People Share The Most Pleasurable Revenge They’ve Gotten On A Deserving Jerk

Humans are only humans, but let’s not forget how cruel they can be at times. We all experience agony, frustration, stress, and irritability, so it’s really no surprise that we can also act out during these emotional moments. But at some point, to at least some extent, we must be able to control ourselves and be decent, honest people.

These are the rules I live by myself, so nothing boils my ***** more than witnessing people who have yet to follow these rules. I’ve experienced liars, thieves, cheats, crooks, you name it. People have held paramount secrets from me. People have been nice to my face only to try something behind my back. People have done things to me that I wouldn’t have thought to ever do to them. It’s clear that we can’t trust everyone and that some people are just terrible humans all around.

I think the best way to “get back” at someone is to teach them a lesson, which can often come in the form of revenge. Now, revenge doesn’t necessarily have to crumble the foundation of someone’s life, but it must be great enough that it gets them thinking, “Wow, maybe I should be such a horrible person.” That’s exactly what happens below.

13. Ruin Our Marriage? You Won’t Get Away With It

“Background: In 2006, I was 25 and married a woman 13 years older than me and became a stepdad to a 15-year-old girl. I always considered myself a level headed person, kept my cool, and went with the flow, that was, until my marriage fell apart.

So, it’s the summer of 2009. My now-former wife Alma and I have three years in, and Marina, my stepdaughter just graduated high school. Alma tells me that Marina has been asking about her biological father. Alma says that she wants to write to an old address she had for him and see if he would be interested in getting to know his daughter. I was fine with it as I believe that Marina had every right to try and get to know her father.

A month goes by, and Alma tells me that Karl (Marina’s biological dad) emailed her and is open to getting to know his daughter. Alma and Karl email back and forth, so she can feel him out, and he can get a sense of what Marina is like. At this point, I don’t mind at all because Alma is open about all the emailing and what they write about.

Fast forward a few weeks, Marina and Karl are communicating back and forth regularly. Everything looks to be working out. I start to notice Alma on the computer more and more chatting with Karl. I ask her about it, and she affirms that she and he developed a friendship over the past few weeks.

I don’t think much about it as she isn’t hiding anything, and Karl lives in Mexico City. (We lived in Central California.)

A few months go by, and Alma tells me that Marina wants to meet Karl, and he has time off coming, so it’s a perfect time to do it. Alma will go with Marina, but I wouldn’t be able to go since I couldn’t get the time off of work.

Alma and Marina go on their trip. They are gone for 2 weeks. Week one is spent at Alma’s grandparents’ home, and week two would be spent in Cabo where Karl would fly in to give him and Marina time to connect in person. Their vacation came and went, and they finally came home.

When I picked up the girls, I began asking about the trip, but all I would get would be one-word answers from both of them. Marina and Alma looked like they were upset with one another. I figured they got into an argument on the way home; a few hours in a plane can do that to you.

A week later, and we are back in our routine, but Alma and Marina are still barely talking. I ask what is wrong, and she tells me that she and Marina had an argument about Karl. I chalked it up to the meeting not being longer, so I say, “Well, maybe next vacation Karl has can be spent in California, and he can bring his sons, so Marina can meet her brothers.

They can even stay with us for a few days.” Alma really liked that idea.

So, and I kid you not, the very next day, both are at work, and I have the day off. I am working around the house and come across a small stack of papers on the entryway table. I pick them up and see if they are important. It’s a printed out email, and I see my name in it. I read it and just keep reading through the stack of papers. It was a complete print out of Alma and Karl’s email conversations they were having through her work email address. I felt sick; the more I read, the sicker I felt.

In the emails, they had the whole vacation planned out, including the fact that Karl would be staying with her and Marina in the suite I had arranged for them rather than get his own hotel room.

The worst was the fact that they were debating how they should tell Marina that they planned on being affectionate with each other during this trip because as he put it, “She should be happy that her parents are finding each other again after 18 years” and ” How else are you and I going to be able to share a room?” Turns out, Marina wasn’t very happy about the situation and wouldn’t let them be alone together.

The first thing I did was take the emails and have copies made. I wasn’t sure about what I was going to do yet, but I knew I should make them. I then drove to Alma’s work and tell her I was there to take her to lunch.

When we got to a secluded parking lot, I confronted her about the emails. She had the nerve to try and turn it on me: “How could you go through my private emails like that?” She didn’t argue; she just claimed that the bond that she and Karl had was strong and that I wasn’t the husband that she had hoped I would be. I argued, I cried, and I asked her if we could work through it, and all she would say is, “Maybe” and that she would think about it.

For the next few days, I was a mess. I would mope and pout when I was alone and would be Alma’s attentive husband when she was home, then I saw that she and Karl were chatting on the home computer not even trying to hide it.

The Revenge

When I realized that this wasn’t going to end, I decided that I needed ammunition. I already had the emails from her work, but I wanted more, so I found a computer program that runs in the background. It takes screenshots and is a keystroke logger. I installed it on both our home computers. With the program, I had screenshots of their chat sessions, and I had access to Alma’s personnel email accounts. I found every last bit of correspondence and printed it out.

At first, I thought I would take the emails to a lawyer that could use it for my divorce, but then I found out that California was a no-fault state, so it wouldn’t matter, so I came up with plan B.

I took everything I had collected and begun going through it. I arranged it in chronological order and began writing down every bit of information that it thought I could use. Every break at work, I would just read, highlight, and write down information. I ended up with two notebooks full of random info: where Karl worked, where his father’s home was, phrases Karl would use, etc.

Phase 2 was the fun part.

I went to a popular search engine that also would provide you with a free email address. I found the link to the Mexican version and created an email address for a fake woman. Let’s call her Miss Sandoval. Miss Sandoval emails Alma and tells her that she was Karl’s live-in girlfriend until a few weeks prior and that she had been debating whether or not to email and warn her about Karl and his anger.

Miss Sandoval wrote about their relationship and things that they would do, like his favorite vacation spots, how she cared for his boys, all the pet names he would call her, etc. Everything is written would come from one of the emails or chats they would have. Then Miss Sandoval wrote about how he would become verbally abusive and how it started around the same time that Alma and Karl’s relationship changed.

Emails went back and forth for a week, and in one email, I included pictures of a battered woman I found online. As this interaction is going on, I am still keeping tabs on their conversations, and their tones have changed. Alma asks about Miss Sandoval, and of course, he denies knowing who she is, and of course, Alma doesn’t believe him.

She is furious that he would lie to her and that now she feels like she is the reason for this poor woman’s abuse.

In the end, Alma breaks things off with him, and she even shares the email from Miss Sandoval with Marina and convinces her that her father is a terrible person, and she shouldn’t have any more contact with him.

Oh, but that’s not all. During my spying, I was able to find Karl’s ex-wife’s (KAREN) social media and had Miss Sandoval email her a copy of every email I had. Now, I don’t know what Mexico’s divorce laws are like, but Karen was very grateful for all the info and was sure that it would help her in the divorce that had been going on for 3 years at that point.

Now let’s not forget about Alma. She didn’t go unscathed from this. When her relationship with Karl tanked, she naturally tried to fix things with me, and me so satisfied that I torpedoed their relationship, was more than happy to accept her attention. Don’t get me wrong; our marriage was over. I was just leading her to think that we were working things out.

On the day that I left, the first eviction notice arrived from the bank. Apparently, the ordeal made me forget to pay the mortgage on our house, and her job received an email from me with copies of her and Karl’s inappropriate emails made using the company email address and showing it was on company time. It was worth the hit to my credit score just to get her frantic voice messages about her losing the house and her getting demoted at work.” GaianBreg

Another User Comments:

“How about you and Marina? Kinda feel bad for her since she seemed like she was on your side and is not caught in the middle.” meesuseff

Reply:

“Marina and my relationship became stronger after that, even if I was never a father figure to her.

After a few years, she tried again to connect with her father, but in the end, he just backed off.” GaianBreg

12. Tyrant Shift Supervisor Gets Fired And Arrested

“I work as a computer technician now, but when I was in college, I worked part-time at a well-known chain cafe. Let’s call it Seattle’s Finest.

Other than babysitting or odd one-off, under the table work helping at friends’ booths at renaissance fairs, it was my first job.

The manager, “Eliza,” had aspirations for rising in the company at a corporate level, so she was obsessed about making our store the finest. Seattle’s Finest.

At the same time, though, she wasn’t an especially effective manager at the store level. She didn’t really know how to make all the drinks and had to constantly refer to the recipe cards, even though she was supposed to be an expert on everything.

She also didn’t really care to learn, which meant that during a particularly busy rush, she could never step in and help us out in making drink orders. She would just hole up in her little office in the back near the kitchen.

However, she had a college degree, and our company’s policy, at least at the time, was that only college degree holders could be the full manager of a store.

She left the day-to-day running of the store to “Steven,” the lead shift supervisor who had been working at that location for twenty-five years, since he was sixteen, “and the only reason I’m not a manager is that I don’t have a college degree.”

He never tired of reminding all the workers that the store “would go to ***”* if he wasn’t around.

Steven didn’t really have to do much other than delegate others to do things, make sure orders were sent out to suppliers, and to sign those orders in when they arrived. Our store followed standard company practice, and so a fixed amount of supplies was usually ordered in every day with only slight variations to account for our particular store’s needs. (For example, we might order sixty chocolate muffins a da, while the company average is a hundred because our store was next to a yoga studio, and the ladies who came in ordered less of the fattening items.)

Steve also wrote the schedule every week.

When I was hired on, Eliza was the one who interviewed me, and she assured me I’d get at least twenty hours a week, four-hour shifts (to coincide with my school schedule), and I only worked Saturdays on the weekend, not Sundays.

During my two-week training period, she kept her word. I’d hover right around 18 to 22 hours a week – four or four-and-a-half hours at a time.

After that, however, since I was fully trained, she passed me over to Steven.

Steven followed Eliza’s pattern for a week or so, but soon, he began trying to schedule me in the mornings, which I couldn’t do because of school. He’d pretend to get really angry and disappointed and talk about how “in my twenty-five years with the company, one of the first things you learn is to be a team player.”

Well, I thought that was great, but I still couldn’t work in the mornings. So, he’d grumble and say, “I’ll have to talk to Eliza to see what we have to do about you.”

Eliza would only occasionally show up to the store.

Usually, she was there midmorning and left well before closing. Steve would always open the store. “I’ve been opening the store for more than twenty years… blah blah blah blah…”

Steven would try to suck up to customers, and at the same time, condescend to us in front of them.

“Forgive her; she’s new.”

“You see what I have to work with, raw recruits!”

Sometimes he’d outright call us “dumba**es” if we couldn’t clean things up fast enough or make drinks quickly enough.

Like, he’d be hanging out in back, counting boxes. Meanwhile, it’s 12:00 pm on a Saturday, and I’m running the register and making all the drinks, and our line is ten deep, and he sent his other worker off to lunch, and he, himself, refuses to help.

“You’ve got to have your baptism of fire.”

He took himself way too seriously.

He thought he was special because he spoke fluent Spanish.

Since he worked in the morning, a lot of people who had early morning jobs would come in, and many of them spoke Spanish only. He thought it was “his specialty” that he could communicate with them.

Well, my father is from Spain, and I happen to speak fluent Spanish myself, so one Saturday when I opened the store with him, I started speaking Spanish to one of the customers, and the customer complimented me on how well I spoke the language.

Steve looked like he was ready to murder me.

Whenever customers would come in who spoke Spanish, rather than let me communicate with them, Steve would get up off his butt and say, “I’ll handle this.”

As time went on, Steve would only schedule me for eight hours a week, like closing Friday night and opening Saturday morning.

I thought, whatever, I’ll just start applying to other jobs. I didn’t tell him that, though.

I knew he was giving all the hours to his favorites, usually young women who he tried to flirt with. I know, because he tried the same thing with me at first. He said that he could give me more hours, but I had to “play ball.”

Nothing that I could actually prove in court, but he was hinting that if I go out with him, he would give me more hours. No thanks, man. You’re gross and married.

Well, Eliza was up for promotion to district manager, which meant she would oversee five or six Seattle’s Finest coffee shops instead of just one. However, in a whole team meeting one special Sunday, she said that our store consistently was losing product.

She warned us to stop giving discounts to friends, stop giving away free cookies or snacks to friends, etc. She also said that if we planned to have some of the pastries ourselves (we were allowed a certain amount of free product depending on the hours we worked), we had to make sure to write it down on the “store use” board.

At least during the hours I worked, I never witnessed anyone giving away free product and I certainly wasn’t using any of it myself. No one gave stuff away other than Steve.

Steve got a bonus every time the store use board was below a certain threshold, and he would always accuse us of stealing or giving away things.

In fact, he said so at the meeting that “shrinkage is caused by these rookies who think a company runs on fee-fees.

It’s a business based on cold money, and we’re bleeding it when we steal product or give it away.”

Meanwhile, I always notice STEVE giving free discounts to certain customers and giving things away.

One of those rules for thee, not for me, types of things.

Another worker actually asked him about it, and he said that “managers had certain privileges.”

Dude. You’re not a manager.

You make three dollars more an hour than me, and you’ve spent your whole life here.

He also resented the fact that most of us who worked in the store were college students who would eventually move on someday to something hopefully more financially profitable.

Steve would do this working-class hero bit where he would talk about how college people were snobs, didn’t know how to do real work, were lazy, and privileged.

He also mocked me for majoring in computing as a female and accused me of just trying to get my “MRS” degree. He acted like he was kidding, but he was still really slimy.

Then he went back to his homily about how business people’s whole day would collapse without people like him to get them started the right way with coffee. “I’m as indispensable to a large corporation as the CEO.”

Meanwhile, we’re all thinking, calm down, Steve, you’re a shift supervisor at a suburban coffee shop, and you wear an apron with your name embroidered on it; you’re not curing cancer.

But, anyway, Eliza’s promotion depended on our store reducing its shrinkage. On a date a few days from our Sunday meeting, company bigwigs would come to the store and check out how well Eliza ran things.

We were told to look sharp.

The bigwigs would be in the dining room, chatting with Eliza while the rest of us who were scheduled that day tried to look our best.

Steve didn’t really have any incentive to make Eliza look good because as long as he kept overall shrinkage beneath a certain number, he would still get his bonus. But, that threshold was too high for Eliza to her promotion. Also, it wasn’t as if Steve would become a manager if Eliza got promoted. The company would simply get a new manager as an outside hire. Informally, we’d call Steve “assistant manager,” but the company did not officially recognize him in this capacity. Since he was a longtime worker and worked full time, he did get health benefits and a two-week vacation.

The rest of us lowly part-timers just got a store discount and some free food or drink while working.

We got paid every two weeks, but we got tips every single week. If you’ve never worked at a coffee shop like Seattle’s Finest, customers would throw money into a jar at the register if they felt like being generous. The tips would be emptied out every night, and eventually, at the end of the week, all the money would be parceled out to all the workers depending on the hours they worked. Since I only worked for a few hours, my tips were small, but at least it paid for laundry.

My school starts a couple of hours after the store opens, and since I wasn’t burning too much energy working, I’d get up nice and early every day.

The store was close to my apartment, and I always walked there.

It was the time of year where the moon was still out early in the morning.

I decided that I’d walk to the store and get my tips for that week.

I approached the store from the alley entrance, but I intended to enter through the front. Store policy was that you could only enter the back way if you were scheduled to work. As usual at that hour, our daily supply truck was pulling out of the alley, and there was a huge stack of daily supplies in crates outside the back door. Steve propped open the back door with a trash can and was carrying one crate at a time into the store’s backroom.

My first instinct was to help him, but then I remembered that I wasn’t being paid, and besides that, Steve was a total *****.

I *******************was fascinated watching him as he worked because, usually, he was such a lazy a**. I was hidden by cars and trees, so he couldn’t see me.

He stopped working, but there was still a crate left at the back door. It was filled with what looked to be croissants and random boxes of granola bars. In addition to coffee and pastries, our store also sold third-party nutrition bars, the kind where you can buy a box of six for $4 at the grocery store, but we’d charge you $2.99 for one.

He was talking on his cellphone, and only a minute or two later, a beat-up car pulls into the alley.

The driver pops the trunk, and Steve puts the crate into the car, and the car speeds off. Steve then goes back into the store.

At first, I tried to rationalize what I had seen. Maybe it was just a work-related thing that I didn’t understand because I wasn’t a shift supervisor. Maybe the person in the car was from another store, and our store was supposed to send those items to them?

I decided to forget my tips for the time being and walked back home.

By the time I got there, I realized it was most likely that Steve was just a thief.

I went to school and forgot about it for a few hours, but every now and then that day, I’d think about it again.

The next morning, I woke up and made sure I had my cellphone ready. I waited outside really early, even before the supply truck came. When it did come, sure enough, Steve did the same song and dance as the day before. He left one crate outside, coordinated with his accomplice on his phone, the same car arrived, and it pulled away after Steve packed its trunk with stolen goodies.

I thought I was being real slick in recording the scene, but later when I reviewed what I had, it was way too dark and unclear what was going on. And, if I tried to get closer to get a better picture or where there was more light, Steve would see me, and my cover would be blown.

I actually worked that day because it was a Saturday.

Steve was his usual d*uchewallet self, but hearing him banter with customers, it reminded me of other pieces of other conversations I overheard from him over the past many weeks.

Steve had a side business, or at least his wife did, selling snacks outside of clubs and sporting events. I put two and two together and realized that if Steve stole even one crate and sold off its items at a massive discount, he’d still make a pretty penny and all of its profit. And he had stolen a crate two days in a row. Who knew how many more crates he had stolen in the past?

I realized that if I told Eliza, she wouldn’t believe me, and Steve would deny it.

I had to catch him red-handed.

The approach I’d been making to the alley was too far to record him without being observed, but I saw that there was an apartment complex on the other side of the alley. If I could somehow get into that apartment complex, all I’d have to do is quietly hold my phone over the brick wall, and it would be close enough to record him.

That was precisely what I did.

Staking out Steve’s stealing became my morning ritual for a week.

Out of four days, he stole a crate three times. And each time, I had him recorded. I wasn’t scheduled to come in until an afternoon the next week.

Now, all I needed to do was show Eliza my phone, and I’d nail this b*stard.

Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be in the store for a while, either.

But then I remembered that the big company meeting regarding Eliza’s promotion was coming up that Monday afternoon, just a couple of days later.

I wasn’t scheduled to work, but I knew I could talk my way into the back room with an excuse that I needed my check.

Our back room has a computer where we clock in and out. It’s just one window on the screen. If you click out of it, you have access to the rest of the computer’s functions.

One thing the computer always has running in the background is what we called “store TV.” It was basically just a series of short infomercials about how wonderful Seattle’s Finest coffee was.

How our beans are from plantations where workers are treated humanely, how we donate to underprivileged communities, offer to fund to women in STEM, and things like that. The file was stored as a .WMV file and the store just played it on a continuous loop. Every so often, Eliza would obtain a new set of infomercials, and we’d loop those out.

Our store had one big screen mounted from the ceiling which faced out into the store away from the registers.

My plan, obviously, was to upload my video of Steve stealing onto the store computer. I had the files, which I combined at home into one big file of three occasions where you could clearly see his face, the face of the woman driving the car who I assume is his wife, and how they clearly are stealing product from the store.

Eliza and the big bosses were already there at the restaurant, so the sensible thing would be for me to say, “Excuse me, Eliza” and just brazenly interrupt her meeting with my cellphone video held up to her face.

But I love a bit of drama, and Steve had this coming.

So, I see Eliza with her colleagues sitting at a table near the registers where Steve is standing with a sh*t-eating, kiss-a** grin on his face. The store isn’t really crowded.

Eliza sees me when I come in and, in full “I love my staff” mode, says, “Oh, everyone! Here’s OP, one of our newest and best. She’s going to college for computing!”

Followed by a bunch of nods and “Ooo-aaah” pretending to give a ***.

I smile and mouth the words, “I’m just here to get my tips.”

“Of course, OP!”

Our tips are placed in little baggies labeled with the amount in our cubbies in the backroom with an honor system not to go grabbing anyone else’s tips.

I grab my tips ($11.50, not bad!), but I go straight for the computer. I have my phone’s data cable and plug it into the USB port of the store computer.

I upload the file as planned.

I un-click the propaganda channel for Seattle’s Finest, switch it to “Steve the Thief,” and set the video for “continuous loop.”

I come out into the restaurant, and as usual, no one really cares about the TV.

I go to Steve and order a hot latte.

Steve looks like he wants to stab me in the throat, but he still has the sh*t-eating grin on his face because the bosses are all there.

He doesn’t know that just a few feet above his head, there’s a continuous loop of him and his wife stealing product in the alley every morning. I had made sure to include a time and date stamp on the videos when editing.

He already had some hot milk ready, and all he had to do was pull two espresso shots.

I had my drink in thirty seconds.

I pulled out my wallet, but uncharacteristically, he smiled at me and waved me off. Eliza saw me and nodded in approval.

Then I sat at a table not far from where the bosses were sitting.

Above Steve’s head, his video was playing silently.

Finally, the payoff.

One of the bosses said, “Say, Eliza, that isn’t our company video of our donations to minority scholarships.

What IS that?”

Eliza looks at the video. Everyone else looks at the video.

Mouths agape.

Only Steve is still standing there like a grinning ninny.

Finally, Eliza says, “Steve, can you explain what’s going on here?”

Steve looks at the video and looked for a second like he was going to run out of the room like Usain Bolt. He didn’t do or say anything other than run into the back room. Seconds later, the video stopped, and a few moments later, it began playing again.

Haha, Steve.

I deleted the correct video, made a duplicate of YOUR video, and renamed it as if it were the propaganda channel.

Everyone in the dining room was once again treated to a loop of Steve and his wife stealing an entire crate of designer granola bars and pastries repeatedly.

One of the big bosses said, “Eliza, let’s close the store right now. Young lady, I’m sorry, but…”

He pointed me to the door.

Who am I to argue, sir?

I walked home with $11.50 but felt like a million bucks.

A couple of days later, I get a call from corporate thanking me for the information about Steve. No, sorry they tell me; they can’t give me details about what happened, as it’s a police matter. Anyway, as thanks, a week later, I received $200.

In-store credit.

A few days later, I came in to find neither Eliza nor Steve at the restaurant.

One of my coworkers told me that she heard that Steve was arrested for theft. Both he and his wife.

Eliza got her promotion because it was proven that the only reason her store had moderately high shrinkage was that Steve was stealing.

However, because she was supposed to be keeping a close eye on Steve, she’s being watched carefully to ensure she’s actually a good employee. Well, that’s fair. She wasn’t a thief, but she should have kept a closer watch on her store. The whole getting a full-time salary but only showing up for a few hours a week thing wasn’t acceptable.

As for me, the new manager got me my final check because I quit.

I went and applied for a job on campus at my school’s off-brand coffee shop. Same basic job, a few jerks here and there (I’m no prizewinner myself, just saying), but I did make a buck an hour more.

As time went on, and I graduated school, I did eventually learn that Steve was not only stealing product but also embezzling tips and tampering with the timeclock to reduce people’s hours and give himself more.

He went to jail for six years, but his wife got a suspended sentence because they had two children under age 13.

I learned this because the company I work for actually did tech service for Seattle’s Finest’s corporate office where Eliza now works. She remembered me, and over the finest coffee in all of Seattle, she told me the whole story.” TrinityAdams

11. Take Our Parking Spot? Get Arrested For *****

“A few years ago, I was going through a harder point of my life. I was living with my brother and my mom, and that was it. My brother, albeit a bit younger, could barely keep his grades up or clean his room, let alone help out with the house, so most choices and responsibilities ended up falling upon my mother and me to work out, and at the time of the story, we ended up agreeing that the current city we lived in was too expensive (her side) and sh*tty because I didn’t like my peers in the school district (my side), and in less than ten minutes, we had agreed to move nearly half an hour away and never look back, and it was perfect.

Well, it was perfect for about a week, if that. Because, the moment we moved in, our d*uchebag of a neighbor existed. Enter Roger, who made the mistake of taking my mom’s parking spot. This was an issue because if we didn’t have our parking spot, we had to park five minutes of walking away from the house, which was unpleasant for us. So, we decided to politely ask for our spot back.

Mom: “Hi, is this your car?” My mom asked as she saw Roger walk back to his car

Roger: “Yeah, and it’s my spot, too. It’s always been that way.”

Mom: “Well, you see, the spots are numbered, and this is clearly our un-”

Roger: “*** you.”

And with that, Roger had driven away and set the tone for the entire lease between us.

My mom and I agreed we’d try to do what we could to get the neighbor to reconcile in his ways and keep notes of anything, well, noteworthy, but otherwise, not much could be done. The landlords did ***-all to help us, so we were out that spot.

About a month in, I left school about an hour early and found a free parking spot when I drove there with a friend and decided this would be the day we gave him a taste of his own medicine. Turns out, he wasn’t very rational either. This led to him blocking my friend in, so he could threaten to assault him until my friend insisted on leaving.

I told my mom about this, and she agreed that this was the last straw.

We were taking this guy down. So, she told me to wait and do nothing for a day… so she could get in touch with her friend, who happened to be a sheriff for our local county.

Now, I do want to defend myself a bit here… Nah, just kidding. We’re totally ****** snitches, especially when it comes to people like this! Anything that comes their way, they deserve. So, we told this guy everything small that happened since the month we moved in; they were constantly loud, we heard yelling from Roger all the time, and at one point, they broke some furniture outside, and my mom could smell something weird through the walls. (This turned out to be *****.) The sheriff seemed intrigued.

Sheriff: “Now, Mom, how much do you hate this guy?”

Mom: “I just want my parking spot.”

Sheriff: “Well, here’s the thing. We can’t do anything about your parking spot. That’s a civil dispute and not our territory. But…”

Mom: “But?”

Sheriff: “You mentioned you smell stuff through the walls, right? Well, we’ve been arresting an awful lot of people driving under influences, and it’s really close to this complex. If we got him for that, he’d have no car to park in your spot behind bars.”

And so our plan was born. We wrote down everything we smelled, we wrote down the plates of every car that was in our and his spot, we even set a camera up to automatically take pictures of cars and log when they left and pulled in (a motion camera I set up on a high window), and basically every noise we heard.

And when the time came and the sheriff needed evidence, we forwarded it all onto the police officer.

Fast forward through months of this… Half of our apartment is packed up, I’ve resigned to always walking home and not even bothering having my mom drive me most days, and our neighbor is still being obnoxious as ****. And then I saw a truly beautiful sight: The apartment right next to us swarmed by six law enforcement cars, two of which were for CPS, and four of which were, well, armed ****** cops.

Turns out, almost every single plate we noted down and sent to the friend had been arrested for some form of drug possession. He wasn’t just buying *****, he was SELLING *****.

Basically every kind of them. And that CPS car? Turns out, he had shared custody of three kids! “He definitely won’t be seeing those kids again,” the sheriff told us. He also told us later that Roger got years behind bars, though I’m not sure how many. Probably something over ten.

The funny part is that nobody except the Sheriff knew my mom was behind this. She said she wanted to remain anonymous and even turned him down on taking us to dinner. When he asked her why, she replied, “Well, it was a bit late, but you got us that parking spot back, didn’t you?”” smurfhunter99

10. Keep Using My Mug? I’ll Give You The Worst Burn Of Your Life

“I worked for a major regional airline as an aircraft maintenance engineer in their heavy maintenance base.

Being located in a regional center, we had a relatively tight-knit workforce. We were all a big family. But as families go, there were some personalities that just did not get along and others that just did stupid stuff without thinking.

In the breakroom above the sink, there was a board with hooks on it for us to hang mugs if we had them. I decided to bring in a mug from home, just your standard plain, blue-colored mug. I would hang it on the same hook every time as others had done with their own personal mugs.

A couple of years pass, and the company purchased some mugs and glassware for the breakroom and meeting room. Management asked us not to leave any cups or mugs in the sink or on any of the benches.

Coincidentally, the mugs they bought were the very same type and color as my mug, so I thought the safest thing to do was write my name on my mug, so it would not get confused by the cleaners as one of the company’s. So, I took a black marker and wrote my name on the bottom.

Not long after this on one particular day, I went to get my mug for some tea, only to find it missing from the hook. After a brief search, I found it out in the hangar on a bench. I took it back, cleaned it up, and thought not much more of it.

A few days later, it happened again. This time it was left in the sink.

Whatever. Wash. Use. Put it back on the hook like always. This pattern of my specific mug being used by someone and left in random places. This had to stop.

I tried writing my name in big letters on the outside of the mug. It still would go walkabout. I would leave a post-it note IN the mug saying not to use it. I would find it sitting in the sink half full of cold coffee. I got the label maker and made a large dayglow orange sticker with my name on it with biohazard symbols as a bit of a joke. This time, it completely disappeared. This was frustrating for me and amusing to my shift crew.

I had just about enough and decided to end this game of cat-and-mug.

Anyone who works in Aviation maintenance knows that most large aircraft use a hydraulic fluid called Skydrol. To explain, this synthetic oil supposedly is safe to use and handle, but in reality, is not nice stuff. If you were to get some on your hands, you would experience a slight warming sensation leading to a mild sting. Any cuts or breaks in the skin of your hands or fingers would almost instantly sting with contact with this fluid. Softer skin (armpits or genitalia if you were unlucky) was even more sensitive. If you got this stuff in your eyes it was an agony that simply water would take minutes to abate. With this being said, the MSDS listed no toxicity or adverse effects, short or long term.

“Minor discomfort with skin contact” was the only detrimental effect listed.

After consulting the MSDS to confirm this fluid was non-toxic, I decided to bring in another mug from home and leave it on my hook as usual, but this time with a little surprise smeared strategically around the rim. The trap was set. Sure enough, the next day, I came into work to find my mug missing again. No one owned up. It was a bit of an anti-climax, but Mug Number 3 did not go missing again.

A few months went by, and we were having some beers with the other shift crews. I was chatting with this bloke who was known for being extremely laid-back but also for having multiple used mugs on his toolbox.

I told him about the problem I was having with my mug going missing all the time, and he told me that someone must have spiked a mug on him for no reason. I asked what it was. He said he wanted a cup of coffee and took a mug out of the breakroom. After a few sips, he wondered what the weird taste was that quickly led to his lips feeling like they were on fire. He said he dropped the mug in his haste to get to the bathroom to try and wash his face. Washing with water simply spread the burning sensation further around his face. He said that he never took another mug from the breakroom again.

I told him it was me, and we both had a laugh. He took it like a champ and never ‘borrowed’ anyone’s mug ever again.” WolfLSU

Another User Comments:

“I remember a similar situation in an old job. A girl called Lisa brought a small carton of milk each day to make tea and stuff. One day, she got to her lunch break and found her milk was almost finished.

This continued daily for a few weeks until she decided on her plan.

She brought in her daily milk carton but spiked it with a STUPID amount of salt. Later on, she heard another girl from the office ranting about how someone had put tons of salt in the milk. She presumably didn’t realize it was not the office’s milk.

CAUGHT!” ranjitzu

9. High School Bully Gets His House Manured

When  I was in high school, I was with a dude who was was a real *** to me. Basically, he ruined 4 years of school. In the end, he was 2 years behind us. We ended school, and he left it. Stupid moron. Fast forward to a few months ago, I’m an Agrarian Technician with an office and all the things. yes,  I even got a potted ficus in there. In come this dude named Dude McJerk who has the same surname as the *** from high school. Turns out, this is the father.

He wants some counseling for their farm and for me to order them some phytoproducts (stuff for plants, anti parasites, and nutrients).

Ok, no problem. I need to see the place. He says, “No, you can’t see the place. Just order everything.” He’s gone angry and starts yelling profanities. Total *** just like his son. He even scratched my car. Then I just made a call and waited. I called my friend and my mentor; he’s the only other A.T. in the place. I explain everything, and he agrees to send the Dude back to me.

Then Dude agreed to show me the place. Turns out, he has a completely illegal house (unfinished home, looks unfinished outside, legally counts as machinery deposit, low to non-existent taxes). I see everything. All his trees are completely messed up beyond recognition by every type of bug, and his crops are dying.

And then, I see him – the *** from high school. I ignore him and get to my job. I order 20 tons of manure for the crops, plus some fertilizer, and various kinds of pesticides. I tell the *** dad that he needs to employ someone with the right license.

He smirks, then pulls his cards a little bit too early. He says he will sign when everything gets delivered. Plus, he says that I have to write that I’ve never been to his farm. Now, if you try to *** me, I will *** with you right back. I put in the order, not in my usual way (pay everything and then get the money – it’s faster but is based on trust), but in another way (order arrives, client pays me, deliverer and who sells everything).

Then comes the delivery day. *** dad and son are not home. Their plan is simple: Have me pay for all, I sue them, they use the product in the meantime, and after months, I get ***. Not on my watch. I tell the big truck to dump all in front of what seems like the machinery deposit.

There you are, 20 tons of poop two meters from your door. Then the other products. And we wait. After two hours, they come home (expecting that we left before) and see the new Mount Poop. *** hits the fan, Dude yells at me, and *** (being the ***head he is) pops one of the truck tires with a knife. The truck driver hits him.

*** and Dude threaten to call the police. Then the driver calls the police. *** is cuffed for being a dumba**. *** is getting his a** fined for the illegal use of dangerous products (this *** is worse than poison), then the police see two things: ammonium nitrate (the fertilizer) stored near the oil fuel for the tractor and a tv antenna coming out the *** pile (the house was invisible behind the pile). *** got arrested, sued, got out of jail but lost his hunting license (a must-have here). Dude got arrested; sued; and jailed for scamming, dangerous storing of potential explosives, plus more time because they found unregistered firearms. They both lost the house (destroyed), and the farm (lost crops and trees).

The truck driver got his money and a new tire. Other people got their money. I got my $2,000 of work, my $400 for the car, and another $1,000 for the attempted scam. Feels good.” TurbulentPiglet

8. Force Me To Quit? Good Luck With Your Organization Now

“So, about three years ago, I was asked by a friend (Ash) to help out a wheelchair-bound disabled chap called Gary who wanted to go swimming, but none of his care staff apart from my friend were willing to take him. I agreed because I’ve worked in care at all levels previously, so I was fine with helping a chap out.

I was there a month or so before they asked if I was willing to take on actual shifts there.

I was, so I started very part-time initially.

The shifts were a waking night/sleep from 23:00 till 12:00 the next day and a single four-hour shift between 15:00 and 19:00. I was given a couple of day shifts, and I was tasked with picking up any shifts because of holidays or illness by other staff members.

He had four other staff: my friend Ash, a dude called Jake, one called Craig, and the most problematic, Lisa.

Lisa picked up one sleep per week and a couple of day shifts. The problem is that she was a raging alcoholic who just didn’t come to work if she wanted to go out drinking instead. But Gary (disabled chap) fancied her a bit, and she was very touchy-feely with him I think to manipulate him as he’s very lonely.

Jake wouldn’t work a weekend and would only do two sleeps, plus, Jake didn’t like doing any housework, and he didn’t like doing personal care because he thought it was gross.

Craig would only work three sleeps and never a day shift. He didn’t believe he should have to do any housework at all; he wouldn’t even make a bed. Things were changed in the scheme to suit Craig: vacuums had to be emptied and cleaned every time you used it, no sheets were kept on the carer’s bed as Craig didn’t think he should change them, Gary had to be put in his PJs by the day staff as Craig didn’t want to do that either, etc.

Again, as I said, nobody was willing to take Gary swimming, and now I knew why.

Please just allow yourself a moment to understand that two staff members had at least 65% of the allotted hours but would not do any housework or personal care. Craig has worked this job for a decade and made at least $2,250 every month without fail but without having to do any work and for half the week; he just has entire days to do nothing. Easy money.

These three staff members are seemingly bulletproof, and nothing they do gets them dismissed. Lisa had, at this point, had been suspended three times during my tenure for being drunk and abusive on duty. At one point, she was suspended for ten weeks while they let everything blow over.

So, I get taken on to mainly make up for the fact his mother is off on the sick as she has had surgery on her knee.

But after about a year or so, I became aware that his mother is being paid a full wage every month but without statutory sick pay being noted on her payslip.

I immediately know what’s up. Gary’s mother is in control of his account that the local authority pays money into that he then pays his care staff from. I also find out that Gary is also using this account to fund his lifestyle, including adult chatrooms, clothes, and gifts for his staff. He is quite blatant about it and laughs about it often.

I find this really galling because I pay tax to my local authority every month, like every family in the UK, and that pays for everything in my area including social care.

So, I report this to the local authority and get absolutely no joy. Very disappointed in this, I decide to continue working there but save all the evidence I can for the future. I also convince him to keep a handover book for the staff to note what their activities were that day, so anyone curious can track what things staff are and aren’t doing.

Anyway, up until last week, I was working for him for about 30 hours a week and handling a lot of the day to day problems. But I get a text from his mother saying she is returning to work the following week, so my services will be reduced to a single four-hour shift once a fortnight.

I said, ‘Thank you, but no thank you,’ and I worked till my final paycheck and called it quits.

Now as a last-ditch attempt to get someone to listen, I send a lengthy email to the emergency care team at the adult care service where I detailed absolutely everything.

I got interested, and today somebody came out to interview me.

They were incredibly interested in what I had to say and confirmed my initial email kickstarted an investigation into Gary’s situation. They told me they had been building a case against this for a while and that it stretches back the entire twenty years he had been able to pay for his own care.

I had documented that his mother had paid herself for working 9 hours every Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday for every month that I had worked there.

She had submitted timesheets herself to the local authority that documented this. She had also submitted the timesheets to the council that showed the same days that she was apparently working. she had arranged for other staff to work with them, namely me and two others. She had also sent messages to me that documented her communicating with me to continue to cover her shifts. The handover book documented what had been done that day. She never wrote in it, obviously. Medication charts at the property documented who gave him medication that day. She never signed it.

So, yesterday morning, Gary and his mother were called to the council to explain to them why his entire contingency fund was gone. This was meant to pay for sick pay, maternity pay, and any other unforeseen monetary problems he may encounter.

There was nothing left. Gary admitted some guilt and cut them a check for $6,200 on the spot. This money was something he came into recently after his grandfather had died.

That was a humongous admission of guilt.

Then when the social worker met Gary at his address yesterday, and after some probing, he admitted that, yes, he was aware of the conspiracy that he and his mother operated, and yes, he was paying her a full wage every month knowing that she was not working.

Again, the jackpot for that social work and an even bigger admission of guilt.

The social worker was meant to then interview the mother, but at that point, she knew it was knowingly criminal and that he and his mother had entered a criminal conspiracy to defraud the council over a potential twenty-year period to the tune of a quarter of a million pounds at least.

She contacted the police and left them to arrest the mother and interview her.

I was told I will be contacted in due course to be interviewed by the police as would all other staff.

I was also told that Gary would no longer be in control of his staffing at all, and there is no way that the other staff members would be taken on by the care organization that would have to be brought in to run his care. The only other person who would interview for his position would be my buddy Ash as he had a faultless record.

I’m jobless at the moment, but hey, I take a foreign holiday next week, and I’ll put in the groundwork in to get a new job for when I arrive home.” fastdub

7. I Turned My Entire Family Against My Abusive Parents

And rightfully so.

“I am a 26-year-old female, and I’m the youngest of 5, so young that by the time I was 10, I was alone in the house, and my siblings had grown up.

My mother and father separated when I was about 6 and divorced when I was 12. The reason for the separation was my mother’s cheating with a family friend, who later became my stepfather. My mother and father were still officially married for those 6 years, but my mother and I lived with my future stepfather.

It started when I was about 9 or 10 until I was about 17. My stepfather assaulted. Not only that – he did it in front of my mother, and she did nothing. The two of them often forced me to watch p*rn with them, they had s*x in front of me, my stepfather would put up pictures of girls with c*m all over them all over the walls, he would often tell me about their ****** exploits (they were swingers), and later, he would complain to me about their lack of a s*x life.

Now, this is enough to make you hate a person, right? Well, this is just the beginning.

I wasn’t allowed any privacy. I couldn’t sleep with my bedroom door closed or close the door when I took a shower/bath. Once I closed the door a little bit, and the towel draped over the door fell over the door’s handle. That day, he lost his sh*t. He would force me to touch his ******** at night, no matter how I protested. He pulled my hands towards it. And this all happened in front of my mother, who did nothing. He would confess to me that he had s*x dreams about me.

My stepfather also emotionally abused me. I would accidentally step on his toe, and he’d blow up.

I would accidentally push the grocery cart into his heels, and he would blow up. I was a nerd at school and got straight A’s. That wasn’t good enough. I had to get better marks. Once, he poked me in the eye, and I hit him with a di***owel. I was 12. He’s still mad about it.

My mother and her ***** of a husband also estranged me from my father. They kept telling me that he didn’t want me as his kid, that he refused to pay child support, and that he had a new family, and I wasn’t in it. This was all a lie. My father showed me the bank deposit slips, and he paid more than he was court-ordered to.

My sisters kept trying to tell me that our dad didn’t throw me away, but what did I know? I was a kid.

I am convinced I had Stockholm Syndrome because I still worshipped the ground they stood on. I mean, they treated me like a maid. I was their little slave. I was too ****** scared to say no because my stepfather had an awful temper and would amplify whatever I did.

They kept me from attending university. I had a scholarship to study mining engineering, but they refused to let me go. They told me they couldn’t afford it. Later, I found out that my brother had offered to put me through university and that he would pay for it all, and I would live with him and his family.

Of course, he asked my mother first, who declined the offer. I found out when I was 24. Still hurts.

So, around the time I was 16, I visited my sister and her husband. He tried to m*lest me, and that was when I started to realize that it was WRONG. I told my sister, and she basically attacked him. She was protective of me, not of her marriage. I went home and confronted my mother and stepfather.

Do you know what his reaction was? He said I was a stupid girl for thinking of them in the same light. I shouldn’t generalize all men. But yes, he agreed to stop – the m*lesting, not the other stuff. And he acted like I had done him wrong.

He went on Facebook and posted, “You’re never too old to get a low blow.”

Then, of course, there was the incident that made me move away from them and their sh*tty, little town.

See, two of my nephews lived with us, aged 7 and 9 at that stage. My mother and I took a cake to school, where the teacher asked to speak to me. They all knew me as the auntie, and I was basically their mother. Turns out, the nephew had been dipping into my mother’s purse and stole a lot of cash, a spare phone, a digital camera… Later that day in the kids’ room, there was more stuff they’d stolen, including my medication: my very strong antidepressants and mood stabilizers.

(Ot should not be a surprise that I am bipolar because of my parents.) I was P*SSED. They had also stolen the one piece of art I had done and was really proud of – and destroyed it. My mother refused to tell her husband about it.

The next day, I decided I had to get away for a while and visited a friend. We played games and drank. My parents found out and FREAKED THE *** OUT. Oh, I was 23 at this point. They decided that I had a drinking problem and needed help. They forced me to see a psychologist. He advised me to move away. So, I did. I finally got the courage to leave. I live over three hours away now, and they’re almost entirely out of my life.

I would cut them off, but I love my nephews too much.

I was p*ssed. I had been diagnosed as bipolar, very bad anxiety and, to top it all off, I also got a fibromyalgia diagnosis. If you don’t know what that is, I would advise you to Google it. The short version is that because of the trauma my parents inflicted, my body started to hate me. I live in permanent pain. As I’m typing this, I can’t move because my back is spasming and killing me. I can’t function like a normal human being.

Anyways, I went to my father and confronted him. He was so shocked to find out what my mother had accused him of, and he is p*ssed as *** at both her and her husband because of what they did.

I talked to both my sisters too, and they confirmed that my mother had been lying to my father. Apparently, I had decided that I never wanted to see my father again and that I hated him. We talked and reconciled. But he will honestly murder my stepfather if he ever sees him again.

The revenge:

I went to each of my siblings and their spouses and told them everything. I told them exactly what had happened, how it happened, and I didn’t spare any detail. My one sister-in-law went into mom-mode and assured me that it wasn’t my fault. My brother has disowned my mother and refuses to speak to her or her husband.

My brother-in-law (the one that tried to touch me) asked for my forgiveness, and I granted it.

He had repented, he had changed, and he is now in my life as a father figure. He refuses to do anything for my mother and has become one of my strongest protectors and allies. My sister has also cut my mother out of her life. She refuses to have anything to do with our mother.

My other sister is fiercely protective, and it turns out that our stepfather tried his luck with her too. She was on the phone with the police and CPS almost instantly when I told her.

My other sibling had sadly passed away. His wife has been absent without leave since he died. It’s their two kids that live with my mother.

So, I turned my entire family on my mother and stepfather.

I ruined every relationship they had with me and my siblings. They can’t even see their grandkids. Not just that, but now they’re facing CPS, which is highly embarrassing to deal with in their small town.

I contacted the school and told them about the ****** abuse I had suffered and begged them to keep an eye on the boys. Yikes, turns out I made the situation with CPS worse! (For my mother, not the kids.) They’re telling everyone who will listen what an awful person I am. Luckily, I’m a decent person, and people tend to like me instantly. So, no one believes them.

The best thing is: these two idiots put me in their will as the sole inheritor. It hasn’t changed either.

Nobody wants anything to do with them, so they don’t know who to leave the money to.” distrustfulchild

6. Act Like A Poor Sport During A Skate Competition? I’ll Get The Cops After You

“Yesterday, June 21st, was national go skate day. As such, a lot of skateparks around the states were hosting competitions for various reasons. Parks were overcrowded, and people who don’t normally skate were getting out. Typical holiday stuff.

This shop I’ve been trying to get to carry my skateboards happened to be hosting one such contest at one such skate park. Anyways, this park has some of the notoriously worst skaters. Absolute jerks. They cut each other off, yell at each other, fight, and if the shop I wanted to see was not there, I would never skate this park.

So, being me, I decided to arrive early. Maybe it wouldn’t be too busy, and I could skate around for a bit without any trouble? I was so terribly wrong. I had collisions with four different skaters. Maybe those were my fault, or maybe I wasn’t paying attention very well. Maybe it was their fault? I’m ready to let it go, but I’m on edge.

I decide to drop into the pool because it is one of very few spots at a skatepark you go one at a time. So, I get in there, I started skating in circles just trying to get the feel for this pool. Warming up too. Then this kid, who we’ll call Kyle, starts yelling at me from the top of the pool.

Whatever. I’ve only been in the pool for a moment; I know it’s still my turn.

Still, though, this kid I can clearly make out every word he’s yelling.

Kyle: “Get out of the pool, you d*uche! This park is for good skaters! I need to warm up, so I can win the contest that Local Board Shop is hosting! You suck! You clearly can’t do any tricks! You have no shot at winning!”

“Whatever,” I think. I hate it here. Time to stop skating and just socialize. I pop out of the bowl by Kyle, and he pushes me.

**Kyle: “**Locals only, mother *****. Don’t let me see you step on that board again in my park.”

Me: “Whatever, kid. I’ll leave you to it.”

I go to put my board away when my revenge plan kicks into gear.

I own a skate company, and everyone seems to think skate companies sponsor anyone who can kickflip. So, I figure, I’m going to let it leak around the park that I’m here scouting talent to recruit to my team.

I go and cheer a few kids as they do their super basic tricks. I call them over one at a time to tell them I’m here scouting talent. Sure enough, within half an hour, kids all over the park are coming to me to introduce themselves, asking me to pay special attention, what company I represent, what sponsorship requirements are, that kind of stuff. At this point, even if my plan fails, I’ve just created a ton of buzz at this contest, and everyone is talking about me and my company.

Somewhere in the mix though, Kyle comes to talk to me.

Kyle: “Hey look, man, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I was excited, that’s all.”

Me: “Look, I get it, so I’m going to give you another chance. You said you’re competing right?”

Kyle: “Yeah, I’m here to destroy these ****** losers.”

Me: “Alright, listen, I saw you skating around a bit while I was talking to people. You’re really good, exactly the level of skating we need for someone on our team. I plan on keeping on eye on you; don’t disappoint me. What’s your name by the way?”

Kyle: “My name is Kyle, and *** yeah, bro. You know I got this on lock!”

Kyle actually was a very talented skater in case you’re wondering.

I had no plans of actually recruiting him or anybody, but he was good.

A little time goes by, and the contest starts. We start by doing “Best Trick” on the A-Frame. This is an A-Frame, so you can visualize.

There is absolutely no coordination on who goes when the guys from the shop just tell them to go and start calling out tricks they see on their megaphone. I start closely filming Kyle. Sure enough, he’s skating the contest like the d*uche he was being earlier. He’s yelling at people, pushing people out of the way, and he even hit a guy with his board. I get every single confrontation on video. I thought about sharing the video, but again, we don’t need a witch hunt.

Kyle ends up doing pretty well, landing 3rd place with a big flip over the A-frame. I couldn’t find a video of a big flip, but here is a bigger flip. A big flip is a kickflip with a 360-degree board rotation and a 180-degree body rotation. It’s an impressive trick. Somehow, he got beat by a kid that did a tailslide, and someone who did a kickflip into a boardslide with a shut out.

Me: “Hey Kyle, I saw your big flip over the A-Frame. That’s a hard trick, and I’m impressed. You got anything special planned for the next contest?”

Kyle: “LOL, it’s called S.K.A.T.E., you idiot. It’s like H.O.R.S.E. but for skateboarding. *** yeah, I got something.”

Me (Annoyed because I know exactly what a game of S.K.A.T.E.

is) “Yeah… Anyways, I’m excited to see what you can do.”

The rounds of S.K.A.T.E. start, and we do a single-elimination bracket. I’m still aggressively watching and filming everything Kyle does. Every time his competitor misses a trick, he makes fun of them. Every time they go to throw a trick, he yells something totally obscene to throw off their concentration. Every time he makes a trick, he does a mini-celebration, and every time he misses a trick, he blames his competitor and pushes them. You know, because it’s their fault he couldn’t land it.

He ends up getting knocked out in the third round. He throws his board across the park, and it almost hits someone, and he storms off for a bit.

When he comes back, I congratulate him on getting so far.

Me: “Good job getting to the third round. I really liked some of those tricks you had. I got a lot of them on camera. I’ll edit all the film from the day and show you later.”

Kyle: “Whatever. That ***tard that beat me cheated. Everybody ****** knows you’re not allowed to do body varials.”

Me: “Get him in the next event.”

Kyle: “Oh, *** yeah, bro. I got that ****** race on lockdown.”

It seriously irritates me when people use cuss words as filler for normal conversation. I just want to say I’m annoyed with him and how he speaks. I’m sure he chalked up my visible frustration to him losing though because that’s how Kyles are.

The next event is a race around the park. Simple. Best time wins. Kyle isn’t even close to being a contender on this one. He’s slow, he isn’t hitting obstacles correctly, and it seems like all this pressure I’m putting on him is really getting to him. He shoved some people out of the way, so he could be one of the first to go too, so he has to watch as 10-15 people just crush his time.

Every time someone looks like they’re going to be doing better than him, he starts yelling at them and screaming. He even threw sand on the course, probably so people would slide on it. I’m not really sure what his goal was, but it failed.

I decide I’m going to make an excuse for him on this one, so he has an easy cop-out, but also thinks I’m on his side.

Me: “Bro, it looks like you need some new bearings. You kept losing all the speed, but your form was great.”

Kyle: “Yeah, bro, but my mom is being a **** and won’t replace these *** bearings. *** her!”

Me: “Well, listen, man, I gotta go grab something real quick, company emergency. Will you be here in like an hour when I get back?”

Kyle: “Of ****** course, dog.”

There’s one more event. I didn’t bother to watch; I already had what I wanted. So, I start going through all these videos of Kyle, and I make an edit of every time he screamed at someone, cheated in an event, or had poor sportsmanship.

There’s like 10 minutes of him yelling at people and being a *** all edited into one super edit. I also grab lunch because food.

I get back to the park, and I grab a brand new deck out of my car. Just a prop. As I walk into it, I wave Kyle to come over to me. It looks like all the events are over, and the shop I came to see is just socializing with skaters.

Kyle: “Oh, no ****** way. Is that for me? I got the spot!?! I got the spot!”

Me: “Hey, yeah, so come check out this video. I want to show you exactly what I was paying attention to the entire time you were skating.”

I show Kyle the video.

It opens with his bigger flip, and then it proceeds to show him just being a ***. He makes excuses throughout the whole video. He tells me at several points, he didn’t mean it. It was a mistake. Typical loser stuff.

Me: “Here’s the deal. I love how you skate, but I expect better behavior out of any rider the might come ride for DJ Skate. If you go find all of these skaters and makeup with them before I leave, we have a spot on the team for you.”

Kyle: “These losers ****** worship me. They’ll all be ****** ecstatic to see me on your team.”

Me: “Alright, well, when you make up with them, tell them to come to see me. I want to hear it from them that they’re cool with you.”

I go hang out with the shop owners for a bit.

I point out everyone at the contest riding one of my boards and how they should carry my deck because their audience is skating them. After a few minutes, Kyle comes up holding this little kid by his ear.

Kyle: “Tell him we’re cool right ****** now, or I rip your ear off.”

Poor kid: “Yeah, what he said. We’re cool. We’re cool.”

I wave him off, and he goes back out, but now I’m watching him bully all these kids into coming over and saying we’re cool. The shop asks me what it’s about, and I tell them how I said we couldn’t sponsor anyone that behaves that way, and he wanted to be sponsored. They agree, and we just watch in awe as Kyle gets worse and worse.

Finally, one of the kids bigger than him seems to refuse the apology, and a fight breaks out. I rush over to break it up, but Kyle has already had his face beaten in by this kid. The kid yells about how no one likes him and how there is no way he would ever tell anybody for any reason to sponsor him.

Kyle (Crying and sniffling): “Look, DJ Skate, I tried to apologize, and he beat me up. I didn’t do anything wrong to him.”

**Me: “**Oh, don’t worry. I saw the whole thing. The guys at the shop saw too. We know exactly what happened.”

I didn’t know yet, but that very familiar sound of sirens goes off in the background. I didn’t think anything of it until police rushed passed me and start pinning guys to the ground.

Police officer: “What happened? One at a time.”

Kyle (Lying): “I was just skating minding my own business, and this guy beat me up. I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

The kid who beat up Kyle: “Not even, you came over here shoving us, telling us how we have to apologize to you for cheating in the contest and go tell that guy we’re cool, so you can get sponsored.”

They go back and forth, and the police finally come to me.

Police: “Is that true? Did you tell him you’d sponsor him if he made up with everybody here?”

Me: “Oh, boy, do I have a video for you guys…”

I show the police how he’s been pushing people and yelling at everyone all day, and I explain how this kid just decided he had enough and fought back to protect himself.

They walk Kyle out in cuffs, and I don’t even need to tell him he didn’t get the sponsorship. The police check with everybody who came to tell me they were cool with Kyle to make sure he didn’t hurt them too badly. They also check with some people in the video and get everyone’s contact info.

They start asking people older than 18 if they want to push charges and start calling the parents of the younger kids to ask if the same thing. A few people let it go, but at least 10 people want to push charges on Kyle.

The police ask for my video, as well as the raw footage, and I email it all to them. He also spends a painstaking amount of time recording my phone while the video plays using his chest cam.

It took like an hour of me just waiting to get my phone back.

At this point, the shop is packed up and heading out, promising once again to answer my email with whether or not they want to buy.

I’m not going to bother to keep up with Kyle, but I’m sure he’ll be getting some jail time for that fight. The kid that beat him up seemed to be in trouble too.” DJSkate

5. Fire Me Illegally? I’ll Get You To Pay Up

Think before you do.

“This happened to me about 20 years ago while in college. I am being deliberately vague because… reasons.

I got a job basically office-sitting on weekends. I showed up at 8 am, and every hour, I checked over things, handled the occasional phone call, and then left when the 4 pm person arrived.

Most of the time I read, watched TV, or played games on my laptop. I probably worked no more than 10 minutes every hour unless something went wrong.

It went on like this for years. The pay was decent, holidays were double pay, and I even had opportunities to cover weekday shifts when others were sick.

One day while I was covering the mid-day shift, my boss asked me to come into his office. He told me that the evening weekday position was going to become available that night. He offered me the position, which I accepted. I was told to punch out and return at 5 pm that night. The reason it went down like this should be obvious.

Things went ok for a while.

I showed up at 4 pm, did the normal things, and then left at 12 am when my relief arrived. It was a little more work, more call volumes, etc. Then, after nine months, things started to go south.

The daytime person developed a huge attitude problem and went from a nice person to a total Karen. She would complain about everything I did. For example, one time a system jammed up at a remote site, and she called them. Five hours later, I saw the jam was still there, so I called that site again to see if they were still working on it or if something else was wrong because the woman on our end who would be the one to help them was leaving soon.

They did have a problem, and so I hooked them up.

My “reward” for making sure the problem got solved and not having to bother an upper-level employee at home, on a Friday, just after having left work? I got yelled at because Karen complained that I had apparently “ignored her log entry” about the issue. My defense was ignored. The boss had me highlight important things on the log to verify that I had read them.

Things plodded on for a while with this new “normal.” I tiptoed around Karen when needed, thankful for the fact I only had to deal with her for no more than five minutes. I did the stupid highlighting thing, and my log entries started getting more and more detailed, even referencing Karen’s calls when I had to follow-up on an issue that crossed shifts.

The Firing:

The following summer just after I crossed the year mark, I went on vacation to visit some friends out of state. When I got back, after about a week, my boss came down after everyone had left and had me describe how I did a certain task, which involved certain updates. I explained to him how I did it and so forth. He then told me that I had not been doing it at all and that he was firing me. I had transposed the date code of the English file for the French file, which was the previous one. The newest one had already been applied anyways, so nothing was wrong. It was just a reason to get rid of me.

So, I left the office. My state is an “at-will” employment state, which means that I can quit at any time for any reason, and my employer can terminate me at any time for any reason. The only exceptions were state and federal laws such as race, religion, etc. I thought I was screwed. So, I just started applying everywhere I could.

During my job search, I happened to accidentally stumble upon a link about employment law. Out of curiosity, I read it and discovered that my employer had shot themselves in the foot. In the employee handbook, there was a “job security clause.” What this stated was that they would never lay us off and such if our jobs were eliminated.

We would simply be retrained and sent to fill an opening elsewhere in the company. It sounds good, but it resulted in them cooking up reasons to fire people to get around it. But their fancy, high-priced lawyers had missed something.

In my state’s laws, the ones passed by the legislature, I was screwed because of “at-will.” What they neglected was case law, the ones determined by courts. This site cited a case from the state’s Supreme Court that had ruled that a job security clause waived “at-will” on the employer side, turning it into a “just cause” relationship. This means that they had to have a real reason to fire me.

The Revenge:

With that in hand, I sought out a lawyer. After my consultation with her, I set about collecting my evidence.

My former boss did not realize that I knew more about this program than he did seeing as I ran the same software on my own computer and laptop. I experimented. The date of the file, which they tried to use against me, is baked into the version too. I was able to demonstrate to my lawyer that if I applied the same update over and over, which my former employer stated would change the date every day, would, in reality, display the date of the file. I showed this by backdating my own copy by a year using the update archive available from the vendor.

Next, I showed her how the task used to be automated. A script would snag the file and process it every day on its own.

A change on the vendor’s site broke the script. It was an easy fix, but no one bothered to do it because the guy who had written it retired. The fix involved deleting three characters on one line in the script.

The task was also marked as only being a weekday task. In my firing, I was told how “important” this update was and so forth. If it was so important, why was it not done on weekends or holidays? The vendor pushed out updates on those days too as I showed my lawyer the one from Christmas morning. And why had the automation not been fixed?

With all that in hand, she contacted them. After presenting them with the law they broke and all the evidence I had collected, they were forced to settle with me.

So, in the end, their fancy high-priced lawyers did not do their homework… I did. Thank you to the wonderful librarians I have known in my life who taught me my information literacy skills. They paid dividends in this case.” Zakkana

4. Don’t Mess With A Pregnant Woman

Seriously, hormones are like superpowers.

“When I was pregnant with my second child (many years ago), I took a part-time job working at the Base Recreation Center for Morale, Welfare, and Recreation on a small military base where my husband was stationed.

When I was hired, there were a total of four employees: myself; my manager; Amy, the girl I was hired to replace (her husband was due for transfer); and Frank, a retired Marine who lived in the RV park on the base.

My manager’s boss, Carrie, also had an office in the building, but she spent most of her time offsite.

Three months into my employment, my boss was promoted to the main office, and I was asked to cover her position until a replacement was found. Frank took my temporary promotion as an insult as he had seniority and quit. So, my part-time job, which was temporarily a full-time job, suddenly became a 60+ hour a week job. Bear in mind, I was almost seven months pregnant at this point.

The new manager was hired relatively quickly. The base Commanding Officer got involved, not really relevant to the story. The new manager was great. We enjoyed working together, but unfortunately, a month after she started, she received an offer for a higher paying job and decided to take it.

When I was again approached to cover the position, I agreed but only on the condition that I was also considered for the position permanently. It was a General Schedule 5 position (roughly 40 grand a year in today’s pay rate). General Schedule positions were hard to come by during this time. Clinton Era, lots of military downsizing. You basically had to be in a General Schedule position to get another one. Carrie agreed and told me she would let me know when the interviewing process started. She also informed me that I needed to train the new assistant (I was also an assistant) when she started on Monday.

Monday rolls around, and a new girl, Heidi, comes in. I begin processing her paperwork, and I realize she makes more an hour than I do.

I found this odd and ask her is she’s ever worked for Morale Welfare and Recreation before, and she said no. I let this go for now and decided to ask Carrie about it when she came in. Carrie didn’t know and told me to ask Linda our HR/Payroll Clerk when I turned in Heidi’s paperwork.

After my shift, I stopped by Linda’s office and handed her the paperwork and asked her why Heidi was being paid more than me. She immediately got defensive and asked me how I knew Heidi’s pay rate and said something about how we were not supposed to discuss such things, something I was unaware of, and I pointed at the paper I just handed her, and she said, “Oh!” She stared at me for a moment and then apologized to me for making an assumption and said she needed to look at my file.

I said fine; I could wait.

She stared at me again and then stood up suddenly and went over to a filing cabinet. (Yes, we still used hard copies. It’s the government; they love paperwork). She pulled out my file brought it back to her desk, flipped through it a couple of times, then typed on her keyboard and said, “OH!” It seems there was a cost of living raise. I asked why I wasn’t also given this raise, and she said it must have been a clerical mistake, and she was fixing it right then. I thanked her and left.

Cue three weeks later when Carrie comes into the Center and informs me that they’ve found a replacement manager, and she was starting the next day, and I would need to train her.

I was shocked. I said, “Replacement? When did they start interviewing?” “Last week, didn’t Linda call you?” “No, no one called me.” She apologized and said there was nothing she could do about it, but if I wanted to make a complaint, I would need to speak with our regional manager, Carrie’s boss.

I was livid.

When I got off work, I went over to my best friend’s house, and she told me she’d already heard about what happened. (It was a really small base.) My best friend worked for the base contractor as their lead purchaser. She pretty much knew everything that happened on the base. She said the girl they hired was one of the waitresses at the officer’s club, and she had quite a reputation.

Everyone on the base called her USO Sally. She suggested I talk to the master chief for advice on how to handle the situation.

My husband at the time wasn’t as supportive of that idea; he didn’t like to rock the boat. He said they probably hired someone else because I was about to go on maternity leave, and I should just let it go. I told him I would take a couple of days to think it over.

I spent the next three days attempting to train what I can only call the flakiest person I have ever met. She would come into the center for an hour or two at a time and then leave for several hours before coming back for an hour or two.

I took at least eight messages for her from five different men, and one of them informed me he was in Japan and wanted to know when I expected her back. No, we did not do any work with any bases in Japan. They were all personal calls.

On the second day, her ex-husband showed up looking for her while she was out and ask if he could leave their son with me because he had to go to work. By day three, I’d had enough and went to the master chief.

Master Chief listens to everything (including the pay discrepancy) and says he’ll look into it and get back to me. The next day before I even get to work at ten, Carrie calls me and asks me to come into the main office.

When I get there, it is suggested that I finish the week and then go on maternity leave.

I ask why and am told that I went outside of the “chain of command” by involving the master chief and that was unprofessional. By this point, I am so angry that I told them that I would turn in my keys at the end of the day, and I went back to the master chief. He was p*ssed and said WAS the chain of command.

Several weeks later, I’m in the hospital after having my son, and my best friend comes into my room and says, “Oh, girl, you will not believe what happened. Linda, the HR/Payroll clerk and her husband (he was the manager of the officer’s club) were arrested for embezzlement.”

That cost of living raise I didn’t get, Master Chief had requested an accounting audit of the entire department.

When they went to arrest them, Linda’s husband had a heart attack and had to be taken away in an ambulance.

The day I got home from the hospital, I got a phone call from our regional manager, and she thanked me and told me that if I wanted the job, it was mine. I suggested they hire Heidi for the position; she was a single mom with two kids. They took my advice. LOL! I also got some ridiculous letter from Our Fleet Admiral thanking me for my service.” DM_Poet

3. Want To Evict Us In The Middle Of Winter? It’ll Cost You More

“About 5 months after leaving my wife, my best friend had a falling out with his girlfriend, and we ended up moving in together in a one-bedroom basement apartment near downtown.

We ended up moving in during the spring of 2007. It was a small apartment, and the utilities were included in the rent. We were paying $600 a month. I took the bedroom while Joe slept in the small living room/kitchenette on the couch.

There were some problems with a couple of items, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t fix. Our landlord, Carol, didn’t mind me putting down new cement for the basement steps or fixing the awning outside of our door, so it wouldn’t leak.

Things were looking good until the fall and winter hit. Every time it rained, the water would come down and flood the basement. I had to invest in a shop-vac to suck up the water. When it got cold, the heating ducts were virtually useless, so we had to run the stove to keep warm.

This worked out okay until February the next year when Carol got her electric bill.

I worked nights and was sleeping when she came down and told Joe that we had to leave because her electricity was so high. He tried to explain to her that the heat down here didn’t work, and we were freezing. She didn’t care. Joe wakes me up and tells me this. I was not having it.

Joe and I went down to City Hall and went to the Board of Health office. That is where we met Jenny, the health inspector. We explained our situation to her, and she set up a time to investigate it with Bill, the fire marshal, and Charles, the building inspector.

About 3 days later, Jenny, Bill, and Charles show up at Carol’s door and demand to investigate the basement.

Carol is p*ssed. As they all come into our apartment, they start listing all the violations such as inadequate heat, unpadded carpet flooring, no second egress (exit), and no access to fuse panels or circuit breakers.

Carol started arguing with Joe about this. She didn’t want to talk to me because I was white, and Joe was black as she was. But Joe is Blackfoot; she is Haitian. Even still, Joe didn’t like her.

Carol: “Why did you call them?”

Joe: “I didn’t.”

Carol: “Who did?”

Me: “I did.”

Carol: “You had no right to do this. We don’t have a lease.”

Me: “Oh no? What do you call this then?”

I pull out the agreement we all signed and showed her that electricity was included in the rent.

Jenny and Charles looked at it as well and said this does constitute a tenancy at will agreement. She was ordered by the city to repair and bring the basement up to code as long as we were living there.

About 2 weeks later, HVAC contractors showed up to start working on putting a separate heating system in for the basement. Also, a county sheriff showed up about another 4 weeks after with letters of eviction for both Joe and I. In Massachusetts, eviction cases go through civil court but the tenant’s lawyer can have the case moved to housing court. Housing court leans more towards the tenant than the landlord.

We speak to our lawyer Jim, who believes we can get our security deposit back but not much else.

Joe is looking to move in with his new girlfriend. And I’m planning on taking her old place which is only around the block from where we live now. In the meantime, while we are still there at her house. Carol still has to get it up to code, and we don’t have to pay her.

We show up to housing court when Jim tells us our hearing is. Carol does show up with her lawyer. We wait quietly on the other side of the hall while Jim goes to speak to Carol and her attorney. Jim gives her the proposal for her to pay our security deposit back and Jim’s fee. She refuses the offer, and Jim tells her that we will go to trial then.

He comes back and tells Joe and me this and says he will call us when we have to appear. We agree and we all leave.

As we are leaving, I see Carol having an argument with the meter maid who is writing her a ticket for not putting money in the meter. Joe and I are laughing so hard as we drive by her. After Joe and I moved out, she settled for the deposit and lawyer’s fees. I ended up getting $600 dollars back. But after we left, the inspectors all came back and told her she couldn’t rent out the basement anymore. With everything totaled up, she ended spending over $7,000 in upgrades and another $1,100 in both mine and her attorney fees plus my $600.

She ended up putting the house on the market. No one would buy it. I think to this day it is still up for sale. Any takers?” Boston_Strong_CQB241

2. Tell Me My Car Has Bad Parts When It Doesn’t? You Owe Me

“This is the story of how I got screwed over by a Big O Tires store and got my revenge. The manager had a very Kareny haircut and vibe to her. But I still got what was rightfully mine out of her.

Back around 8,000 miles ago, I took my Ford Flex, which was in desperate need of some tread, to get new tires. I was a little low on money, so I took it to Big O Tires because I had a credit card for the franchise from buying tires there before.

Everyone around will tell you that anytime you bring your car in, they will inevitably find some work that needs to be done to try and get more money out of you. I wish I had known this sooner.

I went in, and the manager was the one to help price me tires and find the right ones for me. My Flex has 19-inch rims on it, so the tires that go on them are expensive, but I was paying on a card, so I didn’t care. I find the tires I wanted and opted for a good tire that would last me at least 60k+ miles. I ask her to put the tires on and do an alignment after they get them fitted.

Then I go sit down in the waiting area and wait for the job to be complete. I’m sitting in the waiting area when a greasy mechanic comes out of the shop and starts looking around.

Greasy mechanic: Who’s got the Ford Flex?

Me: I do.

Greasy mechanic: “We went to do your alignment, and we found that your inner and outer tie rods are bad all the way around, and you need new rear lateral arms. It’ll cost about $1,300 to do here but we can do it. You want us to get on that?”

Me: -Jaw dropped- “Ummm, no.”

Greasy mechanic: “Well, we can’t do an alignment on bad parts.”

Me: “Ok, then just give me the keys, I guess.”

As I’m signing the final paperwork, the manager is stressing to me that the bad parts I’m driving on could destroy my new tires.

My friend who was actually working there at the time pulled me aside and told me that they looked like they were wearing down but that they didn’t need to be replaced yet. So, I left the store.

Fast forward about 8,000 miles later; it’s now April.

The inside of my tires on the rear had been worn down completely smooth. The front tires only had about half the tread life remaining. And I’m still making payments on the tires. When I’m driving down the road, there is a steady noise coming from the tires from being so unevenly worn down. It was around this time I had finally gotten the money together to fix my bad parts.

So, I go to my mechanic who is honest and had never tried to pull the wool over my eyes and will give me a decent price.

I tell him what the mechanic and manager at Big O Tires told me was wrong with it and tell him to get it fixed and hand him the keys. About 3 hours later, he calls me back.

My mechanic: “Hey, I’m looking at your car, and the only thing that was wrong with it was you had a stuck right rear brake caliper.”

Me: “So, everything else was fine?”

My mechanic: “Yeah, everything to do with your suspension was in perfect shape, no play in the tie rods. It looks like you just need an alignment pretty badly.”

Me: “Okay, thank you. Will you put a new caliper on there for me?”

My mechanic: “Yeah, I’m on it. If I was you, I’d take it down to the dealership.

They do all my alignments, and they aren’t gonna pull any bullcrap on you like that.”

Me: “Okay, thanks.”

After hearing that my parts were fine, and my tires could have been saved by a simple alignment, I was livid. So, I called up Big O, and the conversation was pretty short. I’m not going to post the conversation, but to sum it up, she told me that she wasn’t trying to say my mechanic was lying but that he doesn’t have a laser rack or the proper equipment to know if those parts are bad. She then goes on to explain in great detail why my parts were bad and try and make me feel stupid. She wanted me to have him replace all those parts and bring it in for an alignment.

I told her I’d see what Tony Brown had to say about it.

When I pulled up to the dealership, I walked in and told them what happened and what was supposedly bad with my car, and they did my alignment with no fuss. And cheaper.

So, the next day after I got home from work, I pulled in the driveway of my house and looked at my passenger seat where my ticket was for the alignment I had gotten done. Something just took me over, and I put my car into reverse, pulled out of my driveway, and started heading to the Big O. I called my mom on the way because she knew what I was going through and how stressful it was for me and told her I was about to go make a show in front of their customers and see where I can make things go from there.

She was excited and wanted to listen in, so I left her on the phone with my Bluetooth headphones around my neck where she could hear everything.

As I walked into the store, I was feeling nervous but just shoved it all to the side when I saw how many customers there were. At least 7 people in the store looking at tires or waiting for their cars to get done. I walked up to the front desk and waited patiently for the manager to get done talking with another customer.

Front desk employee: “Hi, can I help you?”

Me: -Ignores her and looks at the manager as she’s finishing up- “Hi, are you the manager?”

Manager: “Yes, I am.”

Me: “Hi, I believe I spoke with you on the phone a day or 2 ago.

I wanted to speak to you in regards to the work done to my vehicle.”

Manager: “Okay, what’s your name?”

I tell her my name, and her employee starts to pull up my file. As she’s looking me up, I start telling my story. And I tell it loud enough for all the customers in the store to hear.

Me: “Well, when I came in here, I was refused an alignment because of bad parts-”

Manager: “We can’t do an alignment on bad parts.”

Me: “Let me finish, okay? I was told I needed to pay $1,300 before they would do my alignment because of bad parts. And $1,300 is a lot of money, so I just took my car home, so I could start saving up money for the repairs I thought I needed.

Eventually, when I was feeling like I could afford it, I took it to my mechanic who told me my parts were fine. You told me he didn’t have the right equipment, so I took it to the dealership who has the same rack as you. They did my alignment and told me my parts were fine.” -Shows her my alignment paperwork-

The sheet shows the before and after of alignment, and my rear left tire was cambered out -2.3°. She was trying to tell me before my tires were worn so badly on the inside because the parts were bad. But it was really just an alignment issue.

Manager: “Let me go talk to my mechanic.”

She walks into the shop for about 10 minutes, and I see them walk through the bay doors to go out and look at my tires.

She comes back inside and tells me how sorry she is and comes up with the excuse that there were 2 Ford Flexs in the shop that day, and the mechanic that was there that day got the tickets mixed up, and my Flex never even went on the rack. She then goes on to say she will replace 2 of my tires for free and refund me the $40 rack fee I was charged that day.

I came back the next day for my 2 free tires and rack fee feeling like I’ve won but still upset because the other 2 tires I was sporting only had about 50 percent tread left on them when they were supposed to last me way longer.

I decided to write a review on Google for all to see. It was basically 3 paragraphs on everything you’ve just read.

1 week later, I receive a phone call from Big O, but I was busy, so I let it go to voicemail. The voicemail was basically the manager saying that she was confused why I would leave such a review and asked me to call back and see what we can do to fix it. After I was free, I called her back.

Me: “Hey, I missed a call?”

Manager: Yes, I just saw your Google review this morning, and my jaw dropped. I thought that everything was okay after we gave you 2 free tires and refunded your rack fee. And now you’ve left this review saying you’ll never be back except for your free rotations while they last? What can we do for you to just take the review down?

Me: “I was upset because while I got 2 of my tires fixed, I’ll have to end up replacing those other tires well before my new ones when they should have all been the same tread to begin with.”

Manager: “So, if I give you 2 more free tires, will you remove the review? We just don’t want to have to deal with corporate, and if anyone reads that, it will lose us customers.”

Me: “Yeah, sure, I’ll remove it as soon as the tires are on my rims.”

Manager: “I’ll have them here tomorrow then.”

So, I stop in and get 2 more free tires fitted on my vehicle.

I couldn’t stop smiling the whole time I was signing the paperwork. The second manager even told me that because I had to come back in so much that she was giving me a free oil change next time I came into the store.

I edited my review to say that I had a bad experience, but the managers did what they could to make things right and changed it from 1 star to 3 stars. They asked me if I would still shop for my tires with them, and I told them I would, but you couldn’t pay me to go buy tires there again. I took my win and my free oil change and walked right out of there.” Reddit user

Another User Comments:

Seems like an all-too-common occurrence.

“Years ago, I took my car into a tire chain shop to get an alignment. I had gotten a 5-year free alignment deal from a different shop in the same chain, so the alignment was going to be free. They came back and claimed I needed $900 in repairs before it could be aligned. So, I took it to my mechanic, and they checked it and they said the car didn’t need anything fixed.” slap_ya

1. Steal From Me Yet Call Yourself My Friend? You’ll Be Paying It All Back

Some “friend.”

“Back in my years at high school, PS1-PS2 era, I lived with my grandmother because it was closer to my school than my mother’s, who at the time was self-employed and now is a successful SEO developer.

I was not popular in school but had a close nit group of friends on my home street.

There were 10  of us kids on our street (6 of which were pairs of siblings across 7 houses), we all played video games, but the number of games we’d own was different, of course. Being the kid with the most, I offered that if anyone wanted to go on a game at my house, I would let them.

Now, I have OCD, (among other things thanks to a mental disorder). That meant I use Excel to record what games I own if they were bought brand new and the price they were bought at. I had dealt with people misusing my friendship in school (not high school), stealing from both me and my grandma.

Anywho, when I started going to high school, I started pen marking the inside of game covers (the white side of that cover no one sees. Doesn’t affect resale value). I would also jot the markdown in a notebook with a reference to the game name, again if it was new, pre-owned, or I had traded it in.

I would on occasion lend a game with the express direction that if you borrow it for more than two weeks, I would hound you for it back. People rarely borrowed from me since what they wanted to go on, they could do so at my house. Then around the age of 14, games started going missing. Losing one was not new to me, but the frequency of games that went missing had increased.

So, I set a test. I bought a second notebook and wrote down where each game should have been, editing it if I moved it. Sure enough, my copy of FF10 in my PC draw wound up ‘lost.’ It was then I realized the worst one of my friends was stealing from me.

I knew if I asked anyone on my street about it, whoever was doing it would stop, and I would most likely never catch them.

Fortunately, the ball was not rolling on certain things. While Game FAQs was a thing, it wasn’t big enough a thing in my neck of the woods for anyone other than me to be using it, and I kept it that way by helping anyone on my street with information.

Bear in mind that the internet was not so readily used as it is now, and a PC did not mean internet access, a PC was just a workstation for school work and PC games bought at a store. If you had internet, it either came with dial-up and was used by one person in the house, or you used the Sky internet keyboard to search using your set-top box.

Secondly and more importantly, it was a 15-minute ride to town and a two-hour drive to the nearest city. The town did not have a game station.

The two places that sold and traded games in town had one policy. The game must come with a box, the disk, and the manual. I spent an hour removing every manual I had from the games and storing them in a box under the bottom shelf of my set of drawers.

If someone was stealing from me, they wouldn’t be profiting off me anymore.

I could glean information from outside sources that the three sets of siblings on my street were innocent. But another group I had a suspicion of were sisters. Their mother would help myself and my grandma clean my great grandmother’s house on Saturdays.

I would ask her about what they’re playing, and if a game was brought up that I happened to be missing, I would ask the mom, “Oh, when did they start on that?” for 2 reasons: 1. their mother was kind, and I didn’t want to upset her by coming off aggressive, and 2. to avoid showing suspicion. However, it was responded with, “I bought it for them,” or “They bought it when we were in town.” So innocent.

The second pair, referred to as Twinnies, got whatever they asked for within reason from their parents. So, there was no doubt they were innocent.

The third were brothers. The younger couldn’t keep a secret, and I was very good friends with him (I helped him with his schoolwork, he’d always make up the difference if he couldn’t quite afford a drink or chocolate bar, and made sure I was an ear for him to talk to). But I didn’t trust the other brother beyond friendship. If the older brother was playing anything that was missing, I would know and how. Again, innocent.

That left 3 boys on my street of varying age who I only knew on a one to one basis.

If I had suspected anyone, it would be them. Over 2 years of maintaining the facade that I was blissfully unaware, I kept the helpful nature up enough that no one ever questioned my gaming source, GameFAQs. Sure enough, games kept going missing, but I was looking for something, no manuals, no trade-ins, no extra cash towards the latest games.

I had actually been waiting for one of the games to go missing that people had seen me play and wanted to play: Vexx, a game similar to Mario 64 but with hearts instead of stars. One of the hearts had copy protection on it in that the answer was in the manual (a common practice before it became useless on the internet), and sure enough, a month after finishing, it went missing.

A week later, a boy my age I will refer to as ‘thieving ***,’ (TS) asked me how to open the chest in the whale. “Oh, it’s in the manual…” TS replied that he had no manual and that it was bought at a car boot sale. In my mind, I had got him. His parents didn’t go far so no city trips or rare city trips. And there had been no “car boot sales” nearby in the last 4 months.

I made my play. TS went to Karate Practice on Tuesdays between 7 and 9. I waited till 7:10 PM and went to his house with my grandma with my notebooks, printouts of my records on game purchases, and a document.

(I will get to that in a moment.)

After a brief talk of disbelief, I asked if I could prove if their son was stealing, thinking I wouldn’t find anything. They let me. I walked over to the copy of Vexx sat in the front room, showed them the inside with no manual, showed them my notebook, and lifted the cover out of the game box, showing a signed pen mark I had used next to the notebook with the same pen mark on the inside cover.

While they were stunned, I took this opportunity to pick up a second and third, point to the pen mark in the book, and then moved the label accordingly to show an identical copy. The mother went white.

I asked if I could go see if more were in the house. Shocked, the father complied, and after 20 minutes, I had 30+ games on the table in front of them, all missing booklets, all with pen marks on the reverse of the label that matched the inside of the notebooks.

But the best bit, upstairs on his PC desk was a note detailing who had what. When I showed them the note, you could see the rage building in the father’s eyes. My grandma talked to the mother about what could happen next (legal ramifications of theft, how he was now 16 and could be tried as an adult with the right judge, etc.). I showed the father where I found the note, and he found folders of records of games owned by others and when he had ‘acquired’ them and how much he had traded them in for.

Yes, it wasn’t just me. Over several years, he had been stealing games as far back as the Mega Drive era, playing on them till he was done and then trading them in as his own to pocket the cash. He had only started with me since a few years back my grandma had allowed me to move consoles downstairs for friends to go on, on the condition that it was only when I had friends ’round and only one console at a time with only the game we were going on to avoid making a mess.

Going downstairs, I laid out the document I had saved until now. It was a document that myself, my grandmother, and my mother had laid out, detailed that I would not take the evidence I had to the police on the condition that every game wrongfully taken was returned to me or the original owner.

If in the event it could not be, then the full price of the game when I bought it would be returned to my grandmother within 6 months’ time. So, it could be returned to the rightful owners in one form or another.

(I had to thank my mother here for the forethought of wording it so that in the event I wasn’t the only victim, all would have justice. So, thanks, mom.)

Both parents signed it. I signed it, and my grandma signed it, and the 4 of us waited at that time we talked over how we would handle this, agreeing that I would take the folders home and do the research on the retail price on any missing game.

When TS returned, the look on his face was priceless as he stared at the folders and pile of games.

In that time, I had called my granddad to help us carry the games and notes down the street back home. Before leaving, we informed TS what would happen much to his dismay.

His house is 4 doors down and across the small one exit street at the other end is a garden and a modern train line (2000s) that runs through the town. From 9 till 10, I could hear the father yelling at TS, even when the 9:15 train went past, while I was going through the records on my PC scanning them on a very basic scanner by today’s standards. It felt great, and I found it soothing as I combed through.

That weekend, I printed off several copies of the agreement and documents listing what had been stolen from each of my friends or pair of siblings, how much they were worth, and when to expect the money.

I returned the folders and gave the parents a copy of the agreement with a value of how much he had stolen (from all parties) and could not return.

They told me they would pay, and it would come out of TS savings and allowance. For the next 4 years. Both he and I were 16 at the time. He would be in his first year of university before he paid his parents back, and unsurprisingly, the karate classes stopped. Once they had closed the door, I pulled several envelopes out of my bag and made the rounds of my streets, every kid got one of these envelopes that held the information relevant to them and a copy of the agreement.

To my surprise, it took 2 weeks for every penny to be given to my grandma.

Using the records, I gave each of my friends exactly what they were owed in an envelope to avoid prying eyes. Once that was done, I waited till the following Monday and handed a copy of the agreement to my school. Like most schools, mine had a system to that duties would be delegated to the most trustworthy and well behaved of the students that both me and TS were on.

TS was removed from that list, and the staff knew he was a thieving ***. On my street, he was removed from the circle of friends, we wouldn’t talk to him, and he wasn’t welcome at street events and most certainly not any trips. In school, he was not allowed on the remaining few school trips because his father wouldn’t sign permission slips.

After that, I didn’t change. Sure, we were one friend down, but none of my games went missing again.

Unsurprisingly, after finishing high school, the thief and his parents moved away as it was quite clear that the kids and parents alike wanted nothing to do with him.” Dragonfire9000

A little pro revenge can come in handy at times! This isn’t to say that you should start plotting vengeance on your jerk neighbor or cheating ex-boyfriend or -girlfriend, but the previous stories do prove that sometimes people need to be taught a firm, hard lesson. It’s sort of how we learn best.

Do you have a great revenge story to share? Let us know!