Telha
Brian had enjoyed over a decade of peaceful living in his neighborhood—until Tim moved in next door and turned everything upside down. After their first disagreement, Tim responded in an incredibly childish way: by spray-painting an insult on Brian’s lawn.
For nearly ten years, I had lived in this peaceful neighborhood, where lawns were always neatly trimmed, neighbors exchanged friendly waves, and children’s laughter filled the air. It was calm and predictable—until Tim moved in next door.
Initially, Tim seemed like a decent guy. He introduced himself with a friendly smile, and I thought we’d get along just fine.
“I’m Tim,” he said, extending his hand. “The wife and I just moved in. We loved city life for a while, but Opal decided we needed something quieter.”
“I’m Brian,” I responded, shaking his hand. “My family and I have lived here for years. You’ve picked the perfect spot if you’re looking for peace.”
We exchanged small talk, and everything seemed great. Tim even joked about future backyard barbecues with the neighbors. For the next couple of weeks, I saw him around as he got settled, and I assumed life would continue smoothly.
That changed one afternoon when Tim knocked on my door, asking if he could park in my driveway while his was being repaved.
“The workers say it’ll take two or three days tops,” he explained. “I can’t leave my truck on the road—it’s too big.”
I hesitated, but replied, “Sorry, Tim. With my wife, the kids, and myself, our driveway is always full. The teens are in and out constantly.”
Tim’s face darkened. “It’s just for a few days,” he grumbled, but I held firm.
“It’s not personal,” I said politely. “It’s just practical.”
He left in a huff, and I hoped that would be the end of it. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The next morning, I walked outside to head to work, only to find Tim’s massive truck parked halfway across my driveway, blocking me in.
“Is this guy serious?” I muttered. I had already told him we didn’t have room, and now his truck was making me late.
I stormed over to his house and knocked harder than I probably should have. Tim answered in his pajamas, looking completely unconcerned.
“Tim, I told you not to park in my driveway,” I said, trying to keep my cool.
“It’s only for a few hours,” he shrugged. “No big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Move it, Tim. Now,” I said, glaring at him.
With an exaggerated sigh, he moved his truck, but the issue didn’t stop there. Over the next few days, Tim continued leaving things in my driveway—his truck, his friends’ cars, boxes, even lawn equipment. It felt like every time he saw free space, he took it.
Fed up, I vented to my wife, Kelsey, over dinner one night. “If I don’t do something, he’s going to keep this up,” I said, frustrated.
“Don’t get into a fight with him,” Kelsey advised. “Report it to the homeowners’ association. They’ll warn him, and he’ll have to stop.”
She was right, and filing a complaint seemed like the sensible solution. But the next morning, things took a turn for the worse.
I stepped outside and saw bright orange spray paint scrawled across my lawn, spelling out the words: SELFISH JERK. My once-pristine lawn, something I took pride in, was ruined—and the whole neighborhood could see it.
Furious, I stormed over to Tim’s house, showing him photos of the damage on my phone. When he opened the door, he had the nerve to smirk, clearly proud of what he’d done.
“You think this is funny?” I demanded, holding up my phone.
He just laughed. “What are you going to do about it? Call the cops over some paint?”
I clenched my fists, trying to keep my temper in check. “You’ll regret this,” I warned before walking away.
I went straight to the police, but there wasn’t much they could do. The spray paint wasn’t permanent, and Tim hadn’t caused any real damage. I needed a new plan, so I called my brother, Andrew, who owns a landscaping business.
After hearing the story, Andrew laughed. “I’ve got the perfect solution, Brian. How about a little fun with sprinklers?”
That weekend, Andrew and his crew came over, replacing the damaged lawn with fresh sod. But the best part was the new sprinkler system Andrew installed. It was a harmless prank, but it would send a clear message.
On Sunday morning, I sat on my porch, coffee in hand, as Tim walked by with his dog. Right on cue, the sprinklers sprang to life, spraying bright blue water all over him and his dog.
Tim’s shocked expression was priceless as he stood there, drenched and dripping with blue dye. He ran off, muttering curses. The dye was harmless and would wash off easily, but Tim had been humiliated in front of the whole neighborhood.
Later that day, he stormed over to my house, still sporting blue stains on his clothes.
“What the hell, man?” he shouted.
Leaning against my doorframe, I crossed my arms. “What are you going to do, Tim? Call the cops over some water?”
He stood there, speechless, before turning and walking away. Since then, he hasn’t parked in my driveway or pulled any more stunts. But if he does, I’ll be ready—I’ve got plenty more tricks up my sleeve.
