An entitled couple learned a hard lesson when they tried to cheat my dad, a hardworking plumber, out of his payment. Here’s how he turned the tables on them. I’m Phoebe, but you can call me Pippi, just like my dad does. My dad, Pete, is a 55-year-old plumber with a rugged look and hands that show years of hard work.
He treats every job like it’s his own home, and his dedication often gets him taken for granted. A few months ago, I visited my dad at his place, where I found him on the patio, enjoying a cigar and laughing heartily. I asked what was so funny, and he began to tell me about the Carlyles, a couple who wanted an extravagant bathroom remodel.
They picked every detail, from the tiles to the toilet paper holder, and at first, it seemed like a dream job. But on the last day, just as my dad finished the grouting, the Carlyles sat on their couch, ready to pull a fast one. Mrs. Carlyle claimed the tiles were wrong, despite having chosen them herself. To my dad’s shock, they only wanted to pay him half of what they owed.
Frustrated but clever, my dad decided to teach them a lesson. Instead of using water in the grout, he mixed it with sugar and honey, packed up his tools, and left with half the payment. He knew the couple wouldn’t notice anything wrong immediately; the grout looked fine when it dried.
Weeks later, Mrs. Carlyle took a shower and found ants crawling along the grout lines. The next day brought cockroaches, and soon enough, all sorts of bugs showed up. My dad had a friend, Johnny, who lived next door and kept him updated on the couple’s pest problems.
The Carlyles tried everything to get rid of the bugs, spending a fortune on pest control, but nothing worked. They even blamed the pest sprays for ruining the grout, not realizing that the sugar residue was the source of their problems.
My dad told me the couple ended up redoing their entire bathroom a year later, but the sugar was still lurking underneath, keeping the bugs coming back. They were clueless, still planning to remodel again.
I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for them. My dad explained that their actions insulted his work and pride. He needed to protect his reputation in the plumbing business, and if he let them cheat him, others might try to do the same.
The stories continued. Johnny shared how Mrs. Carlyle had a fancy dinner party and screamed when she found a cockroach in the bathroom. Mr. Carlyle attempted to fix the problem himself, only to create a chemical factory smell without solving anything.
Over a year later, the couple was at their wits’ end and even considered selling their house. My dad chuckled, noting that perhaps his revenge lasted longer than intended, but he felt it was a deserved lesson.
As we sat watching the sunset, I couldn’t help but appreciate the cleverness of my dad’s actions. He taught them a lesson they wouldn’t forget, and I laughed at the thought of the Carlyles’ continued struggles. I promised him that if I ever needed plumbing work done, I would pay him in full upfront. It was a fitting reminder that sometimes, karma comes with unexpected consequences.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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