Elton had enjoyed over ten years of calm and quiet in his neighborhood—until Tarl moved in next door and became a constant hassle. After their first argument, Tarl fought back by spray-painting an insult on Elton’s lawn. But Elton wasn’t one to back down, so he decided to teach Tarl a lesson.
I’ve lived in this peaceful neighborhood for nearly a decade. It’s the kind of place where lawns are tidy, folks wave as they pass, kids laugh and play, and everything stays calm—until Tarl showed up next door.
At first, he seemed okay. Friendly enough. Tarl introduced himself, we chatted a bit, and I thought we’d get along just fine.
“I’m Tarl,” he said. “My wife and I just moved in. We loved city life for a while, but Rivel wanted a quieter spot.”
“I’m Elton,” I said, genuinely curious about him. “I’ve been here forever with my family. If you want peace, you’re in the right place.”
“I’ve always dreamed of a place where neighbors can kick back with a barbecue and a drink,” Tarl chuckled.
“Sounds great!” I said, walking down the porch with him. I was about to head out for groceries.
Everything seemed fine, and over the next two weeks, I saw Tarl often as he settled in, hauling boxes.
Then one afternoon, he knocked on my door and asked if he could use my driveway while his was being redone.
“The crew said it’ll take about two days, three at most. I can’t park the truck on the street—it’s too big.”
“Sorry, man,” I said. “Dary and I have two cars, and the kids have theirs. You know how teens are, always coming and going.”
“I hear you, Elton, but it’s just for a couple of days. That’s it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not personal, Tarl. It’s just practical.”
He huffed and stomped off down the driveway.
I thought I’d been fair: I was upfront with Tarl, so there shouldn’t have been any bad blood, right?
I was wrong.
The next morning, after starting the dishwasher, I was ready to head to work. I stepped outside, soaking up the morning sun for a moment, when I noticed Tarl’s truck parked halfway across my driveway, blocking me in.
“Is this guy for real?” I muttered.
The kids needed to get to school, Dary was leaving soon, and I was already behind schedule. This guy’s stunt had me fuming. We’d talked about this. I’d made my stance clear. And he still parked here?
I marched over to his house and knocked hard.
Tarl answered, still in pajamas and a robe.
“Tarl, I told you about using my driveway,” I said.
He just shrugged.
“It’s only for a few hours, man,” he said. “No big deal.”
“Move it. Now. We’ve all got places to go,” I said.
I stared him down.
He sighed dramatically but moved the truck, honking as I drove off.
I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. Over the next week, he kept at it. His truck, his friends’ cars, boxes, lawn gear—it didn’t matter. If there was space, Tarl used it.
I’d had enough.
“Don’t pick a fight with him, honey,” my wife Dary said during dinner as I vented about Tarl.
“But if nothing changes, he’ll keep doing this,” I said, slicing into the roast chicken.
“Then call the homeowners’ association, Elton. File a complaint. You know they won’t ignore it. They’ll warn him, and that should do it.”
I nodded. That was the smarter move.
But that’s when things turned nasty.
The next morning, I stepped outside and saw bright orange spray paint scrawled across my lawn. In big, bold letters, it read: SELFISH JERK.
I nearly punched the wall. My lawn, which I’d worked hard to keep perfect, was ruined. Worse, the whole neighborhood could see it.
I snapped photos of the mess, stormed over to Tarl’s house, and banged on his door. When he opened it, he was grinning like a kid who’d pulled off an epic prank.
“You think this is funny?” I snapped, shoving my phone in his face.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” he laughed. “Call the cops over some paint?”
I clenched my fists, barely holding back. I hated being taken advantage of.
“You’ll regret this,” I said, turning to leave before I did something I’d regret.
I drove straight to the police station.
I filed a report, but they couldn’t do much. Tarl hadn’t damaged property exactly, and the paint wasn’t permanent. They could only note the incident. I needed my own plan, and soon I had the perfect one.
What Tarl didn’t know was that my brother runs a landscaping business.
“I need a favor, Rivel,” I said, filling him in on everything.
My brother laughed for a solid minute.
“I’ve got you covered, bro,” he said. “We’ve got a new dye that’ll make sprinklers a blast!”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he’s the best in the business, and I knew he’d fix my lawn and teach Tarl a lesson.
That weekend, Rivel and his crew showed up with all their gear. We spent the day tearing out my ruined lawn, digging up the damaged grass, and laying down fresh, perfect sod.
But that wasn’t the best part. Rivel finally explained the dye.
“It’s a harmless chalk-based dye,” he said. “We used it for a school project with lights, sprinklers, and patterns. I won’t bore you with details, but it’ll show this guy what’s up.”
I laughed with my brother, picturing Tarl’s reaction to the new sprinkler setup.
Sunday morning, as I expected, Tarl was out walking his dog past my house. I stood on the porch, coffee in hand, ready for the show.
Right on cue, Tarl and his dog got blasted with bright blue water, soaking them from head to toe.
The look on his face was pure gold. He bolted, dripping blue dye, muttering curses. I might’ve felt bad, but the dye was harmless and would wash out. The best part? He was humiliated in front of the whole neighborhood.
Later that day, Tarl stormed over, blue stains all over his clothes.
“What the hell, man?” he shouted.
I leaned against my doorframe, arms crossed.
“What’re you gonna do, Tarl? Call the cops over some water?”
He stared, speechless, then turned and walked off without another word.
Since then, he hasn’t parked in my driveway or pulled any stunts. But honestly, I’m just waiting for his next move. I’ll keep teaching him lessons if I have to.