Elton had enjoyed over a decade of peace and quiet in his neighborhood—until Gideon moved in next door and became a constant source of trouble. Their first disagreement quickly escalated when Gideon retaliated by spray-painting an insult on Elton’s lawn. But Elton wasn’t the kind of man to back down. He decided it was time to teach Gideon a lesson.
I’d lived in this calm, friendly neighborhood for more than ten years. People here kept their lawns neat, waved when they passed, and children played in the streets without a care. It was perfect—at least until Gideon arrived.
When he first moved in, he seemed fine. Friendly, even. We exchanged small talk when he introduced himself.
“My name’s Gideon,” he said. “My wife and I just moved here. We used to live in the city, but Lila wanted something quieter.”
“I’m Elton,” I replied. “My family’s been here forever. If you’re looking for peace, this is the place.”
He laughed. “I’ve always dreamed of a neighborhood where you can kick back with a barbecue and a beer.”
We chatted as we walked toward our porches, and I thought we’d get along fine.
A couple of weeks later, Gideon knocked on my door. “Hey, can I use your driveway for a couple of days while mine’s being repaved? My truck’s too big for the street.”
“I’m sorry, man,” I said. “We’ve got two cars, and my teenagers each have their own. Someone’s always coming and going.”
“It’s just for a few days,” he insisted.
“It’s not personal,” I told him. “It’s just not practical.”
He walked off with a huff. I figured that would be the end of it. I was wrong.
The very next morning, I stepped outside to find Gideon’s truck parked squarely in my driveway, blocking me in. My kids needed to get to school, my wife had places to be, and I was already running late.
I stormed over and banged on his door. He answered in pajamas and a robe.
“Gideon,” I said sharply, “I told you you couldn’t use my driveway.”
He shrugged. “It’s only for a few hours. Not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Move it. Now.”
With a sigh, he moved his truck, honking as I drove off.
I thought that was the end of it. But week after week, he kept using my driveway or blocking it with his car, his friends’ cars, or even piles of equipment.
One night, I complained to my wife, Maris, over dinner.
“Don’t start a fight,” she warned. “If he won’t stop, file a complaint with the homeowners’ association. They’ll warn him, and that should be enough.”
That was my plan—until the next morning.
When I stepped outside, my beautiful, perfectly kept lawn had been vandalized with huge, bright-orange letters spelling out SELFISH JERK. The whole neighborhood could see it.
Furious, I took photos and marched straight to Gideon’s door. He opened it grinning, like a kid who thought he’d pulled off something clever.
“You think this is funny?” I demanded.
He smirked. “What are you gonna do? Call the cops over some paint?”
I clenched my fists and forced myself to walk away. But I wasn’t going to let it slide.
The police couldn’t do much—apparently the paint wasn’t permanent, so it wasn’t “real damage.” But I had another idea.
My brother, Thane, owns a landscaping company. When I told him what happened, he laughed.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing,” he said. “We’ve got a new chalk-based dye for sprinklers. Totally safe, washes right out… but it’s going to make a statement.”
That weekend, Thane and his crew replaced my damaged grass with perfect, fresh sod. Then they set up the special sprinkler system.
Sunday morning, coffee in hand, I waited on my porch. Right on cue, Gideon walked by with his dog. As they passed my lawn, the sprinklers activated—soaking them both in a cloud of brilliant blue water.
The look on his face was priceless. He yelled curses as he hurried away, dripping blue. The best part? The whole neighborhood saw.
Later that day, he showed up at my door, still wearing stained clothes.
“What the hell, man?” he shouted.
I leaned casually against the doorframe. “What are you going to do, Gideon? Call the police? Over water?”
He stood there, speechless, then turned and walked away.
Since then, he hasn’t parked in my driveway—or pulled any other stunts. I’m just waiting to see if he tries again. If he does, I’m ready.