A Tale of Monte Christo-style slow burn revenge, as botched by the overeager disciples of a broken man.
Step 1: Slap Rhode Island plates on our '96 Galant. Pickup bleach and adult diapers at Dollar General.
Process Note: Sycophantic henchmen make bad partners in violence. They are too busy kissing your ass to buy sufficiently breathable balaclavas.
The Greek's Idea: Find Him, Duct Tape Him, Pretend to be a Cop
Hawk to Target: "Take Off Your Glasses, I am about to punch you in the face"
Outcome: After fists thrown at shadows and dreams of gags and broken fingers, The Target endures; thrives, even.
No accounting for the rippling, time-inured spill of karma. The Target got hurt real bad in junior high, so the needle awarding “big stuffed animal security” has finally swung back to point at him. He has won the big fluffy thing at the fair and can hug on it all he wants as he falls asleep.
But I now have no one to nurse me towards oblivion.
Classic Revenge Postscript, tweaked: They said I should prepare to dig two winter graves.
Wrong: Only one thing got dug- a deep slash in me, a furrow where hope won’t grow. But the kudzu of envy, fear, and obsession finds a fertile home there.