Revenge is a Dish Best Served Vegan
The scent of fresh paint and possibility hung in the air. My restaurant, The Daily Harvest, was more than just a business; it was a promise I’d made to my late mother. An oasis of healthy, affordable vegan food in a neighborhood that needed it. For our grand opening, the special was simple: load fifty dollars onto a loyalty card, get an extra fifty in store credit. A hundred dollars of food for the price of fifty.
My next-door neighbor, Brenda Bullock, had been one of the first in line. Now, plate wiped clean, she stood before the counter, her face pinched into a mask of indignation.
"Not a single scrap of meat in this whole place," she declared, her voice loud enough for the few remaining customers to hear. "Are you trying to kill an old woman with rabbit food?"
I managed a tight, professional smile. "It's a vegan buffet, Mrs. Bullock. It's all plant-based."
"I don't care what fancy name you call it," she snapped. "You charge ten bucks for a few leaves of grass? You think us old folks are suckers? Give me my money back. Right now."
The air crackled with tension. I didn't want a scene on my first day. "Of course," I said, my voice softer than I felt. "I can refund the fifty dollars you paid."
Brenda’s eyes narrowed. "Do you think I'm senile? You said it yourself on that fancy sign of yours. I put in fifty, I get a hundred. Now I want a refund, so you owe me one hundred dollars. Cash."
The sheer audacity of it left me speechless. "Ma'am, that's not how it works," I began, my patience fraying. "The amount you actually paid was fifty dollars. The other fifty is store credit, a gift from my restaurant for you to use on future meals. It's not cash."
"I don't care," she repeated, planting her hands on her wide hips. "You said you gave it to me, so it's mine. I don't want your rotten lettuce anymore. I want the full hundred."
My expression hardened. "Mrs. Bullock, I'll say it one last time. I can refund you the fifty dollars you paid. Today's meal is on the house. But after that, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Why should I?" Her voice rose to a screech. With a sweep of her arm, she sent her empty plate and glass crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering porcelain echoed in the suddenly silent restaurant. "A gift given is water thrown! You said it was a gift, and now I want the cash! One hundred dollars! Not a penny less!"
§02
The few remaining patrons stared, forks frozen mid-air. Brenda, seizing the audience, promptly lay down in the puddle of spilled water and food debris, kicking her worn cloth shoes against the polished concrete floor.
"Help! Murder!" she shrieked, her voice a ragged saw. "This crooked owner is trying to kill an old lady! She's a scam artist!" She clawed at her own hair, grabbing handfuls of leftover kale salad from the floor and smearing them into the gray strands. "Everyone, come and see! This place eats people alive! They trick you into loading money and then refuse to refund it!"
My mind raced, cycling through shock, fury, and a paralyzing sense of disbelief. This was my dream, being desecrated on day one by a greedy, hysterical woman. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers shaking as I tried to dial 911, when a large shadow fell over the scene.
Mark Garison, a quiet man from the third floor who was always out walking his enormous Golden Retriever, stood in the doorway. He was built like a retired linebacker, a gentle giant I’d only ever exchanged polite nods with. He took in the scene—me with the phone, Brenda writhing on the floor—with a calm, assessing gaze.
"What's going on here, Avery?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Before I could answer, Brenda wailed, "She’s robbing me! This little tramp is robbing an old woman!"
Mark ignored her. He looked at me, his eyes asking for the truth. I quickly, breathlessly, explained the fifty-for-a-hundred-dollar-refund scam. He listened, his expression unreadable, then he took two long strides forward. With no more effort than if he were lifting a sack of potatoes, he hoisted Brenda up by her armpits.
"Hey! Put me down! Assault!" she squawked, her legs flailing.
Mark didn't say a word. He carried her to the entrance and deposited her on the sidewalk outside.
He dusted off his hands. "You should probably call the police anyway," he said to me. "Just to have a record of it."
Brenda, now safely outside, found her courage again. "You little bitch!" she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "So you brought your sugar daddy to back you up! I'll make you pay for this!"
Mark’s Golden Retriever, who had been sitting patiently by the door, let out a single, low growl, a deep vibration that seemed to shake the very air. Brenda flinched, scurrying away down the sidewalk, still spewing a river of curses that I was grateful I couldn't fully hear.
§03
That night, dragging my exhausted body home, I was hit by a foul stench as I reached my front door. A huge, leaking bag of kitchen garbage was piled right on my welcome mat, its putrid juices staining the carpet. The smell was a physical assault—sour milk, rotting vegetables, and something vaguely metallic.
I didn't have to guess who it was from.
Rage, cold and pure, simmered in my gut. I messaged the HOA management, requested the security footage from the hallway. The email arrived minutes later. The video was clear as day: Brenda Bullock, dragging the leaky bag from her apartment to mine, giving my door a little kick for good measure.
I grabbed the still-dripping bag, marched across the hall, and hammered on her door with my fist.
"Who is it?" a muffled voice squawked. "Sounds like the devil himself is calling."
The door creaked open a few inches. Brenda peeked out, her face a mask of sleepy irritation that instantly soured when she saw me, and the bag in my hand.
"What are you knocking for?" she spat. "Did your father die, or your mother?"
I didn't say a word. I just swung my arm. The bag of rancid garbage sailed through the crack in her door and landed with a wet, satisfying smack in the middle of what looked like her pristine living room.
"Returned to sender," I said, my voice flat.
I turned, walked into my apartment, and slammed the door, the sound of her ear-piercing shriek a sweet, temporary victory. Two minutes later, my phone started buzzing. It was a notification from the Willow Creek Community Facebook Group. My blood pressure shot through the roof.
Brenda had posted a video. A stealthily filmed clip from earlier that day, showing me grabbing Mark Garison's arm to thank him. The angle was predatory, zoomed in, making the innocent gesture look suspiciously intimate.
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