Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 They say that living well is the best revenge. I can do you one better. I should say that as a rule, I don’t bother with grudges or getting even. It’s cliché, but life is too short. Shit happens, people do you wrong. I’m sure I’ve done people wrong. You can obsess and complain about it if you want. You can hate people, you can be mad and sullen, but really, what’s the point? In the end, you can be angry and hurt and spiteful, or, you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off, smirk for a moment at life, and move on. I prefer the latter. Although, I guess, every rule has the occasional exception... I was in the right place, at the right time—it was just luck, in a way. I was struck with serendipity, at just the right time. I could have very easily missed it, been mad, and moved on—but instead, something inspired me. I was sober enough to figure it out, but drunk enough to dare to try it. And I was angry enough to ignore the potentially catastrophic consequences and just do it. You see, I do not recommend that anyone else ever try this. It could’ve gone horribly wrong. It could’ve backfired easily. It could have blown up in my face. I could’ve gotten hurt, beat up, attacked. I could’ve gotten arrested. I could’ve been publicly humiliated. It could’ve failed gloriously. But it didn’t. It worked. I chalk it up to equal parts audacity and fortune, but it worked better than I had hoped. If I were making it all up, I couldn’t have done a better job. This is the story of the ballsiest thing I’ve ever done over a girl. This is the story of the most awesome thing I ever got away with. This is simultaneously the story of the best and the worst thing that I’ve ever intentionally done. This is, the best revenge. Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Her name is Jessica. She’s nice, cute, kind of quiet, but also easy going. We’ve had three dates so far. Things are starting to click. She seems to like me enough—at least enough to have already slept with me. Today is our fourth date, and we meet at a bar. I walk into the pub. I’ve been here a thousand times before with my pals. It’s a crummy old pub. The tables are beaten up, the fabric on the seats is faded and old, the place is dim and the light fixtures are decrepit. But it’s a good pub. The music is good, the drinks are cheap, and the food is cheaper. Some people say that old bars like this have more character. I don’t know about that. They have cheaper beer, I can tell you that much. Maybe that’s why I frequent it so much with my acquaintances. I arrive first and stake out a good booth. My plan for tonight is to have a nice evening with my girl. I plan to have a drink or two, eat dinner, enjoy her company, bring her home, and perhaps watch a movie together. It’s all very “by the books”. Of course, needless to say, if that were indeed what happened on this particular night, well, there wouldn’t be a real reason to talk about it. I barely notice at first, but there’s a group of jock dude douche bags circulating the bar, trying to pick up girls. They’re not being very successful. I notice one guy trying his damndest to pick up some girls at the bar. I can tell from their body language that the girls are not having it. You can tell a lot by body language. Is he leaning in to her or is she leaning in to him? Is she turning away from him? Is he tapping his foot nervously? Is he standing tall and proud or meek and cowardly? Is she interested? Or is it a lost cause? In this case, it’s very obvious that she’s not interested. And also very obvious that he’s oblivious to this fact. Eventually, I guess realizing that he’s losing their attention, he tries doing pushups to impress them. It’s too try hard. It telegraphs desperation. The girls are now completely unimpressed. Every bar I go to seems to have a few of these guys. This is the same type of guy who might’ve impressed those same girls in high school. He would’ve been the athlete, the hero. He would’ve amazed the girls in his school with his physical prowess. He would’ve been the catch, the hot guy. He would’ve dated the girl and then her friend. And they would’ve been grateful for the chance. But fast forward to now, and he’s become a faded shadow of his once great glory. He’s sporting a gut and wearing the same backwards baseball cap that was trendy ten years ago. He’s loud and obnoxious. He speaks arrogantly, calls people “fag”, and acts like he’s better than almost everyone. I smirk to myself and shake my head. Then I feel a hearty slap on my back. “Something funny bro?” I turn to see a steroid enhanced super soldier standing beside me, drinking a beer. “Funny?” I ask. He tells me that he couldn’t help but notice me watching his “boys”. He says that I laughed. He asks me if I think they’re funny. Great… this is just what I need… He asks me again if I think his friends are funny. I can tell from his demeanor and tone that it doesn’t really matter what I say. It’s a trap. If I say his friends are funny, he gets mad at me for making fun of them. If I say his friends aren’t funny, he gets mad at me for calling them lame. He drinks his beer, still clearly waiting for my response. I tell him that I don’t want any trouble. I feel like I’m in an old western movie. I can tell by his face that that’s not good enough. Something tells me he might be trying to pick a fight. He’s massaging my shoulder. It’s an emasculating move. He’s letting me know that he can touch me if he wants. It’s kind of terrifying actually. Our eyes are locked, and something tells me that if I look away he might jump me. But in my peripheral vision I’m frantically looking for some bar staff to call over and save me. I instantly wish that I’d spent the last five years at the gym, bulking up. Why the fuck didn’t I sign up for that Tae Kwon Do class at the YMCA? And then, as if on cue, Jessica arrives. He notices her enter just as I do. I use the momentary break to try to extract myself from the situation. “I should go,” I tell him. “That’s my girlfriend after all.” I start to stand but he pushes me back down by my shoulder. Fuck… “Why don’t you introduce me to her?” he says. Double fuck… Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Bullying is one of those things that you don’t really think about when you’re an adult. I mean, as a kid, everyone had a run in with a bully. Usually they’d chase you around, take something of yours, maybe keep it, maybe break it, or worse-case-scenario they’d beat you up. I mean, it’s just one of those things that everyone’s experienced at least once, no matter how much of a sheltered life you’ve lived. I guess we like to think that when we become adults all that nonsense is over. People don’t pick on one another; at least not in such aggressive terms. Adults may be cliquey and rude, but they don’t straight out bully, right? Let me tell you, by someone who’s been held at fist-point by a 250lb douche bag, bullying is alive and well. I guess I shouldn’t have been such a dick about his friends. I mean I didn’t actually say anything rude, but I was thinking some pretty rude shit about them. Serves me right I suppose. Jessica comes over and he introduces himself as Jones. He sits down and joins us. It’s unbelievable. I get the distinct impression that the number of bruises I will receive tonight are directly correlated with my performance here. The more I pretend like he’s my friend, the less he’s going to beat my ass. Ah, extortion, my old friend… Jessica asks me how I know Jones. I should tell her that I don’t know him and that he’s some fucking asshole who just started harassing me, but he glares at me instantly when she asks. I tell her that he’s a regular here. It seems to appease him because he turns away from me, and looks back at her. What happens next, defies belief. Whereas his buddies have no game, he does. He starts to talk to Jess. He asks her what she’s doing with a loser like me. He makes her laugh. He impresses her with stories. He pulls out his wallet to show her a picture of his niece and as he does, we both notice a huge stack of cash in said wallet. I spot it as a clever, albeit obvious, attempt to look rich without bragging about it, but it works on her. It’s remarkable to watch really, I’ve never seen anything like it. Here is this girl, who fully intended to see me tonight. A girl who, in fact, I am in the process of dating. A girl, who for all intents and purposes must have expected to fuck me tonight… And Jones is fucking stealing her. He’s saying things that are simultaneously making her shy away but also ask for more. He’s teasing her and complimenting her at the same time. He’s playing little verbal games that draw her in more and more and more. It only takes him a few minutes, but before long she’s not even looking at me anymore, let alone talking to me. I said before that body language is all you need to read a girl, well her body language is screaming that she wants to tear off her skirt, his pants, and mount him like his dick is the cure for cancer. Jones is an asshole, and a douchebag. He’s a has-been. He’s a bar fly and a creep. He’s an dick. And yet, no matter how many names I call him, how much I laugh at his pathetic little life, how much I judge myself to be superior to this piece of shit, it doesn’t matter. None of it stops him from stealing my girl. That’s the real joke. Whatever I think of this fucker, he gets her. He gets Jess. Whether or not he actually wanted to pick a fight, it’s all over now. I could still brawl with him if I want, but getting my ass kicked isn’t going to change anything anymore. He’s going to take Jess from me, and leave me be. I guess it’s the best outcome I could’ve expected, if the alternative was to get beat like a punching bag. Nonetheless, it’s probably the most emasculating thing that could’ve happened. Eventually, Jess excuses herself to use the restroom. When she does, jizz-mo Jones takes a big gulp of his beer and then tells me to “scram”. “I don’t want you around when she comes back,” he adds. Being someone’s bitch is not how I enjoy spending my time. But what am I going to do? Defy him and sit there awkwardly? Be the third wheel on this little abduction date? Risk life and limb and an unbruised body to say that I stood my ground and sat there proudly as my girl completely lost interest in me and started to mack on some jackass beside me? I reluctantly get up. As I do, he tells me that now I know who’s better. He calls me a pussy. He tells me that he could do this to any girl he ever sees me with. And he asks me if I’d like to do anything about it. Ironic, he’s still trying to pick a fight. Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Rather than sink to Jones’ level and indulge the immaturity of a fight, I decide to take the more adult route: I stake out the women’s washroom door while being exceedingly careful to hide from his view as I do. I’m not afraid of him or anything, but you know… I wouldn’t want him to see what I was doing or realize I was still at the bar. A few minutes later, Jess comes out. When she does, I tell her that we should go. If he can steal my girl, I can steal her back, right? She looks surprised. She tells me that we just got here. I tell her that I’d like to leave. I tell her that we should go back to my place. I assure her that I have drinks there, that I have a movie ready. I tell her we should take off. She says that she wants to stay. I reaffirm my intent to leave. I tell her that I am leaving. I tell her that she should come with me, and that I really like her and we’ll go somewhere else. I tell her that Jones is not my friend, he’s just some douche bag asshole that wanted to beat me up for laughing at his friend. Jess sighs and shrugs. She tells me that she’s doesn’t think she wants to leave yet. In shock and disbelief, I tell her that this is a joke. I ask her if she’s joking. She shakes head and shrugs. “Are you fucking into this guy?” She reluctantly nods and then sighs. She gives me a kiss on my cheek and says that she wasn’t sure it would work between us. She says that she really liked me and didn’t want it to go down like this, but she’s going to stay with Jones. She says that I can call her tomorrow if I need to talk about it. Jessica heads back to our table. She leaves. She goes back to jackass Jones. She abandons me for some guy she just met. To make matters worse, Jones’ friend is at the bar making out with some fat chick. Even he’s going to score tonight it seems. “Well that’s fucking brilliant…” I mumble to myself. Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 In the men’s restroom, in the basement, sitting on a toilet, still trying to process what happened, sits JD. I literally got played in the span of fifteen minutes. Some guy harassed me, intimidated me, threatened me, and then what? What did I do? Did I fight him? Did I stand up to him? Did I tell him to go fuck himself? Naw. I just let him steal my girlfriend. As pathetic as his friend was, doing pushups in the bar, I’m the real loser. And so here I am, in the dank, dark stalls in the basement of this shitty bar, taking a dump and feeling sorry for myself. As an aside, when I say the dank, dark stalls, I mean it. The lavatory down here is actually are the worst I’ve ever seen. Not to get distracted away from my current romantic catastrophe, but these restrooms are something else. The floor is broken and uneven, the ceiling hangs low. There are no urinals, only two of the toilets work, there’s no soap, and this place smells disgusting. Most of the lights down here don’t work. The toilets look like they were war rationed from 1940’s Britain, and they work just about as well as antique crappers should. And the stalls themselves have huge old handles and feel like they’re made out of iron. It’s all pretty sketchy to be honest. But anyway, back to my misery… I try to tell myself that if her attention was so easily swayed by some asshole, would I really want to have continued to date her? Obviously not. Still, asshole or not, she chose him over me. As I finish my business, my ego feels nonexistent. Here’s this dumb, meathead jock, and he literally emasculated me and stole my girl. I finish and stand up. I almost turn around to flush the toilet when I remember that the toilets down here are also prone to flooding. I decide to leave it for the next guy. I have to pull the door a few times to get it to open. The stall door scrapes against the stained, low-hanging ceiling, leaving marks as I jam it open. Still dumbfounded by my loss, I wash my hands. The water runs over them, and I just stare at it. I keep going over things in my head. I smirked at his friend… I fucking smirked. The guy was embarrassing himself at the bar so I smirked. And that asshole fucked me over for it. Part of me doesn’t even want to have to walk out of the bar tonight. Maybe he’ll see me and heckle me. Maybe he’ll tell Jessica how he could beat me up in an instant. Maybe Jessica will look at me, and once again I’ll be reminded that she totally abandoned me. Somewhere in the self-pity and hand sanitization ritual, something emerges. At first it’s a little hazy. But then it comes back, again, stronger. I never thought I’d get inspired in a place like this, but inspiration is the only word that describes it. I stare at the constantly flowing water as I realize that I could do something. I realize that I could do something really bad. I laugh for a second, as if dismissing the idea, as if saying, “Yeah right, wouldn’t that be funny if I actually did it…” But it doesn’t leave, it comes back immediately with the question, “Why not?” Indeed, why not? He started this didn’t he? He came over, he intentionally disrespected me, he’s a dick and a bully, and to let him get away with his actions would be criminal. He stole from me, he threatened me, and I did nothing? No, I can’t let that pass. Don’t I owe it to myself to at least try? And besides, what else am I going to do tonight? I laugh to myself for a second, thinking I’m crazy. But I seem to have talked myself into it, somehow. I look around the dingy bathroom. I turn off the sink and dash over to the closet. I open it up and find the “Out of Order” sign. I smirk to myself. This is probably a really, really, really bad idea… but fuck it. Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 I figure it’s a long shot, and that in reality it won’t really work. It’s too elaborate, with too many variables to every really come to fruition; but whatever. I guess at this stage I’m doing it to say that I tried. I expect to tell this story to my friends later, and tell them about this grand idea that I hatched. I plan to tell them my scheme, and then exactly how far along I got with it before I got caught and had to flee. I guess I always expected it to fail and to have people gasp, “Aw… that would’ve been so cool!” Little did I know… I turn off the water and hastily dry my hands. I enter each of the stalls, pull reams of toilet paper down, dump it in crapper, then flush. One by one, the toilets begin to overflow. I grab the “Out of Order” sign and head upstairs. I prop the sign up by the basement stairs. Hopefully people will notice and abide by it. The men’s washroom is actually frequently out of order in this place. People are used to using the girl’s bathroom in the back when it is, so it shouldn’t be that big a stretch to imagine that people will obey the sign. My plan involves a few stages. With the bathroom flooded and the sign up, it’s time to find a waitress. From the far room, I peak through the doorway and find d-bag Jones and Jessica still sitting at my ex-table. I grin slyly, like some kind of Saturday morning cartoon villain. I didn’t date Jessica long, but I did learn that she doesn’t like spicy food or beer. I can only hope that the asshole jock does. I find my ex-waitress ringing up someone’s bill at the bar. I approach her and interrupt. I tell her that I’d like to order some hot wings and a pitcher of beer for my table and then I ask her if she could do me a favour. She asks what it is. “Just tell them that I ordered it before they arrived. They think I’ve left now, so if they ask, just say I paid for it before I left.” “Will you?” she asks sarcastically. I laugh and tell her of course. I pull out some cash. She shrugs and agrees, “OK.” OK, food and drink is on the way. Time to head to my car. Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 I’m in the parking lot, digging through my trunk, wishing I had worn my old sneakers tonight. I figure though, at this point, I’ve already blown $30 on wings and beer for the fucker, I can’t back out now. Finally, I find it. Stuffed into the corner of a box, under a bunch of junk, I find a bundle of nylon rope. I stuff the rope in the back of my jeans, under my shirt. I close my trunk and go back through the back door to the bar. In my head I feel like a buzzed MacGuyver. I’m still not positive this is going to work, but I’m invested in it now. And the adrenaline of all this sneaking around and plotting is getting me fired up. I get back to the bar and grab a seat at the far end, near the doorway. I can see into the next room barely, and can see the mark canoodling with Jessica in their booth. The funny thing is that I’m not even mad anymore—I’m excited. I mean, girls come and go. Everyone gets to date someone. How many guys can get the perfect revenge? The sight of them flirting, and him with his hands on her, well, it only strengthens my resolve to go through with my plan. All’s fair, right? I order a drink and wait. I’m keeping my eye on the guy’s washroom. I see a few people almost go in it, but they’re scared off by the sign. So far so good. A few minutes later, the wings and beer arrive. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but their facial expressions are obvious. Them: “Oh that’s not for us.” The Waitress: “Well the guy who was here before ordered it actually.” Them: “Oh?” The Waitress: “Yeah, it’s already paid for.” Fucker: “Oh! Well yeah, put it down!” He takes the bait and accepts the food. I smirk and take a big sip of my drink. “Work your magic spicy wings…” He eats a few wings and then chugs some beer. He takes a break, finishes another drink. He eats a few more wings, chugs some more beer. He can’t resist the free food, and yet the more he eats, the more he needs to drink. It’s all free so what does he care? With each gulp and chug however, he’s getting closer and closer. My heart is kind of racing. It’s getting to crunch time. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. The nylon rope is scratching my back, but it won’t be there much longer. I’m fixated on him, watching him down most of the pitcher as he eats the wings. I hope he’s getting sloppy drunk and making an ass out of himself. I hope Jessica is getting turned off. From her body language, I can tell that she isn’t, but whatever. Getting him drunk isn’t even my plan. I don’t really care if he gets drunk or not. What I want, is for him to have to piss. The next little bit has to be timed exactly, and done without attracting attention. I just hope I can pull it off. Suddenly he starts to get up. I know where he’s going. I take a big gulp of my drink and wait for one more second, to be sure he’s going where I think he’s going. He is. I drop $10 in front of my drink and jump up from the bar. Go time! Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Jerkface Jones is on his way so I speed walk over to the basement door. I casually kick the “Out of Order” sign away and then turn to a crowd of people and pretend to be part of their circle. He passes right by without noticing me, and heads downstairs. I pick up the sign and re-position it in front of the stairs. Don’t want anyone disturbing us. I head down after him, careful to step silently as I do. I slowly enter the bathroom and can hear him pissing in a stall. He’s mumbling to himself about the disgusting state of the restrooms. The floor is wet with pissy-shitty-water. There are drains on the floor but they’re not the greatest. Plus, with three toilets flooding simultaneously, there’s more than enough fecal-waste water to make this whole thing worth it. I covertly step into the room. I grimace a bit at my shoes as I do. I’m walking through a floor wet with toilet water and human waste. I really wish I’d worn older shoes. Ah well. Acceptable loses… I figure he’s probably breaking the seal, which means he’ll be pissing for a while. But nonetheless, I work as fast as I can. Last thing I need is to get caught with my metaphorical dick in the wind and get my ass beat as a result. I pull the rope out and run it through the stall door’s handle. I then run it around the sink pipes. I run it back through the stall door handle, and then back around the pipes. I do this a few more times and then pull the whole thing as tight as I can. Adrenaline racing through my veins, I still can’t believe I’m doing this. I triple knot the rope as tight as I can and then step back. I have the biggest grin of my life across my face. If a bar employee were to walk in right now, I have no idea what would happen. I assume I’d get kicked out at the least. I assume that the cops might get called. I’d probably get banned from the bar. That is, assuming the employee could even understand what the fuck I was doing. But no employee enters, and so it’s time for me to slip into character. With the stall door securely locked with rope, and no chance of jizz-stain Jones escaping, it’s time to interrupt his piss. “Sir!” I suddenly shout out in an accent. I don’t know why I chose an accent, and I couldn’t even tell you quite what nationality I was doing. But I guess I thought it prudent to disguise my voice. “Huh..?” I hear from behind the rope-locked door. “Sir did you not see the sign?” I say. “This restroom is out of order sir.” “What?” he says with a drunken slur. He’s obviously still pissing. “Sir, did you lock this door?” “I can’t hear you man,” he says. “Did you lock this door sir?” I ask him again, louder. “What…? Yeah?” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving in a second.” I hear him finish pissing and then unlock the door. He pulls at the door, which pulls on the rope. The door doesn’t budge. “Fuck…” I hear him mumble. He starts to fumble with the door lock again, assuming he didn’t unlock it. “Sir,” I tell him. “This door is broken sir. It doesn’t unlock.” “No I got it,” he says. He pulls the door again, nothing. He tries again, this time more violently. The rope tenses, the door shakes a bit, but nothing. “Fuck!” I hear him yell in an aggravated tone. He starts to push the door but the thick metal frame that keeps the stall that keeps stall doors from opening outward doesn’t budge. God love old world craftsmanship. He starts to pull and punch at the door. “Fucking piece of shit!” he’s cursing. Somehow, I feel vindicated, avenged. This asshole, this fuckhead, he definitely could kill me. I’m sure that if we were thrown into an arena and forced to battle with nothing more than sticks and rocks, he’d surely best me, and leave me bloodied and broken. He definitely is my physical superior. But brains beats brawn last I heard. And so here he is, the confident jock, the bully meathead, the ladies man that stole my girl, locked in a dank, dark bathroom that’s flooded with urine and feces, with no idea who or what has done this to him. I almost feel bad for him. Almost… He he’s in the stall punching violently and cursing. I smirk. It’s a thing of absolute beauty. He leans back and starts to kick at the door. The stalls rattle. “Sir!” I exclaim. “Sir! Stop right now! If you damage this washroom you will pay for it and you will be arrested. I will go call the police right now!” I hear him give one last half-assed kick at the door. “Well fuck man. What the fuck am I supposed to do?! Get this door open right-fucking-now! You open this door for me!” I should totally just leave him like this. But then someone would come save him eventually I’m sure. No, I can do better. Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 “Sir,” I say in my fake, weird accent. “You are going to have to crawl out sir.” “What?!” he yells. “You’re fucking joking man! The floor down here is sick!” “Sir, there is nothing else we can do right now. You have to leave this bathroom. There is no maintenance on weekends.” “Fuck no man,” he protests. “It’s sick!” “Sir, it’s just water,” I tell him. “Trust me.” “It fucking stinks!” he protests. “It’s just water sir,” I assure him. “Come, I’ll help you.” I hear him in the stall groaning reluctantly, he punches the stall wall again. “Sir!” I shout angrily. He asks me if I can get someone. He asks if the door can be taken down. He tells me to find his friends. He asks me for some other option, anything. I tell him that there’s no one to get, the door cannot be taken down, and that his friends can’t help him. I tell him that there is no other option but I assure him that it’s just water, and I tell him I’ve got a towel ready and waiting. “I’m not going to fit,” he whines. He’s right. The gap isn’t big enough. “Let’s go sir,” I demand strongly. It’s funny how people will sometimes just listen to you if they think you’re an authority figure. Behind the door, he’s quiet for a minute, and then he lets out a loud sigh. A moment later, he crouches down to the pissy-shitty floor. I step back away from the door so that he won’t be able to see me clearly. He’s grumbling and cursing under his breath as he slowly starts to crawl under the stall. He manages to get his head out with ease, but he’s got his eyes closed and he’s trying not to smell all the disgusting smells coming off the water on the floor. He’s groaning and yelling. He’s disgusted and repulsed. Thankfully the way his body is position, he can’t look backwards to see me. But I get to watch this whole glorious ordeal. He’s inching forward, trying his best to crawl out without falling on the ground. He’s chanting, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” And you know what? He can’t. His head is barely out and I am pretty sure he actually can’t fit. He’s still trying to push himself through but he can’t. “I can’t!” he yells as he gives up. He pulls himself back into the stall and immediately screams. “AH! AHHH! FUCK! I'm covered in shit! You fucker! The floor is covered in shit! You're paying for this bro! I’m going to sue you!” He starts to smash the door violently. He screams in frustration. He starts cursing me. He’s calling me a faggot and he says he’s going to sue me and punch my face in. He starts to kick at the door and call for help. The music upstairs is loud enough though, I’m not worried. “Sir, did it get on you sir?” I ask calmly. “You fucking kidding me bro?!” he yells. “This floor is covered in shit, man! You said it was just water! I’m going to fucking kill you! I can’t fit under that fucking door you fucking idiot! I’m too big!” The downside to being a meathead I suppose. “Get this door off its fucking hinges! HELP! HEEELP!” he yells as he kicks the stall door. As fun as it is to listen to him scream and violently try to destroy the stall, I know that it’s only a matter of time before he does get the door off its hinges. With each kick and punch, the door is breaking apart just a little bit more. I grab a seat on the stairs to wait for a moment longer. He asks if I’m still there, but I’m done talking. He seems to redouble his efforts with the belief that I’m gone. Perhaps out of fear that he has been abandoned or perhaps because he thinks that now there’s no one to stop him from really destroying the washroom. The funny thing is, as he’s kicking and screaming and steroid-raging inside the tiny, dark stall, he’s kicking pissy-shitty water up all over the place. He’s splashing it all over himself. And I’m pretty sure I hear him slip and fall down on to the gross, flooding toilet in his stall at one point. I look down at the sick fecal water covered the floor and then at my shoes. I sigh, “I wish I’d worn older shoes…” He’s stopped screaming now and is focusing on breaking the door. He’s grunting with every frustrated kick. Eventually, his kicks start to make progress, and I see the stall becoming unstable. The door is slowly bending, and the metal piece holding it shut is coming loose. I figure a handful more kicks and he’ll be out. “All right,” I mumble to myself. “Let’s finish this.” Next | Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 I walk upstairs, back to the bar. I nonchalantly kick the “Out of Order” sign down into the basement. I walk up to the bartender and interrupt him in the middle of taking an order. “Hey,” I tell him. “I just went downstairs to use the bathroom and there’s some guy down there kicking in all your stalls. I don’t think he noticed me, but yeah, he’s destroying everything.” His friend is still making out with the fat chick in the far corner of the bar. Even though he’s getting some though, somehow it looks more like defeat than victory. “Poor bastard…” I mumble to myself. The bartender sends a female employee downstairs to see if I was telling the truth. She walks half way down the stairs before running back and telling him that she can hear someone screaming down there and punching and kicking the shit out of things. He calls a few employees over, they call the cops. For my part, I return to my corner bar seat and peer over at my ex-table. Jessica is still sitting there, with a half finished pitcher and a plate of hot wings, wondering where her man has gone. I feel a little bad that Jessica will be going home alone, but then again, she could’ve come home with me. Jackass Jones comes storming up the stairs screaming. When he reaches the stop of the stairs he starts yelling at the employees. He’s covered in piss water and soggy human waste. He’s disgusting and he smells. He’s drunk and agitated. Everyone in the pub is shocked. Everyone’s conversations stop, just like in the movies. They just watch the train wreck that is the Jones-meister. The employees are trying to figure out what the hell happened but he is beyond reason. He’s yelling about broken doors and some manager that made him crawl in piss. He says he’s going to sue the bar. He calls the waitresses bitches and pushes one. His buddies run over and try to calm him down, but he’s out of control at this point. Steroids will do that too you I guess. And then, amidst all the yelling, the confusion, and the threats, enter the police. Jessica is watching now. Much to my approval, when she sees what has become of Jones she quietly slinks out of the bar. I smile to myself… satisfaction. Upon seeing the cops, he demands that they arrest the manager. He says that they threw shit on him and locked him in the basement. He’s trying to be calm, he’s trying to make his point and explain what happened—a manager locked him in the toilets and made him crawl through shit—the police don’t buy it. Dozens of witnesses and bar staff already saw him raging. He pushed the staff, berated them, yelled at them, and destroyed the restroom in the basement. He’s cuffed, taken outside, and ends up leaving in a squad car. I think you’d call that pretty good revenge. Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10