My girlfriend left me because I went to bed with another. No need to go into detail, what a bad person I am and so on, except maybe to mention that she cheated on me several times before, too. Over the years, we always had our little tiffs, but we managed to patch it all up, time and again. Except this time. My car is parked in an underground garage with only card access. My newly ex-girlfriend is kind of crazy, so I am guessing it was she who trashed my car with some sort of object, most likely a baseball bat. I'll probably wind up having to eat the damage, though I reported her to the police; but they weren't terribly interested and couldn't find any proof. For a while they even suspected me as the perpetrator. And the comprehensive insurance policy is not paying up for the same reason. A whole week I pondered how I could pay my ex back and I came up with some really dumb ideas. Most of them, unfortunately, were illegal and dangerous. Faced with the choice, I decided I'd best do something that, while illegal, wasn't dangerous and funny to boot.
I rode to the home improvement center (by bus) and bought a ton of superglue. Taking it with me yesterday evening, I rode to her new apartment, kind of broke in, which was easy enough given that she never locks up, and I glued all her shoes to the floor of her shoe closet. Then on to all the cups in the back of the cupboard, the blanket on her bed, a kitchen chair to the floor, a half-eaten steak to the plate it was left on and the plate in turn to the kitchen table. I glued her old glasses into the glass case, the portable heater to the bathroom floor, all her cosmetic articles to one another; and the bathroom mat to the floor, so that she wouldn't slip when she jumps out of the shower enraged because the hand-held shower head is stuck to its holder. The toilet cover to the toilet seat, the telephone receiver to the cradle.I actually was going to glue her acoustic guitar in its case, but then took pity on the instrument. Her best friend just called to ask me if I had anything loose in my attic. I had a pretty good laugh at that.
My girlfriend was on a ski vacation. Back from it, I soon found out, that gotten it on with a guy. Thanks to Facebook, I had the guy's name relatively quickly. Confronted with it, everything was confessed, also that the rat was married. My confession: I send him a bouquet of flowers at home through Fleurop, hoping that his wife would get it. On the card was everything that the swine had been up to. Oh, yes, she did actually receive the bouquet!
I've got to unburden myself of something, too: I study in USA and to that end became a renter in an elderly lady's house, whose ad I found on the internet. To be exact, I lived in her garden shed. After everything started out fine with her, gradually it turned out that the old lady, who herself lived in the house, was a right nasty, disturbed, paranoid beast, who constantly terrorized her renters. Always discreetly via e-mail, I was accused of just about every imaginable wrongdoing ranging from theft to dishonesty. To keep my blood pressure down, I'll spare you the details here. After two months of psychological terror, I had enough of this nonsense and gave my notice, but not without leaving her a little present: the old lady always solicited her poor renters on a well-known internet portal. When she opens it now, she's automatically routed to a wild anal-fetishist web page. She shouldn't have always left her PC unattended.
My act of revenge dates back 25 years. I was new in town, had not only moved into a gorgeous house, but also had an easy-to-recall phone number. Sure enough, without fail, during the first week of the new month, starting at 7 am or late in the evening, different people would call to speak about their bill with a woman doctor unknown to me. At some point I came to know the doctor and told her about the interruptions. It turned out that my phone number, which resembled her phone number closely, was mistakenly printed on her prescription pad. I pleaded with the doctor to pulp her misprinted prescription pads and to have herself new ones printed. She refused, because she had had ten thousand prescription blocks printed and she would have to pay for a new print run. The doctor had no recourse to the print shop because it was her mistake. She had written down the wrong phone number for the printers â€“ mine, that is. I had to repeatedly call on the doctor in writing to at least cross out my number when she wrote a new prescription or made out a bill. It was quiet for two months, then I suddenly got calls again from diverse private patients who had some kind of of problem with their bills. In the course of the conversations, it emerged that the wrong, that is to say my, phone number appeared not only on the prescriptions, but also on the bills and on the doctor's letterhead. The following month I activated my revenge plan by turning into a doctor's assistant at every call. I asked each caller to please come to the doctor's office promptly at 11:30 am on Wednesday the following week. Then he would receive the money in cash. Not any earlier, but latest by 12 noon. Actually, Wednesdays, starting at 12 o'clock, is when the doctor had her free afternoon. Not on this Wednesday, though; seeing that about 60 callers did not let this chance go by, the free afternoon was a bust for the doctor, although it was a cracking good summer's day, during which I thought, while going for a swim, about the long line of private patients all demanding to get their money back. In any case, since then no one has bothered me on the phone any more with the dumb question, "Can I speak with Madam Dr. F? Something's not right with my bill." The only ones who should forgive me for this are the poor patients.
My neighbor drives an old banger of a ford fiesta. The exhaust died a long time ago and the noises coming out of that car are to that effect. Punctual at 5.30 am, when he drives it out of the garage, I am wide awake and upright in my bed. It seems to feel like a small eternity before he, with running engine, has finished saying good bye to his wife and locking the garage . I found out by coincidence that all old ford keys fit in all old fords. You can't open the cars with them, but you can lock them.
So the next Wednesday morning I lay in ambush and waited until my neighbor went back into the house and the car was parked up with running engine. Locking the car with the Ford Mondeo key I had borrowed from my father was a matter of seconds. My neighbor returned and cursed wildly. He couldn't get into the car and there it was, clattering horribly. It got frantic, as the wife couldn't find the spare key either. I was watching the scene from behind my curtains, pissing myself laughing. After about 15 minutes a police car appeared, as apparently one of the other neighbors was fed up with the nightly interruptions. The policemen couldn't access the car either. Since no solution seems to be apparent, I returned to my bed. Only around 7 am it became quiet again. At first I presumed he was out of petrol and peeped out the window. About 10 neighbors, 2 patrol cars & an AA car were gathered outside. I assume it was thanks to the AA guy that my neighbor could finally access his car and switch off the engine. Since than I have gathered that the nasty pertubator had to join the AA for their help and the police fined him with a ticket for disturbance of the peace and a costly failing's card for his car. He changed his exhaust the same day. Since than the world is ok again at 5.30 am.