Egged and Enlightened
I was bone-tired—the kind of tired that made you forget if you’d brushed your teeth, eaten breakfast, or fed the dog. My days blurred together ever since the twins were born. Lily and Lucas were my tiny miracles, but taking care of two newborns almost entirely on my own felt like running a marathon that never ended.
Sleep? A distant memory.
Halloween was around the corner, and while everyone else in the neighborhood was buzzing with excitement, I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to find matching socks.
And then… there was Brad.
Brad, my overly smug, overly cheerful neighbor who took Halloween way too seriously. Every October, he transformed his yard into what could only be described as a haunted amusement park—fake tombstones, smoke machines, animatronic ghouls, strobe lights, and enough orange bulbs to light up a small city.
He’d strut around in his “Halloween King” hoodie like some suburban royalty, grinning smugly every time someone complimented him.
The whole neighborhood adored him. I didn’t.
To me, Brad was the kind of man who loved applause more than air.
So, when I dragged myself out of the house that chilly October morning—Lily on one hip, Lucas in my other arm—and saw my car covered in eggs, I nearly screamed.
Yolk and shells dripped down my windshield like some kind of disgusting breakfast smoothie. The smell hit me next—rotten, sour, revolting.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, staring at the mess.
My car was parked in front of Brad’s house the night before. It wasn’t ideal, but it was closest to my door, and carrying twins plus a diaper bag and stroller was already an Olympic event.
At first, I thought it was some teenagers pulling a prank—until I noticed the splatters trailed all the way to Brad’s porch. That’s when my sleepy brain clicked.
Brad.
Of course it was Brad.
He treated the curb in front of his house like it was royal property. Every year, if anyone parked there, he’d huff about it ruining his “theme.”
I felt my anger rising like steam. Without thinking, I marched straight over and pounded on his door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
It swung open, and there he stood—Brad, in a black hoodie that said “Halloween King,” arms crossed, wearing that smug, self-satisfied smirk. His porch looked like a Halloween store exploded on it—skeletons hanging, fake cobwebs everywhere, and a glowing witch cackling in the corner.
I glared. “Did you see who egged my car?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said casually, “that was me.”
For a moment, I thought my exhaustion was making me hallucinate. “You did what?”
“I egged your car,” he repeated, as if he were saying he took out the trash. “Your car’s blocking the view of my decorations. People can’t appreciate the full effect when your minivan’s parked right in front.”
I blinked. “You egg my car because it blocked your decorations?”
He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “I mean, come on, Genevieve. I spend weeks on this display. Folks drive here just to see it. I’m the Halloween King! You can’t just park in front like that—it ruins the vibe.”
I stared at him in disbelief. My arms were literally aching from holding my babies, and this man was lecturing me about “vibes.”
“Brad,” I snapped, “I have newborn twins. I’m just trying to park close to my house so I don’t drop anyone on the sidewalk!”
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hey, that’s not my problem. You can park there again after Halloween, okay?”
The arrogance dripping from his tone made my blood boil. I wanted to scream. But exhaustion won. My eyelids felt heavy, my patience thinner than tissue paper.
“Fine,” I said coldly, and turned away before I said something I’d regret.
But as I scrubbed the dried egg off my car later that afternoon, an idea started brewing.
Brad wasn’t just obnoxious—he was obsessed with one thing: being the center of attention. His Halloween display was his pride, his kingdom.
And I’d just figured out how to bring the Halloween King to his knees.
That night, while rocking Lily to sleep, the plan came together perfectly.
The next day, I caught Brad in his front yard, adjusting his skeletons. I plastered on my sweetest smile.
“Hey, Brad,” I said in my friendliest tone. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. You were right—I shouldn’t have blocked your display. You put so much effort into it.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Uh-huh…”
“You know, you could make it even better,” I continued. “Have you ever thought about upgrading? Like, high-tech stuff—fog machines, ghost projectors, maybe even motion-sensor sounds! People would lose their minds.”
His expression brightened instantly. “Really? You think so?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I said, pretending to admire his setup. “You’re already the best on the block. This would just… take you to legendary status.”
He grinned, puffing his chest. “Yeah, you’re right. Legendary.”
I listed a few “recommendations”—cheap, unreliable brands I’d researched online. Machines that broke after a few hours of use or spewed water instead of fog.
Brad was hooked.
“Thanks, Genevieve,” he said proudly. “You know, maybe you do appreciate good Halloween spirit after all.”
“Oh, trust me,” I said sweetly. “I can’t wait to see how it turns out.”
Halloween night arrived like a storm. Kids filled the streets, giggling, shouting “Trick or treat!” Parents snapped photos, and the smell of pumpkin spice filled the air.
Brad’s house looked incredible—at first. The fog rolled across his lawn, lights flickered eerily, and his voice boomed from hidden speakers saying, “Welcome to your doom!”
People clapped. Brad basked in it, standing proudly like a showman.
Then it began.
The fog machine sputtered once… twice… then started spraying water instead of fog, soaking his pumpkins and guests alike.
“Uh—uh—hang on!” Brad shouted, rushing to fix it.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Then his ghost projector began flickering, showing a warped, cartoonish ghost that looked more like a melting marshmallow than a phantom. Kids were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
And then, the final blow—his massive inflatable Frankenstein let out a long hissssss before collapsing in slow motion, deflating until its giant green head rolled across the yard.
“NO! No, no, no!” Brad yelled, running after it.
A group of teenagers nearby burst into hysterics. “Yo, the Halloween King’s castle is falling apart!” one of them shouted, before grabbing some eggs and tossing them at his display.
“Stop! Stop that!” Brad hollered, but it was too late. His front yard was chaos—water everywhere, decorations ruined, laughter echoing down the street.
From my porch, I sipped my tea and rocked the twins, smiling quietly as the “King” of Halloween scrambled in panic.
The next morning, there was a knock on my door.
When I opened it, Brad stood there—shoulders slumped, looking completely defeated. Even his hoodie looked tired.
“Uh… hey,” he mumbled. “I, uh, wanted to apologize. For… egging your car.”
I folded my arms. “Yeah, you probably should.”
He nodded quickly. “I overreacted. I didn’t realize how hard things must be with the twins and all. I’m sorry.”
I let him squirm in silence for a moment before replying, “Thanks, Brad. I appreciate the apology. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It won’t.”
As he turned to leave, I couldn’t resist.
“Funny how karma works, huh?” I said lightly.
He froze, glanced back, and for the first time ever, the Halloween King had no words.
That year, Brad’s Halloween display never fully recovered—but every time I parked in front of his house afterward, he didn’t say a single thing.
Sometimes, the best revenge doesn’t need yelling. Just a little creativity… and some really bad fog machines.