Serving It Up on a Spiteful Platter

I am no shrinking violet when it comes to revenge. I love serving it cold. Or hot. Or even lukewarm. Makes no nevermind to me, as long as my own brand of personal justice is served. No turning the other cheek for me. That just makes for two sore cheeks.

You might recall that I live up a gravel road that joins a blacktop county road beside a creek and low water bridge. I think I've mentioned that a time or fifty. The thing about idyllic, quiet, country roads is that they attract ne'er do wells. Dumpers. Truckloads of tree trimmings, cardboard beer boxes, Hefty bags of household garbage, portable meth labs, kaboodles of kittens...you name it, we've had it.

I've had it. While it might be somewhat satisfying to skewer Dumpers on my blog, I reach a point where consequences must be meted to the perpetrators. So several years ago, when I spied a fresh bag of trash on a Saturday morning, I sprang into action.

I stopped to pick up a Walmart bag full of trash on our gravel road. It was close to the entrance, like somebody had pulled off specifically to clean out their car. I drove back home, rifled through the contents, and mined the gold nugget I had been searching for: an address. I think it was on a cardboard advertisement for cigarettes. Maybe an offer for a free pack. I'm assuming the Dumper was a smoker, because there was also a lot of butts in the area where I picked up the bag of trash. Most of the contents escape me now, but I know there were losing scratch-off tickets, a wrapper for a child's toy, and a 20 oz. bottle of soda. Dr. Pepper, perhaps, partially full.

I had the most scathingly brilliant idea! I typed up a letter reminding Dumper of the sign at the entrance to our gravel road. The sign proclaiming it private. Alluding to the prosecution of trespassers. I reminded Dumper that I had the card printed with his address. And that any further trash would be attributed to him. I then explained that I was returning his property. That was only fair. And, with the exception of the addressed card, I dumped the whole bag of trash into an Amazon box and sealed it shut. I made a large tag with Dumpers address, and affixed it to the box. Then I headed to town. To the post office.

My sweet, sweet revenge cost me a couple of dollars. It was money well spent. For a week, I played over the scenario in my head. Dumper got a little orange card in his mailbox. "What? A package for ME? I'll have to drive to the post office and get it. I wonder who could be sending me a package. I LOVE packages." So Dumper loads his kid in the car. Or leaves work early in order to get to the post office before closing time. He waits in line. Presents the card. Gets his Amazon package. Rips it open. AND SEES HIS OWN TRASH AND A HATEFUL LETTER.

I'm still laughing best.