Bone-tired, I stepped outside to find my car egged, splatters dripping down the windshield. Brad, my smug neighbor, casually admitted to it, claiming my car blocked the view of his elaborate Halloween display. I was furious, but too exhausted to argue.

“Just park somewhere else,” he shrugged. I snapped back, revealing I had twin babies to wrangle, but he didn’t care. Instead of confronting him further, I devised a plan.

The next day, I strolled over to his yard, pretending to admire his setup. “You should consider fog machines and ghost projectors for an upgrade!” I suggested, knowing he’d bite. His eyes lit up, and I fed him the names of terrible machines with awful reviews.

On Halloween night, Brad’s display turned into a disaster. The fog machine sputtered water instead of mist, and the ghost projector flickered wildly. Kids laughed as his giant Frankenstein inflatable collapsed, its head rolling comically across the lawn. Amidst the chaos, some teenagers egged his house, and he scrambled to salvage his pride, but it was too late.

The next morning, Brad knocked on my door, looking defeated. “I’m sorry for egging your car,” he mumbled. I let him stew in awkwardness before accepting his apology.

“Funny how things balance out,” I said, watching him leave, finally feeling a sense of satisfaction.