It started with a note under our wiper—block letters, three exclamation points, and a threat: “One car per house! Move the extra one or else!” We laughed it off; the street had no such rule, and both our cars were legally parked. We figured it was just a cranky welcome.
Three days later, tow trucks showed up at dawn. Chains clanked, winches groaned, and both cars were already lifted when we ran outside in pajamas. Standing nearby was our new neighbor, arms folded, wearing a smug smile. “Maybe now you’ll listen when someone tells you the rules,” she said.
Instead of panicking, I pointed to the etched plates on our windshields—government-issued permits for specialty vehicles. The tow guys blanched; moving them would carry massive fines, and the penalties would fall on the person who made the false report. I tallied it aloud—“around twenty-five thousand, give or take”—and watched her face turn pale.
The trucks left in a hurry, and our neighbor walked home in silence, pride stripped bare. We told her we wanted to be good neighbors, but inventing rules wasn’t the way. Since then, no notes, no glares, no trouble. Just two cars parked under the oak tree, proof that sometimes the best revenge is keeping calm and letting consequences speak.
