Entitled Man Blocked Our Garage, Picking a Fight, Then Threw His Business Card at Me — So I Turned It Into His Worst Nightmare

When an entitled man deliberately blocks David's garage, throws a tantrum, and then, in a moment of arrogance, flings his business card at him, things spiral fast. But instead of snapping, David gets strategic. Revenge doesn't always come with raised voices or public confrontations... sometimes, it arrives quietly, meticulously, through job applications and carefully orchestrated chaos. One petty move unknowingly sparks a masterclass in subtle, satisfying payback.

Our garage opens into a tight, often congested little alley tucked discreetly behind a bustling liquor store and a noisy pizzeria. If that sounds like a recipe for daily chaos and frustration, it absolutely is. You truly wouldn't believe how many people treat our clearly marked garage door like it's merely a suggestion, a faint guideline rather than a strict boundary. They park directly in front of it, hazards flashing, as if that small blinking light magically grants them immunity or justifies their inconsiderate actions.

My fiancée, Clara, and I have lived here for five years now, enduring countless minor inconveniences and mastering the art of polite, yet firm, negotiation with oblivious drivers. We usually try to stay chill about it, exercising immense patience. But on this particular night?

Chill left the building.

It started simple. It always does, doesn't it? The most infuriating encounters often begin with the most innocuous slight.

Clara and I had just picked up my mother-in-law, Eleanor, from the train station. She was visiting for a week, her first time staying with us since we moved into the apartment, so I was already on edge, eager to make a good impression. Usually, we'd book a comfortable hotel room for her, ensuring privacy and space, but Clara had been insistent on spending more quality time with her mother, to genuinely host her. I’d spent hours cleaning every nook and cranny of the apartment, polishing surfaces until they gleamed. Clara had meticulously arranged fresh flowers in every available vase, their sweet scent a stark contrast to the lingering tension I felt.

We were, in short, on our very best behavior. Primed for a peaceful evening.

We turned into the narrow alley, the evening light already fading, and there it was: a gleaming, ostentatious car parked dead center in front of our garage door. Not just partially blocking it, but completely obstructing it, casually, as if they owned the entire space and we were merely inconvenient obstacles. There was, predictably, no driver in sight.

I recognized the car immediately, a distinct, expensive model that screamed "look at me."

I put our car in park, the engine’s rumble a low growl of frustration, and sighed deeply, a weary exhalation that carried all the day's accumulated stress. All I wanted was to get home, kick off my shoes, and eat some of the savory pasta Clara had lovingly cooked before we left. I was utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally.

"Of course it's Victor," I muttered under my breath, my voice laced with a familiar weariness.

I'd met him months ago at a holiday party my mom's company threw—a sprawling, overly curated event. He had cornered me near the coat rack, a crystal whiskey tumbler in one hand and a droning monologue about "elevated design thinking" and "disrupting paradigms" in the other. He wore a velvet blazer, a theatrical garment that felt like his personal armor, a barrier between him and any genuine human connection. He spouted self-important nonsense about him "building a creative empire" out of his downtown studio. Translation, as I'd quickly deduced: a tiny, overpriced co-working space with a slick logo, free Wi-Fi, and a communal coffee machine. Victor was exactly the kind of guy who called himself a visionary because he added shadows to a 3D floor plan in a presentation.

He was the perfect, infuriating definition of "Big energy, small man." A lot of bluster, very little substance.

"Who's Victor, David?" Eleanor asked from the back seat, her voice polite but tinged with curiosity. "One of your friends from work?"

"No," I muttered, my jaw clenching. "He's just a... guy I know. An acquaintance." The word felt too generous.

Right then, as if summoned by my thoughts, Victor strolled out of the liquor store like it was a movie set and he was the star. He cracked open a can of hard iced tea with a flourish, took one long, theatrical sip, leaned against the hood of his expensive car, and gave me a slow, smug grin.

"Heyyyy, David!" he drawled, his voice overly familiar, echoing in the confined alleyway. "Small world. So small..."

I got out of the car, trying desperately to keep my voice low, my movements calm. Eleanor was watching everything from the backseat, a silent, observant presence. Clara, beside me, looked tense, her knuckles white as she gripped the door frame.

"Hi Victor," I said, my tone polite but firm, my patience wearing thin. "You're blocking our garage, man. Can you move your car, please? We're trying to get my mother-in-law inside."

He lifted the can of iced tea like he was toasting me, a dismissive gesture. "Chill out, David," he said, his voice oozing condescension. "I'll move in a minute. Let me finish my drink. It's been a long day of visioneering."

"It'll take you two seconds to move the car, Victor," I countered, trying to keep my voice steady. "You can finish your drink after you pull forward ten feet."

"Relax," he said, drawing out the word like taffy, stretching it to irritate. "You don't get to tell me what to do, David. I own my time. My creative flow can't be rushed by petty inconveniences like your garage."

That statement, his self-importance, finally got to me. I'd dealt with entitled jerks before, in construction and in life, but Victor had a special kind of talent for making your blood boil without ever raising his voice. He was performative, calculated, every word chosen for maximum impact. And I could feel Eleanor watching from the backseat, her polite silence hanging like a thick, judgmental fog.

"Victor," I said, my voice now a low growl, pushing past my remaining patience. "Move the car. Now."

He stepped in close. Too close. His eyes, usually gleaming with false charm, were now hard, challenging. "Are you going to make me, David? What's the housebroken husband going to do?"

I didn't move. My feet were rooted to the asphalt, my fists clenched at my sides. "Don't do this, Victor. Just move your car."

"Don't do what?" he mocked, puffing out his chest, trying to appear larger, more menacing. "You think I'm scared of you? I mean... look at you, David. You're all gentle and housebroken, aren't you? A domesticated pet. And you're a momma's boy, too, aren't you? Always at your mom's company events, doing her bidding!"

Clara, unable to bear the escalating tension, opened the passenger door, half-standing now, her face pale with worry. "David, let's just call the police, honey," she said, her voice strained. "It's not worth it."

That's when he made his critical error. He pushed me with an open hand. Not hard, but just enough to say, I own this moment. I own you.

So I did exactly what Clara suggested. I calmly pulled out my phone, dialed the non-emergency police dispatch number, and spoke in a clear, measured voice. I explained that there was someone blocking my garage, getting verbally aggressive, and drinking in public.

As I spoke, Victor, realizing the jig was up, decided to escalate his performance. He stepped back into my space, his chest heaving, and shouted loud enough for his voice to echo down the alley, ricocheting off the brick walls.

"Oh my goodness! He's assaulting me! He's trying to attack me!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice feigning terror.

"Are you serious right now?" I asked, completely shocked at the brazen theatricality of the unfolding scene.

"I feel threatened!" he bellowed, even louder. "He lunged at me! This man lunged at me, officers!"

He was putting on a full show, pacing and gesturing wildly like he was in front of a jury, his eyes darting to make sure Clara and Eleanor were witnessing his act. Clara, quick-thinking and furious, was already filming it on her phone. Eleanor sat in the car, frozen in disbelief, her mouth a tight, grim line.

The police showed up in under five minutes, their sirens a brief, wailing symphony that broke the alley's tense silence. Two uniformed officers stepped out of their patrol car, their expressions stern. Victor's performance did a complete 180. Suddenly, he was the picture of reason and politeness, his hands casually in his pockets, his voice smooth and calm.

"Officers, I was just trying to leave," he said, gesturing vaguely. "As you can see, I'm completely blocked in. This man," he pointed at me, "got aggressive with me when I asked him to move his car."

I didn't have to say a word. Clara, her hand still trembling slightly, calmly played the video on her phone, showing Victor's aggressive actions and false accusations. Eleanor, from the safety of the car, confirmed everything Clara had filmed. The evidence was irrefutable: Victor's car was parked illegally, and the open can of hard iced tea was still conspicuously clutched in his hand.

One of the officers raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. The other shook his head slowly, a clear sign of his disdain.

"Sir, have you been drinking tonight?" the first officer asked, his voice flat.

Victor's eyes flicked, caught off guard for the first time all night, his carefully constructed facade momentarily cracking. "This?" he stammered, holding up the can with a forced, innocent expression. "Oh... I, uh. I found this on the ground, officers. I was just going to recycle it. Being a good citizen, you know."

"Right," the officer said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

They ran his license through their system. He had no prior arrests, and he blew just under the legal limit when they administered the breathalyzer test. It was enough to be utterly embarrassed, but not enough to be charged with a DUI. They gave him a stern warning, telling him to move his car immediately and leave the premises. They emphasized that next time, he'd be cited for obstruction of a private driveway, public drinking, and potentially disorderly conduct.

"Consider this your lucky day, Mr. Thorne," the officer said, his voice flat. "You won't be so lucky next time."

Clara stayed by the car, her gaze fixed on Victor. Eleanor didn't say a word, her silence a powerful indictment.

As Victor finally pulled away, he slowed his car just enough to roll down his window, flick his wrist with a theatrical flourish, and toss something at me. It fluttered to the ground like a fallen leaf, landing perfectly at my feet.

His business card.

"Don't you forget my name, David!" he called out, his voice a triumphant sneer. "See how I can talk my way out of anything?!"

I picked up the card. It was thick, slick black cardstock with raised, minimalist silver text. "Victor Thorne. Architectural Visualizer. Creative Consultant. Website. Email. Phone number. Downloadable Résumé." It was bold, sleek, and utterly over-designed. The kind of card that screamed, I take myself very seriously, and you should too, because I'm terribly important. It looked like something he tossed around often, a branding tool, a tangible piece of his inflated ego. He clearly didn't care who had his information, reveling in the exposure.

And that, unbeknownst to him, was his gravest mistake.

He wanted to feel untouchable. He wanted to have the last word, to believe he had effortlessly escaped consequences. But the minute that card left his hand, fluttering innocently to the ground, Victor, in his arrogance, had handed over control. He had given me the key to his meticulously crafted kingdom.

I didn't say a word to Clara or Eleanor. I just smiled, a small, internal smile that felt like triumph, and pretended everything was fine. I helped Eleanor settle into her guest room, ensuring she was comfortable. I made a salad while Clara reheated the pasta and threw the garlic bread into the oven, the familiar kitchen sounds a comforting balm. I laughed when it felt appropriate, participated in normal conversation.

But my mind was already moving, churning with a quiet, insidious plan. Because here's the thing: I work in systems. I understand how databases work, how they talk to each other, how information flows and is processed. I know what happens when an application hits a backend queue and how long it takes for someone in HR to respond to a résumé. I understand the algorithms, the digital fingerprints.

And Victor? Victor had just handed me a direct, legitimate line into his entire professional world: his meticulously crafted résumé, his professional contact information, his digital fingerprints—all perfectly clean, all completely legitimate. It was a playground just waiting for me to explore, a battlefield where I could operate with stealth and precision.

I even managed to get a rough home address for him from an old email I saw through my mom's contacts (she keeps an extensive, almost encyclopedic, address book for all her company associates). The dots didn't just connect. They practically begged to be used.

So I got to work.

Every evening, after dinner, after Clara and Eleanor were asleep, after the house settled into a peaceful quiet, I'd pour myself a drink, open my laptop, and apply for jobs. As Victor Thorne.

I applied to dozens of them, meticulously, methodically. I didn't rush it. I took my time, I savored each application, each keystroke, like a ritual, a quiet meditation on justice.

Retail. Fast food. Warehouse operative. Grocery stores. Gas stations. Call centers. I filled out each job application like I was sculpting a masterpiece, a work of digital art designed to bring subtle chaos. I used his résumé exactly as it was. No edits. No exaggerations. No fabrications.

He'd done all the heavy lifting for me, all the self-promotion, all the branding. I just needed to redirect his genius to more... humble, perhaps less visionary, platforms.

For the mandatory application questions: "Why do you want to work here?" "I love engaging with people and have a flexible schedule that matches your needs and allows for personal growth within a dynamic, customer-facing environment."

"What are your long-term goals?" "To grow within a customer-facing role and eventually lead a team, contributing positively to the company culture and operational efficiency."

"Are you willing to work weekends and holidays?" "Absolutely! My passion for service knows no bounds, and I am committed to meeting all scheduling requirements."

I even uploaded the same portfolio link to each application, the one with his glossy digital renderings of luxury condos and minimalist wine bars. Let hiring managers in retail and fast food wonder why someone with such "architectural flair" and "elevated design thinking" wanted to stock soup cans at a grocery chain or serve burgers.

I wasn't malicious, not in the traditional sense. I didn't fabricate a single thing. I didn't spread rumors or defame him.

I just gave him volume. Exposure. Opportunities. A flood of exactly what he asked for, just not in the exclusive, curated way he expected. Eighty-four applications in total. I counted them all, each one a tiny act of quiet vengeance.

And while I did it, late into the night, I imagined him checking his inbox. The little preview notifications stacking up. HR contacts he didn't recognize. The seemingly endless stream of "Thank you for your application!" auto-responses filling his carefully managed inbox.

I imagined him groaning every time his phone rang, the recruiters calling at weird hours for entry-level positions. Maybe even a callback from that hardware store on the edge of town, the one where he probably buys his expensive power tools. I pictured him trying desperately to trace it all, wondering if someone was pranking him, if his email had been hacked, or if he'd actually blacked out one night and gone full LinkedIn gremlin, applying for every job under the sun.

It took me a week of late nights, fueled by lukewarm coffee, and that particular, deep joy that comes from knowing someone like Victor... someone who walks through the world with such arrogant impunity... was about to feel just a sliver of discomfort, a taste of what he inflicted on others.

Then I waited. Patiently.

About a month later, it happened. The moment of sweet, understated satisfaction.

We were at my parents' house for Sunday dinner. Eleanor had already gone home, her visit a pleasant memory. My mom, Evelyn, had made her famous, perfectly seasoned roast chicken, the comforting aroma filling the house. It was a normal, quiet night. No drama, no entitled jerks. Clara was helping set the table, humming softly. Dad had the game on low in the background, a gentle murmur of commentary. We were all just... being.

"Oh, David!" Mom said casually from the kitchen, as she was adding a generous sprinkle of feta to the Greek salad. "Do you remember Victor Thorne? My boss's son, the 'creative consultant'?"

"Sure, Mom, what about him?" I paused, making sure my face was perfectly neutral, feigning mild interest. My pulse quickened imperceptibly.

She smirked, a knowing glint in her eye, and dropped into a chair at the kitchen island, wiping her hands with a dish towel. "Apparently that kid has been losing his mind lately. His mom, Sandra, says that he's absolutely getting flooded with job offers. But not... not jobs that meet his usual, um, standard."

"Really? What kind of jobs?" I asked, barely containing my amusement.

"Fast food chains," she laughed, shaking her head. "Hardware stores, call centers. All perfectly good and honest work, of course, but for him? His absolute worst nightmare, apparently! He thinks someone hacked him, or it's some elaborate prank."

The aroma of roast chicken and feta filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of victory.

"That's wild," I said slowly, pouring myself a glass of red wine, letting the rich liquid swirl in the glass. "Must be some kind of glitch in the system, huh? These things happen."

"I suppose," she said, her voice still laced with amusement. "Honestly, he deserves to be knocked down a peg or two. He is far too entitled. Even Sandra is tired of him and he's her only child, so you know it's bad."

I didn't need to ask more. I didn't want to. Because in my head, I could see it playing out in vivid detail: Victor pacing frantically in his overpriced downtown apartment, smacking his expensive computer mouse against the desk in frustration, rereading confirmation emails, trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

I imagined him doing frantic Google searches on himself, paranoid. Logging in and out of every job portal he'd ever visited, changing passwords, muttering to himself. I imagined him questioning everyone he'd ever crossed, convinced it was a targeted attack, and a slow, profound smile spread across my face.

Maybe he thought it was one of his mom's disgruntled coworkers. Maybe he blamed an ex-girlfriend, a scorned lover seeking digital retribution. Maybe he just thought it was karma on a serious delay, finally catching up.

But me? I never said a word. Not even to Clara, who, despite her sharp wit, wouldn't have guessed the meticulous, digital puppet master behind the scenes.

A week after that dinner, I quietly checked his website, the one listed on the business card, and it was gone. "Bad gateway."

His socials were locked down, all accounts set to private, scrubbing his digital footprint from the public eye. Just static where there used to be vibrant branding, a meticulously curated "creative empire" that had suddenly gone offline.

And you know what?

I didn't feel bad. Not even a little flicker of remorse.

Because here's what I've learned about people like Victor: they don't wake up thinking about the lives they subtly nudge, the emotional mess they leave in their wake, or the quiet voices they relentlessly talk over. Victor didn't park in front of our garage thinking about how tired Clara and I were, or how long we had worked, scrimped, and saved to make that apartment a true home.

He didn't think twice about stepping into my personal space, shoving me, or brazenly lying to the police, manipulating the situation to his advantage. He didn't even blink when he contemptuously tossed that business card, a symbol of his perceived superiority.

But the moment that card left his hand, fluttering innocently to the ground? He gave me something he hadn't meant to. Something far more valuable than his arrogance could comprehend.

Access.

That card was supposed to intimidate. It was supposed to scream: I matter more than you. My time is more valuable. My creativity is superior.

But what it really said, to someone who understood systems and leverage, was: Here's every single piece of information you'll ever need to subtly dismantle my self-importance.

Would I do it again?

Damn straight, I would. Every single time. Because karma doesn't always have time to write you a polite, explanatory letter. Sometimes, she wears sweatpants, drinks lukewarm black coffee, and spends a few quiet nights after dinner, meticulously clicking away at a keyboard.

Sometimes, she knows exactly which form to fill out... and precisely which button to click.