When an entitled jerk blocks Rook’s garage, throws a tantrum, and flicks a business card, things escalate fast. But instead of losing it, Rook stays quiet and clever. Revenge doesn’t always shout… sometimes it slips in through job applications and gentle, perfect chaos. One petty move lights the fuse for a masterclass in soft payback.
Our garage opens onto a narrow alley behind a little liquor store. If that sounds like trouble waiting to happen, it is. You’d be amazed how many people treat the garage door like a polite suggestion, parking square in front of it, hazards blinking, as if that makes everything okay.
We’ve lived here five years. My fiancée, Lunet, and I usually manage to stay calm. But on this particular night?
Calm had quietly walked out the door.
It started simply. Doesn’t it always?
Lunet and I had just picked up my mother-in-law, Orlin, from the train station. She was staying with us for the week; her first visit to our place. I was already a little nervous. Normally we’d book her a hotel, but Lunet wanted real time with her mom. I’d cleaned the apartment top to bottom. Lunet had set fresh flowers in every room.
We were trying our very best.
We turned into the alley, and there it was: a car parked dead center in front of our garage, owning the space like it belonged there. No driver in sight.
I knew the car instantly.
I parked and let out a slow breath. All I wanted was to get inside, eat the pasta Lunet had made before we left, and relax. I was tired.
“Of course it’s Cort,” I said quietly.
I’d met him at a holiday party my mom’s company threw. He’d cornered me by the coat rack, whiskey in hand, going on about “elevated spatial narratives.”
Velvet blazer, dramatic pauses, the works. Cort talked about building a creative empire from his downtown studio (really just an overpriced desk in a shared loft with a logo and cold brew on tap). He was the kind of guy who called himself a visionary because he knew how to add a soft shadow in rendering software.
Big energy, small soul.
“Who’s Cort?” Orlin asked from the back seat. “A friend?”
“No,” I murmured. “Just… someone I know.”
Right then Cort strolled out of the liquor store like the alley was his personal runway, cracking open a can of hard seltzer. He took a slow sip, leaned against his hood, and flashed a lazy, smug smile.
“Heeey, Rook!” he called. “Small world!”
I stepped out, keeping my voice low. Orlin was watching. Lunet looked tense.
“Hey, Cort,” I said, polite but firm. “You’re blocking our garage. Could you move, please?”
He lifted the can in a mock toast.
“Easy, Rook,” he said, stretching the word. “Give me a minute. Just finishing my drink.”
“It takes five seconds to pull forward. You can finish after.”
“Relax,” he drawled. “You don’t own the alley, man. I own my time.”
That landed wrong. I’d dealt with entitled people before, but Cort had a special talent for making your skin crawl without ever raising his voice. He was theatrical. Deliberate. And I could feel Orlin’s quiet attention from the back seat like gentle pressure.
“Cort,” I said again, softer but clearer. “Please move the car.”
He stepped closer. Too close.
“Or what, Rook?”
I didn’t move.
“Don’t do this,” I said.
“Do what?” he mocked, puffing up. “Scared? Look at you—so tame, so house-trained. Picking up mommy-in-law like a good little boy.”
Lunet opened her door, half-standing.
“Rook, let’s just call the police,” she said, calm but firm.
That’s when Cort shoved me; palms hard against my chest, making me step back. “What’s your problem?” he barked, face red, tossing the can to the ground, liquid fizzing across the concrete.
Lunet was already filming, phone steady, flashlight on him. “Cort, back off right now!” she called, voice sharp and unafraid.
I pulled out my phone too and dialed dispatch, calm as I could. Reported illegal parking, aggressive behavior, open container.
Cort lunged closer, shouting loud enough for the whole alley to hear.
“He’s attacking me!”
I almost laughed at how quickly he flipped the script.
“I feel threatened!” he yelled. “This guy charged me!”
He paced, arms flailing like he was on a stage. Lunet’s camera never wavered. Orlin sat perfectly still in the car.
Police arrived in under five minutes. Two officers stepped out. Cort’s whole demeanor switched; suddenly cool, hands in pockets.
“Officers, I was just about to leave,” he said smoothly. “This guy got hostile.”
We stayed quiet. Lunet played the video. Orlin confirmed everything. The can was still leaking at his feet. The car was clearly blocking private property.
One officer raised an eyebrow. The other just shook his head.
“Been drinking tonight, sir?”
Cort’s eyes widened. “This?” he said, picking up the crushed can. “I… found it. Was going to recycle.”
They ran his info. No record, breathalyzer just under the limit; enough to sweat, not enough for cuffs. They told him to move immediately and issued warnings for obstruction and open container.
“Consider this your lucky night,” one said.
Lunet stayed by the car. Orlin said nothing.
As Cort climbed in, he rolled the window down, smirked, and flicked something at my feet.
His business card.
“Don’t forget who I am, Rook!” he shouted. “I always land on top!”
I picked it up. Matte black, embossed gold lettering.
Cort V. – Creative Director & Spatial Storyteller Website · Email · Phone · Full Portfolio PDF
Over-the-top, self-important, and; most importantly; packed with every real contact he had.
He tossed those cards everywhere. A branding flex. A power move.
His mistake.
He wanted the last word. He wanted to feel untouchable.
But that card? He’d just handed me the quiet keys to his entire kingdom.
I said nothing to Lunet or Orlin. I smiled, carried bags inside, helped Orlin settle, laughed at the right moments while Lunet reheated pasta.
But later, when the apartment was asleep, I poured a small drink, opened my laptop, and began.
Every night that week, after they’d gone to bed, I’d sit in the soft glow of the screen and apply for jobs. As Cort.
Dozens. Slow, deliberate, almost meditative.
Gas stations. Fast-food chains. Overnight stocking. Call centers. Big-box retail. Entry-level everything.
I used his actual résumé, his real portfolio link, his exact answers; no lies, just perfect, gentle redirection.
“Why do you want to work here?” “I thrive in dynamic, people-focused environments and bring creative problem-solving to every task.”
I attached his luxury-condo renderings to applications for night-shift cashier.
Eighty-nine applications in total. I kept count.
I pictured him waking to a flood of emails: “Thank you for applying!” “We’d love to schedule an interview!” “Excited about your interest in our Team Member role!”
I imagined the confusion turning to panic when the movie-theater manager called about buttering popcorn, or the hardware store wanted him for weekend freight.
A month later, over Sunday roast at my parents’, Mom laughed so hard she had to put down her fork.
“You remember Cort? My boss’s son?”
“How could I forget,” I said, perfectly neutral.
“He’s having a full meltdown,” she said, eyes sparkling. “His mom says he’s getting job offers nonstop; places he’d never apply to. He thinks someone’s hacked his life. He shut down his whole website last week!”
“Technology’s weird,” I said, taking a calm bite of chicken.
Inside, I smiled the quietest, sweetest smile.
His empire went dark. Socials private. Portfolio offline.
And I never breathed a word; not even to Lunet.
Some revenge shouts. Some revenge storms.
Mine just clicked “submit” eighty-nine times, then went to bed.
Karma doesn’t always wear combat boots.
Sometimes she’s barefoot, sipping cold coffee, and hitting send with a gentle, satisfied smile.