The Wrong House to Mess With
I bought my house in a vibrant, HOA-free neighborhood for one reason: freedom.
No one to tell me what colors I could or couldn’t use. No one to police my wildflower garden, painted pavers, or bright decorations.
And no one more miserable about that than my next-door neighbor, Elliot.
He hated everything about my home.
One day, he stood on my porch, arms crossed, glaring at my peach, sage, and blue exterior like it had personally offended him.
“This neighborhood had dignity before you showed up,” he grumbled. “Peach walls? A rainbow garden? A tacky little library? It’s embarrassing. My guests have to see this? This isn’t a circus—it’s a community. I’ve lived here for 15 years! How dare you do this!”
I sipped my coffee and shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll have to live with a little color.”
Or so I thought.
The Ultimate Betrayal
I went on vacation for a week, looking forward to coming back to my bright and beautiful home.
But when I pulled into my driveway, I slammed on the brakes.
My house was gray.
Not just any gray. That bland, soulless, HOA-approved gray that the rest of the street had.
Everything was gone.
My painted pavers? Replaced.
My bright decorations? Nowhere to be seen.
Even my handmade little library—where kids in the neighborhood swapped books—was gone.
I stood there, shaking with rage. I knew exactly who did this.
Elliot.
When I confronted him, he smirked. “Maybe the painters got confused?” He feigned sympathy. “Could happen, right?”
I wanted to punch him. But I had something better in mind.
The Payback
The next morning, a neighbor knocked on my door.
“It was him,” she whispered. “He hired the painters and told them to make it look like a mistake. I heard him bragging about it to his golf buddies.”
I saw RED.
But then… I smiled.
Oh, Elliot. You messed with the wrong person.
That night, while the neighborhood slept, I got to work.
Bright. Bold. Petty.
By the time Elliot woke up, his house was a masterpiece.
Neon pink.
Flamingo statues on the lawn.
A giant, glittering sign over his garage that read “WELCOME TO FABULOUS ELLIOTVILLE!”
And the best part?
Every neighbor loved it.
Elliot stormed onto my porch, purple with rage.
“You CAN’T do this!” he spluttered.
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, but I can. It’s a free neighborhood, remember?”
And when he tried to repaint it?
Let’s just say… I had a chat with the painters.
And now?
Elliot’s house stays pink.