I’d enjoyed ten years in my quiet, friendly neighborhood—neighbors waved, lawns sparkled, children’s laughter echoed. That is, until Tim moved in next door. At first, he was cordial: “I’ve always wanted a place to barbecue and relax,” he told me. I invited him over, thinking he’d fit right in.
Then came the truck in my driveway: every morning, a delivery, a lawnmower, a stranger’s car—despite multiple polite requests to move—to make it “just for a few minutes.” My wife suggested filing an HOA complaint, but I believed we could resolve it quietly.
Instead, I woke one morning to find the words SELFISH JERK spray-painted in stark orange letters across my lawn. I snapped photos, marched next door, ready for confrontation. Tim sneered—“Call the cops on a lawn?”—mocking me.
That was when I knew I had to act smarter. I called my brother, who owns a landscaping company, and laid out the battle plan. He brought a chalk-based dye system and new sod. Together, we spent the day tearing up the ruined grass.
Sunday morning, I stood on the porch with coffee as Tim walked his dog by. At the perfect moment, bright blue water blasted them both in a colorful arc. The entire neighborhood watched as he ran, drenched in ink.
Tim looked like a cartoon character afloat in neon. When he stormed over—blue-stained and furious—I leaned in with a grin. “Call the cops if it’s just water,” I said. He sputtered, speechless, and backed away. Since then? No more driveway stunts.
