A while back I came across a prompt that involved an act of revenge against neighborhood kids who toilet paper houses. It wasn't until this prompt that a whole scene snapped into place.
I offer the following in response: Serving Revenge Cold
Kids. Urchins. Prepubescent dunderheads. I detest them. My shrink told me I suffer from ephebiphobia, but that’s not my only issue. I have several issues in fact. All of them have some sort of lengthy Greek or Latin beginning and end with –phobia. I have a trunk full of costly pills to address each one.
Apparently, killing teenagers is an act of murder punishable in a court of law, not an act of mercy that nominates one for sainthood. So I attend anger management classes, group therapy sessions, and practice yoga, and I'm proud to say I'm officially coping. It helps that my house is solitary on its little hill. The housing developers never got to build the rest of my block before the rare butterflies were discovered. So it was a no-brainer that I chose this house.
But I digress.
April Fools is a particular challenge for me each year, and the rotten, good-for-nothing vandals can smell my law-abiding inability to act. For over a decade, it’s been a rite of passage for the monsters to drudge up my hill with all the toilet paper they get their grubby mitts on. Two years ago, they even plastic-wrapped my car and egged my garage door in addition to turning my oak trees into weeping willows of TP. My sister douses my entire property with water so the toilet paper is washed away before I wake in the morning, but she shouldn't have to. She should not have to sit with me in my dark room each March 31st just to help keep my temper under control.
But last year was different. I had what my shrink labeled ‘a breakthrough moment.’ I went on the offensive.
My sister's fiancé gave me the idea. "You realize what they're doing is malicious mischief, don't you?" he asked. "It's a misdemeanor."
"Thanks, Brian," I replied, "but I'm not a cop like you are. I can't exactly enforce anything."
He shrugged, "I'm willing to help. Let me throw a party here. I'll invite the precinct. We'll take care of it."
Did I mention I love my future brother-in-law? “Isn’t that entrapment?” I asked.
He shook his head, “No, entrapment would mean we force the perps to do the crime. A person ready, willing, and able to commit a misdemeanor is not a victim of entrapment.”
Despite my irrational fears of crowds, germs, and body odors, the party was a ton of fun; something I wasn’t expecting from a sting operation. I met sergeants, detectives, their wives and significant others. They all brought food and drinks and for the first time since forever, I actually felt like a normal human being. Everyone was so kind and sympathetic; I almost forgot to watch the main event go down.
Just as the hoodlums crept across the front of my lawn, my sister flipped on the flood lights, exposing their intent to the night. The entire house emptied of arresting officers, surprising the brats and their accompanying adults alike. Citations were issued for malicious mischief, breaking city curfew, inciting a mob, contributing to the delinquency of minors and being drunk in public.
I summoned the courage to wish them all a Happy Fools Day as the dawn broke.