know.”
Right then, Jarvis strutted out of the liquor store like he was on a film set, cracking open a can of hard iced tea.
He took a long sip, leaned on his car’s hood, and flashed a smug grin. “Heyyy, Aldric!” he said. “Small world, huh?”
I got out, keeping my voice low.
Marigold was watching. Briony looked tense. “Hi, Jarvis,” I said, polite but firm.
“You’re blocking our garage. Can you move?”
He raised the can like a toast. “Chill, Aldric,” he said.
“I’ll move in a sec. Let me finish my drink.”
“It takes two seconds to move. You can drink after.”
“Relax,” he drawled, stretching the word like taffy.
“You don’t get to boss me around. I own my time.”
That hit a nerve. I’d dealt with entitled types, but Jarvis had a knack for making your blood boil without shouting.
He was theatrical. Calculated. And I felt Marigold’s polite silence from the backseat like a heavy fog.
“Jarvis,” I said. “Move the car.”
He stepped close. Too close.
“Gonna make me, Aldric?”
I stood my ground. “Don’t do this,” I said. “Do what?” he mocked, puffing his chest.
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