I dragged my tired, caffeine-deprived body home after a brutal 14-hour shift at the ER. I’d been up to my elbows in bedpans, dealing with a guy who insisted his “friend” had “accidentally” sat on a remote control, and a ton of other crazy stuff. All I wanted now was a hot shower, some frozen pizza, and complete silence.
But as soon as I stepped up to my front door, something was off. My key wouldn’t go in. I jiggled it, twisted it. Nothing. I even turned it upside down like keys sometimes just get moody and need a little extra love. Still nothing.
“Come on!” I muttered, shaking the key in frustration. “I’ve had patients at the ER less complicated than you today!”
Then I noticed something weird: something small wedged deep in the keyhole. I pulled out my phone to use the flashlight and saw a toothpick jammed in the lock.
“You’re kidding me,” I groaned, poking at it with my car key. I tried wiggling, twisting, even used a bobby pin. Nothing worked.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still standing outside in freezing weather, cursing under my breath. My toes were numb, and my patience was about to snap. Finally, I gave up and called my brother, Danny.
“Danny? It’s me. I’m locked out,” I said, trying to keep it together.
“Again? Did you lose your keys at the hospital?” he asked, sounding like this was becoming a pattern.
“No, there’s a toothpick stuck in the lock.”
He paused, probably thinking I’d lost my mind. “What the hell? I’ll be right over.”
Ten minutes later, his beat-up pickup truck rolled up the driveway, and Danny jumped out in sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE.”
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?” I asked, shivering.
“Shouldn’t you be inside your house?” he shot back, holding up a tiny toolkit like he was about to defuse a bomb.
He knelt down to inspect the lock, his breath visible in the freezing air. “Yep, that’s a toothpick,” he said, pulling out a pair of tweezers. “And this didn’t happen by accident.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling more confused than ever.
“Someone put it there… on purpose.” After a few minutes of silent work, he pulled out the toothpick and handed me the key. “Try it now.”
I slid the key into the lock, and it turned smoothly. I let out a relieved sigh.
“You think it was just kids?” I asked hopefully.
Danny shook his head. “Kids don’t have this kind of patience. Call me if it happens again, alright?”
“It won’t,” I said confidently.
“Famous last words,” he called as he walked back to his truck.
Of course, it happened again. Exactly 24 hours later.
“You’re kidding me,” Danny said, answering my FaceTime. I could hear the clinking of beer bottles in the background.
“Maybe I have a really dedicated enemy at the homeowners’ association? I did put up those Christmas lights in February,” I joked, though I wasn’t laughing.
Danny rolled his eyes. “Alright, now I’m interested.”
“This is targeted. Want to catch them?”
“With what? A mousetrap?” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Nope. I’ve got something better. A security camera. Used it to catch the raccoons that kept knocking over my garbage cans. I’ll set it up tomorrow.”
The next morning, Danny showed up with a camera that looked like it had been through a war. It was dented and scratched but clearly built to survive anything.
“Does this thing still work?” I asked, staring at it dubiously.
“Of course it works. It’s built like a Nokia phone,” Danny said as he climbed the maple tree in my yard with surprising agility, despite his usual lack of exercise.
“Perfect angle,” he said, setting it up. “It’ll catch anyone coming to your door, and you’ll get the footage straight to your phone.”
That evening, I sat in my car, hunched over my phone like a teenager waiting for a text back. At 7:14 p.m., my phone buzzed. One new video. I opened it, my heart racing.
“JOSH??”
There he was. My ex. The one who’d sent late-night texts to his “work friend” Amber while I was working 16-hour shifts at the hospital. The one who’d told me he was “working late” while his credit card was buying dinner for two at a fancy restaurant I’d begged him to take me to for months.
I watched the video three times, not believing my eyes. There he was, in his stupid puffy jacket, carefully inserting a toothpick into my lock like he was performing some kind of surgery.
“What the hell?” I whispered.
I hadn’t spoken to Josh in six months. No yelling, no drama. We’d parted ways quietly after I caught him red-handed. I thought we were done, but apparently, Josh wasn’t as over it as I thought.
I fumed. But instead of calling the cops, I called Connor.
“He did what?” Connor barked when I told him.
Connor is a beast. Six-foot-four, covered in tattoos, runs a custom auto shop with Danny, and is pretty much the living definition of “bad decisions that somehow work out.”
“He put a toothpick in my lock. Twice.”
“That’s… creative. Want me to talk to him?”
“By ‘talk,’ do you mean threaten him with bodily harm? Because I’m not bailing you out of jail again.”
“That was one time,” Connor said defensively. “And I didn’t actually hit anyone.”
“You threw a man’s toupee into a fountain.”
“It attacked me first. But no, I’ve got a better idea. Does Josh still drive by your place sometimes?”
“Probably. He lives a few streets over.”
“Perfect. Here’s the plan…”
The next evening, I made a big show of leaving my house at 6:45 p.m. I even pretended to talk on the phone: “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes! Save me a seat!”
Then I parked around the corner, snuck back through my neighbor’s yard, and snuck inside through my back door. Connor was already there, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“Wait… is that my bathrobe?” I asked, eyeing the pink monstrosity barely covering his chest.
“Yep. And I’m not wearing much underneath, so let’s hope this works.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Connor.”
“You bet I am. Now shh… your creepy ex should be here any minute.”
At 7:11 p.m., my phone buzzed again. Josh was tiptoeing up the front walk, toothpick in hand like he was preparing to conquer the world.
“Wait for it,” Connor whispered, positioning himself by the door.
Josh reached for the lock, toothpick poised to strike… and Connor flung the door open with a dramatic flair.
“You must be the toothpick fairy!” Connor said, stepping onto the porch, his bathrobe gaping open to reveal more tattoos than any PG-13 movie would allow. “Got a message for you from the lady of the house, pal.”
Josh’s face went from focused to horrified in a split second. His mouth opened and closed like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Then, in a flash, he turned and ran. Full sprint down the driveway like he was being chased by a bear.
“JOSH! STOP!” I yelled, running after him.
To my surprise, he actually stopped. He turned around, pale as a ghost, hands raised like I was holding a weapon instead of just my finger.
“Why? Why mess with my lock?” I demanded.
“I just… I thought maybe you’d need help. If you couldn’t get in, I’d be there, and we could talk, and… maybe fix things?”
“So you sabotaged my lock… to play hero?” I asked, incredulously.
“It sounds dumb when you say it like that,” Josh muttered, deflating like a balloon losing air.
“Yeah, it is dumb,” I snapped. “And you thought we could just pick up where we left off?”
Connor stepped in, his voice low. “Mission failed, buddy. Leave before I call the cops.”
Josh looked like he was about to cry. He slunk off into the night, shoulders hunched in shame.
We closed the door behind us, and Connor grinned like a kid who just pulled off the perfect prank. “That was fun.”
But I wasn’t done.
The next morning, Connor peeked over my shoulder as I set up a TikTok account.
“You’re uploading that video?” he asked.
“Yep. ‘My ex keeps jamming my door lock with toothpicks. Here’s what happened when we introduced him to my new man. 🤣😈'”
“New man, huh?” Connor raised an eyebrow.
“Artistic license,” I said, hitting post.
Two days later, the video had over 2.1 million views. Josh sent me a long, rambling email about privacy and ruining his life. I didn’t respond. Instead, I forwarded the video to his boss, who just so happened to be Amber’s father. Turns out, Amber had no idea about me. The plot thickened, but it quickly unraveled when Josh was “pursuing other opportunities” at his job.
Two weeks later, Danny helped me change the locks. Not because I had to, but because it felt like closing a chapter.
“You know,” Danny said, tightening the final screw, “you could’ve just called the cops.”
“And miss all this?” I gestured at the chaos of the past few weeks. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That afternoon, Connor came over with pizza to celebrate. “To small victories,” he said, clinking his can against mine.
“And to idiots who think tampering with locks is a good flirting strategy!” I added.
Connor grinned, “You know, I’m still waiting for my cut of the TikTok fame.”
“How about I don’t tell anyone you wore my bathrobe?” I said with a smile.
He chuckled. “Deal!”
My phone buzzed again. The video had hit 3 million views.
Turns out, sometimes revenge doesn’t need a sledgehammer. A toothpick and a viral post can do just fine.
