When a self-important man blocked Paul’s garage, throwing a fit and even flinging his business card, things quickly escalated. But instead of losing his cool, Paul chose a clever path. Revenge doesn’t always shout — sometimes it works quietly through job applications and subtle disruption. One petty act sparked a masterclass in low-key payback. Our garage opens onto a cramped alley behind a liquor store. If that sounds like a recipe for disaster, it is. You wouldn’t believe how many people treat the garage door like an optional guideline — parking right in front, hazards blinking as if that excuses them. We’ve lived here for five years. My fiancée, Mia, and I usually stay calm about it. But that night? Calm was nowhere to be found. It started simple. It always does, doesn't it? Mia and I had just picked up my mother-in-law, Audra, from the train station. She was visiting for a week, it was her first time staying with us, so I was on edge. Usually, we'd book a hotel room for her, but Mia wanted to spend more time with her mother. I'd cleaned the whole apartment. Mia arranged flowers. We were on our best behavior. We turned into the alley, and there it was: a car parked dead center in front of our garage door. Just blocking it casually, like they owned the space. There was no driver in sight. I recognized the car immediately. I put the car in park and sighed deeply. All I wanted was to get home and eat some of the pasta that Mia cooked before we left home. I was exhausted. "Of course it's Logan," I said. I met him at a holiday party my mom's company threw. He cornered me near the coat rack with a whiskey in one hand and a monologue about "elevated design thinking" in the other. He wore a velvet blazer like it was his own personal armor. He told me some nonsense about him building a creative empire out of his downtown studio. Translation: a tiny overpriced co-working space with a logo and free Wi-Fi. Logan was the kind of guy who called himself a visionary because he added shadows to a 3D floor plan. It was the perfect definition of "Big energy, small man." "Who's Logan?" Audra asked from the back. "One of your friends?" "No," I muttered. "He's just a... guy I know." Right then, Logan strolled out of the liquor store like it was a movie set, cracking open a can of hard iced tea. He took one long sip, leaned against the hood of his car, and gave me a slow, smug grin. "Heyyy, Paul!" he said. "Small world. Small world..." I got out of the car, trying to keep my voice low. Audra was watching everything. Mia looked tense. "Hi Logan," I said, polite but firm. "You're blocking our garage, man. Can you move, please?" He lifted the can like he was toasting me. "Chill out, Paul," he said. "I'll move in a minute. Let me finish my drink." "It'll take you two seconds to move the car. You can finish your drink after." "Relax," he said, drawing out the word like gum. "You don't get to tell me what to do. I own my time." That got me. I'd dealt with entitled jerks before, but Logan had a special kind of talent for making your blood boil without raising his voice. He was performative. Calculated. And I could feel Audra watching from the backseat, her polite silence hanging like fog. "Logan," I said. "Move the car." He stepped in close. Too close. "Are you going to make me, Paul?" I didn't move. "Don't do this," I said. "Don't do what?" he mocked, puffing out his chest. "You think I'm scared of you? I mean... look at you, Paul. You're all gentle and housebroken, aren't you? And you're a momma's boy, too. You go to all our company events just because she invites you!" Mia opened the passenger door, half-standing now. "Paul, let's just call the police, honey," she said. That's when he pushed me with an open hand. Not hard, but just enough to say I own this moment. So I did exactly what Mia said. I pulled out my phone and dialed calmly. I told dispatch that there was someone blocking my garage, getting aggressive, and drinking in public. As I spoke, Logan stepped into my space and shouted loud enough to echo down the alley. "Oh my goodness! He's assaulting me!" "Are you serious right now?" I asked, completely shocked at the unfolding scene. "I feel threatened," he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "He lunged at me! This man lunged at me!" He was putting on a full show, pacing and gesturing like he was in front of a jury. Mia filmed it on her phone. Audra sat in the car, frozen. The police showed up in under five minutes. Two officers stepped out. Logan's performance did a complete 180. Suddenly, he was reasonable and polite, his hands in his pockets. "Officers, I was just trying to leave," he said. "As you can see, I'm blocked in. This man got aggressive with me!" I didn't have to say a word. Mia played the video. Audra confirmed everything. The car was parked illegally. The can of hard iced tea was still in his hand. One of the officers raised an eyebrow and another shook his head. "Sir, have you been drinking?" Logan's eyes flicked, caught off guard for the first time all night. "This?" he said, holding up the can. "Oh... I, uh. I found this on the ground. I was going to recycle it." "Right." They ran his license. He had no priors and he blew just under the legal limit when they did the breathalyser. It was enough to be embarrassed, not enough to be charged. They told him to move the car and leave. And that next time, he'd be cited for obstruction and public drinking. "Consider this your lucky day," the officer said. "You won't be so lucky next time." Mia stayed by the car. Audra didn't say a word. As Logan pulled away, he slowed just enough to roll down his window, flick his wrist and toss something at me. It fluttered to the ground like a leaf, landing at my feet. His business card. "Don't you forget my name, Paul!" he called out. "See how I can talk my way out of anything?!" I picked up the card. It was slick black cardstock with raised text. "Logan M. Architectural Visualizer, Creative Consultant. Website. Email. Phone number. Downloadable résumé." It was bold and over-designed. The kind of card that screamed, I take myself very seriously and you should too. It looked like something he tossed around often, like a branding tool, like he wanted to be found. I wasn't the first, and he clearly didn't care who had his information. And that was his mistake. He wanted to feel untouchable. He wanted to have the last word. But the minute that card left his hand, Logan handed over control. I didn't say a word to Mia or Audra. I just smiled like everything was fine. I helped Audra settle in. I made a salad while Mia re-heated the pasta and threw the garlic bread into the oven. I laughed when it felt appropriate. But my mind was already moving. Because here's the thing: I work in systems. I understand how databases work and talk. I know what happens when an application hits a backend queue and how long it takes for someone to respond to a résumé. And Logan? Logan had just handed me a direct line into his world: résumé, contact information, digital fingerprints. All clean and all legitimate. It was a playground just waiting for me. I even got a rough address from an old email I saw through my mom. The dots didn't just connect. They begged to be used. So I got to work. Every evening, after dinner, after Mia and Audra were asleep, I'd pour myself a drink, open my laptop, and apply for jobs. As Logan. I applied to dozens of them. I didn't rush it. I took my time, I savored it... like a ritual. Retail. Fast food. Warehouse. Grocery stores. Gas stations. I filled out job applications like I was sculpting a masterpiece. I used his résumé exactly as it was. No edits. No exaggerations. He'd done all the heavy lifting for me, I just needed to redirect his genius to more... humble platforms. "Why do you want to work here?" "I love engaging with people and have a flexible schedule that matches your needs." "What are your long-term goals?" "To grow within a customer-facing role and eventually lead a team." "Willing to work weekends?" "Absolutely!" I even uploaded the same portfolio link to each application, the one with digital renderings of luxury condos and minimalist wine bars. Let hiring managers wonder why someone with architectural flair wanted to stock soup cans at a grocery chain. I wasn't malicious. I didn't fabricate a thing. I just gave him volume. Exposure. Opportunities. Eighty-four applications in total. I counted them all. And while I did it, I imagined him checking his inbox. The little preview notifications stacking up. HR contacts he didn't recognize. "Thank you for your application!" auto-responses. I imagined him groaning every time his phone rang, the recruiters calling at weird hours. Maybe even a callback from that hardware store on the edge of town. I pictured him trying to trace it all, wondering if someone was pranking him or if he'd actually blacked out one night and gone full LinkedIn gremlin. It took me a week. A week of late nights, lukewarm coffee, and that particular joy that comes from knowing someone like Logan... someone who walks through the world with impunity... was about to feel just a sliver of discomfort. Then I waited. About a month later, it happened. We were at my parents' house for dinner, Audra had gone home. My mom, Evie, made her famous roast chicken. It was a normal night. No drama. Mia was helping set the table. Dad had the game on low in the background. We were all just... being. "Oh, Paul!" Mom said casually as she was adding feta to the Greek salad. "Do you remember Logan? My boss's son?" "Sure, what about him?" I paused, making sure that my face was neutral. She smirked and dropped into a chair, wiping her hands with a dish towel. "Apparently that kid has been losing his mind. His mom, Diane, says that he's getting flooded with job offers. But not... not jobs that meet his usual, um, standard." "Really? What jobs?" "Fast food chains," she laughed. "Hardware stores, call centers. All good and honest work but for him? His worst nightmare! He thinks someone hacked him." "That's wild," I said slowly, pouring a glass of wine. "Diane said that he got a call-back from a movie theater last week. Logan nearly went in thinking it was a meeting with a studio client. It turns out that it was for the concession stand." I took a bite of chicken. I chewed and swallowed.

"Must be a glitch in the system," I said. "These things happen."

"I suppose," she said. "Honestly, he deserves to be knocked down a peg. He is too entitled. Even Diane is tired of him and he's her only child." I didn't need to ask more. I didn't want to. Because in my head, I could see it playing out, Logan pacing in his apartment, smacking his mouse against the desk, rereading confirmation emails, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. I imagined him doing Google searches on himself. Logging in and out of job portals, changing passwords. I imagined him questioning everyone he'd ever crossed and I smiled. Maybe he thought it was one of his mom's coworkers. Maybe he blamed an ex-girlfriend. Maybe he thought it was just karma on a delay. But me? I never said a word. Not even to Mia. A week after that dinner, I checked his website, the one on the card, and it was gone. "Bad gateway." His socials were locked down, all accounts set to private. Just static where there used to be branding. The "creative empire" had gone offline. And you know what? I didn't feel bad. Not even a little. Because here's what I've learned: people like Logan don't wake up thinking about the lives they nudge, the mess they leave, or the voices they talk over. Logan didn't park in front of our garage thinking about how tired we were, or how long Mia and I had worked to make that apartment a home. He didn't think twice about stepping into my space, shoving me, lying to the police. He didn't even blink when he tossed that card. But the moment that card left his hand? He gave me something he hadn't meant to. Access. That card was supposed to intimidate. It was supposed to say: I matter more than you. But what it really said was: Here's every piece of information you'll ever need. Would I do it again? Damn straight. Because karma doesn't always have time to write you a letter. Sometimes, she wears sweatpants, drinks black coffee, and has a few quiet nights after dinner. Sometimes, she knows exactly which form to fill out... and which button to click.