March 9

I got fired again today. 

It’s just like all the other times—I can now see a pattern. The truth is, I hated this job anyway.  It was so far beneath my potential.

Mr. Franklin Booth—that pretentious name says it all—called me into his office just after 10 AM.  A brass nameplate sat on his desk, like the sign itself endowed him with authority. 

“Harold,” he started.  “I’m afraid we need to have a talk about your performance here.”

It was all the same stuff—tardiness, customer relations, team player, inventory shortages.  I didn’t pay attention to all the false accusations—why should I?  They’ve never appreciated my attention to detail. Or my efforts to point out how their stupid policies make no sense. Stupid people hate being corrected, it’s true. They should see I’m doing them a favor.  Most don’t.

“So, with all of this, it just seems like you’re not a good fit here. I’m sorry, we have to let you go.”  Franklin finally finished talking.

The look on my face confused him, because he leaned and asked me if I understood. Wearing a big smile will do that to some people.

“Sure, I understand,” I answered. “I feel the same way about all of you—not a good fit.”

“Right,” Franklin said slowly. “So, I need you to sign a couple of things.  You’ll receive your final check in the mail in two weeks.  Darrell will help you collect your stuff and see you out.”

You mean make sure I don’t steal anything, or tell anyone the truth about you, or set this place on fire or do something you wouldn’t like.

“That will be great,” I said. My smile didn’t waver.  No crack in the armor.

Dad always said: “Never be angry at the man who fires you from a job you hate”. But there should still be justice in this world. You shouldn’t be able to fire the most capable person here because you feel threatened.

I signed his stupid paper and we stood up at the same time. He thinks it’s finished.  Franklin extended his hand.  “Good luck, I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

I shook his hand vigorously, like I was getting the job instead of losing it. 

“Never be angry with the man…”

There is something unfinished here.

Darrell, in his crisp blue pants and stiff white shirt and ridiculous security badge, didn’t help. He  stood there with his arms crossed while I put my stuff in a box.

Everybody else watched without watching. No one protested for me.

Some of them were glad, I know. Others wouldn’t meet my eyes.

For those that wanted me gone and those afraid they might be next, I left with my head high, smiling, and even whistling, Darrell trailing behind me.

March 11

I drove back to the office today just to have a look. No one was there because it’s Sunday. 

I saw the parking space with a large white sign and black lettering: 

“RESERVED – FRANKLIN BOOTH”

 A thought occurred to me. Just a small prank. 

I came back with my wrench and pliers. Looking around to make sure I was not observed–anonymous pranks are the best—I took down the sign and tossed it in my backseat.  

Harmless.  

I want to see the look on Franklin’s face tomorrow when he pulls up and notices. Imagine one of the other employees parking there before he arrives! He’ll have to find a spot like the rest of us.  

I’ll get my binoculars and watch from across the street. 

That will teach him.

March 12

I set up across the street with a clear view of the lot.

By 7:00 AM a few cars pulled in. No one parked in the spot. Why not? It’s the closest one to the door!

Franklin pulled in at 7:33 without deviation.

He should have stopped. He should have gotten out and stared at the naked post in outrage. He should have called Darrell out and made him look for it.

But no.

Franklin got out of his car without even a glance, talking on his phone, and walked inside like any other Monday.

Such a wonderful prank wasted on such an unobservant blockhead!

Or maybe he did notice.

Chose not to react.

I’ll keep the sign for now. Maybe put it back later—upside down.

Or maybe something better.

Another harmless prank.

One he cannot ignore.

March 14

Franklin’s inbox must be filling up by now with the subscriptions I signed him up for.  Stuff you don’t want people seeing on your screen.

I can see him at his desk, peering through those stupid round glasses—delete-delete-delete. Luxury retreats, miracle supplements… other things his own policies declare NSFW.

One bad click and IT comes sniffing around. Then come the questions.

Harder to ignore something when it shows up at the desk you fire people from.

That should do it.

March 16

I went to the office today on the pretext of picking up my final check. Easy enough to say I forgot they were mailing it. I wanted to see what my pranks had done to Franklin.

There’s already a new sign in his space. Reserved, no name. Still, his car was parked there like nothing ever happened.

Franklin should’ve been distracted, sorting through all that spam. Instead, I found him in the breakroom eating peach yogurt, laughing with Mary.

He saw me, paused, then came over smiling with his hand out.

“Hi Harold. We weren’t expecting you. How are things?”

How are things? I smiled big. I shook his hand so he would think I was happy to see him.

“Great. Super great.”

I told him the lie about the check, did the whole forehead slap when he reminded me it was being mailed.

“Of course. I’m such a dunderhead.” I gave him a little wink. “No wonder you cut me loose.”

I nodded toward the lot. “I noticed your sign’s missing your name. No change in management, is there?”

He shrugged. “Kids, probably. Children pulling pranks.  Harmless fun.”

“But it must’ve annoyed you,” I said.

“Didn’t even notice for a couple days,” he said. “Mary had them replace it.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back.

Good ol’ Mary.

We stood there. The first one to speak loses.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“Have you landed somewhere yet?”

“Sorting offers. Plenty of options.”

I tried to make him flinch.

“I’ve been getting a lot of unsolicited emails lately,” I said. “Have you been getting anything like that?”

He waved it off. “Spam? Our system filters all that out.  I never see it. Saves time and risk.”

Of course it does. Some stupid robot scrubbed days of work out before it ever reached him.

I felt the heat rise. I smiled wider.

There needs to be some justice in this world.

I’m going to have to get more creative.

March 21

I spent the weekend planning. Franklin thinks he’s untouchable at work, but home is his soft underbelly.

It wasn’t difficult to set up an account in his name. Prepaid card. A few carefully chosen items, delivered directly to his door.

It took a bite out of my funds, but that’s temporary. I don’t need much. Rent, groceries. I’ll get all of it back with my next job.  A job I want.  One I deserve.

The packages should arrive today and tomorrow. I took my time choosing. The internet has very… interesting things if you know where to look.

Addressed to him by name.

I can picture it—his wife opening the door, bringing them inside. She’ll have questions. She’ll look at him in disgust. He’ll deny it, of course, play it off as a joke. 

Will she have a sense of humor?

It’s hard to explain something like that.  Not something you just ignore.

I wish I could see his face.

It should be quite funny.

March 25

Every good strategy requires a backup. It occurs to me Franklin may lie his way out of my last little prank. His wife may even believe him. For all I know, she’s just as corrupt.

Besides, this isn’t about them. It’s about setting things right.  About how he shamed me in front of the others.

Franklin’s image—affable employer, devoted husband, respectable neighbor—sits on unstable ground.

I looked up his neighborhood’s HOA rules online. There’s a long list of things you are not supposed to do.

As a backup, I have another little prank planned.

It being political season, I stopped by a local campaign office and picked up a stack of signs and stickers. People hand them out freely if you act like you belong.

Tonight, I’ll redecorate Franklin’s front yard. His car as well.

He’ll go to bed seen one way and wake up seen another.

Let’s see the filter catch this before the neighbors do. 

March 26

I must maintain a careful state of mind. This has become a kind of war.

Before placing the signs, I parked down the street to observe. Franklin had left his trash cans out for Monday pickup. An opportunity.

Inside the first bin I found the packages. Two had been opened. The rest untouched, all thrown away together.

I had imagined him opening each one, growing more flustered as his wife looked on. Instead, he disposed of them quickly—destroying evidence.  Ruining the effect.

That soured me.

I followed through with the signs. His car was in the garage—hiding, I guess—so I used the stickers on the mailbox and garage door instead. It would still draw attention.

I waited as morning came. Cars passed. No one slowed or stopped.  No one protested.

Aggravating.

Then a truck arrived with landscaping equipment. Three men got out.  A man in blue jeans and a denim shirt stood on the porch talking to Franklin who was looking at his yard and shaking his head. Franklin made a motion with his hand and went back inside.  Within minutes the men pulled up the signs and scraped off the stickers, clearing everything away.

All my work, undone.  Filtered.

Now, I am not given to conspiracy theories. But I do notice patterns.

Franklin must have seen the signs and called them in immediately. A quiet, efficient, cleanup crew.

He didn’t come outside again while I was watching.

At this point, he must know something is happening.  He may not yet know it’s me.  But that was his mistake before—overlooking me.

Still, I must be careful. Even harmless humor can provoke a reaction in people like him.

March 30

I’ve spent the last few days considering my next move. It’s frustrating how Franklin continues to escape any real consequence for what he did.  Not that I cared about the job.

But I do care about justice.

Today I drove through his neighborhood.  Reconnaissance. I noticed a white panel van coming up the street as I approached his house. Home security company. One of the many services people like him use to protect themselves.

Coincidence? Unlikely.

Has he already called in reinforcements? Strengthening his defenses?

I slowed as I passed, careful not to draw attention. I looked for cameras, new lights, warning signs—anything. Nothing obvious.

Which only confirms it.  He’s fortifying quietly.  This escalates things.  I have to move more quickly now.

I have the perfect April Fool’s prank planned.

April 1

A long night, but worth it.

I went back to Franklin’s house with my gear. No moon and no sign of cameras or lights. Still, I dressed properly in dark clothes. I kept low and quiet.

My gear was simple: plant killer and a sprayer.  I sprayed down all the beautiful roses in front of the house. Every last one. By the time they start to die, no one will know when it happened. That’s the genius of it.

Then I retreated to my car and waited.

At dawn I heard the dump truck rumbling up the road in the still air. It backed into position in front of Franklin’s driveway, its beeping unnervingly loud. I confess this was when I was the most scared anxious. 

Per my instructions the dump truck tilted its contents onto the concrete.  It took three minutes, maybe. Felt longer.  Then it was done and the truck rumbled away.  I kept low as the headlights swept past me.

Right at the end of the driveway, the truck had deposited a neat pile. About a thousand pounds of fresh manure!

As far as anyone could ever tell, Franklin himself ordered it. Early delivery with no contact.  Clean.

He won’t be going anywhere without dealing with it. Not without making a mess of that perfect yard he’s so proud of.

Let’s see him miss that.  Let’s see the cleanup crew fix it this time.  Will they refuse?  Tell him to clean up his own shit!?  I can picture it—him out there, shovel in hand, furious.

I wish I could have seen it, but this is where discipline matters.  Being on a war footing now, I left before he came out.

April 3

I’ll admit a weakness. Every great artist wants to see his work in the light.

I couldn’t help it.  I went back.

I wanted to see how it was playing out—did the stink linger?  Was his car marooned?  Had neighbors complained?

I drove slowly with my hat pulled down low.

The manure was gone.  Only a dark stain remained on the concrete.  Franklin’s car sat in the drive. For a moment I hoped he might have backed into the pile, damaging the rear. 

Then I saw the patrol car.  A deputy stood at the top of the drive, writing something down. Franklin beside him, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing—first to the concrete, then to the roses.  The roses are dying nicely. Faster than expected.  The deputy was taking pictures.  Was Franklin getting a ticket?  Illegal dumping?  HOA violation?  I thought this, at first, but thought again. 

I decided to leave.  On the main road I passed that same white security van again. Not a coincidence. Franklin’s bringing in reinforcements.  Patterns are patterns.

He’s narrowing the list down.

The deputy will ask.  “Anyone got a grudge against you? Someone you might have argued with? An employee you treated unfairly?”

“No… no one…”

He knows this isn’t random.  He knows it’s deliberate.

He’ll get there.

The question is whether he reveals my name.

It wouldn’t matter if he did. There’s nothing he can prove.  They would laugh at any charge he made against me.

Still, precautions are sensible.  Best if I stay forewarned and forearmed.

I’ve taken a few steps here at home. Nothing dramatic. Reasonable.

I have retrieved my piece of personal defense hardware from my dresser drawer.  It’s here on the table beside me as I write.  I’ve inspected it, cleaned it thoroughly, and made sure it is loaded.

April 10

As a lion lays low after the kill, letting the herd settle, I too have been laying low. Not inactive, just patient. 

I’m staying away from the office, from his house. Why present myself when he’s looking for me?

Let him look.

What could be more frustrating than trying to catch me in the act and finding nothing? Just a man going about his business. Quiet. Ordinary. Law-abiding.

Sometimes I sit at my kitchen table and laugh until I’m sore. I can almost feel it—how it must be getting to him.

But justice doesn’t wait forever.  He needs to understand what he did. How badly he misjudged me.

My job work here isn’t finished.

April 12

Almost two weeks. No counter-strike.

Franklin is waiting. He must be.

I’ve been laying low. Eating little. Sleeping little. Hardly leaving the apartment. The super knocks. I don’t answer. I take the notices down and throw them away.

His house is secure now. Locked down.

But the office…

Still vulnerable.

Every Friday he orders lunch for everyone. A predictable routine.

I’m prepared to intercept the delivery.

Nothing dangerous. Just something to spoil the taste. Ruin it.

Harmless.

I sit here and shake with quiet laughter.  I think about them all sitting down together. The first bite. The looks. Then the spitting. Grabbing trash cans. The whole afternoon ruined.

Franklin standing there, trying to explain. Humiliated.

That will be enough is all I want.

April 13

I was in my car across the street when the catering van pulled up to the business behind me—the first stop on the Friday lunch run. They always order on Friday, too.  The delivery team always leaves the side door of the van unlocked while they go inside to set up. It was a simple job to enter the van, find and open the Cambro labeled for my old office, pull back the foil on the pans of chicken marsala, and add my shrimp oil.  I smoothed the foil down so it looked untouched and withdrew unseen.

When shrimp oil goes rancid, it’s awful.  The marsala would hide the smell long enough for people to eat.  There would be no escaping the taste.

I sat in my car while the van next delivered the food across the street.  I tracked the time.  Soon they would be lining up with plates.  Soon they would be eating.  

Suddenly paramedics arrived, which I did not expect.

They went quickly inside, Mary holding the door. She looked scared, but not sick.  Something was wrong. It couldn’t have been my doing. Shrimp oil is harmless. Everyone knows that.  A harmless prank.  So it must be something else.

The flashing lights make me nervous.  I considered leaving.  What if my prank got blamed for whatever happened?

No, I thought.  A guilty man flees.  I’m not guilty of anything.

Franklin could try to use this against me.  I couldn’t leave.  I had to stay.  Moreover, I had to be in the office!   What guilty man returns to the scene?

I drove across the street and went inside.

A storm.  People milling in a circle. Paramedics digging equipment from cases. A figure, prone on the floor.

It was Darrell, an oxygen mask over his face. He was not moving. Franklin knelt next to him, focused, composed, holding his fucking hand.

I called to Franklin. He ignored me at first, then came over, confused.

“Harold? What are you doing here?  Now is not a good time.”

Alibi established.  Perfect.

I asked what happened. 

“Food contamination, probably shellfish,” he said. “Darrell’s allergic. Two epipens and he still can’t breathe.”

This is not my fault. Darrell should wear a bracelet or something.  How was I supposed to know about an allergy?

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Me? I’m fine. I always bring my lunch from home.”

From home.  Of course he does.  He’s been laying in wait.

They put Darrell on a gurney and shoved him past me, yelling for me to move. Franklin followed without looking back.

“Who was that jerk?” a paramedic asked.

“Nobody,” Franklin said.

Nobody.

You know what, Franklin? You’re the nobody!!  No good piece of shit nobody that nobody likes and nobody respects. You are a shit shit shit!!!

Shit fuck shit fuck you you shit fuck bastard son of a bitch fuck shit stupid head shit fuck fucking fucker fuck!!! I’ll show you nobody you fuck I’ll show you I’ll show you

I shouldn’t write in pen. I’m taking deep breaths. No one reading this should think I am unreasonable.

The police have not come.

I’ve been sitting here in the dark, just the battery lantern on while I make this entry. Power has been turned off for “nonpayment”. But I already told them I could not make any payments until I got a job! A job that I like. A job that deserves me.

I feel calmer. I feel certain. I know how I need to finish this.

April 14

I have not slept. My mind won’t stay quiet. It keeps turning, refining, improving. My efforts have not been wasted. I have conceived a prank as beautiful and elegant as it is funny.

Even Franklin won’t be able to ignore this one.

Or escape it.

I’ve gathered what I need. It all fits neatly into the old duffel bag from the closet. Simple things.  Cable ties, a pillow case, pepper spray.  Things anyone would have.  In the back of my car, three cans of kerosene. The handgun is in my waistband, easily accessible.

If this is my last entry, something went awry. It would not surprise me. Franklin has been lucky.  

But luck runs out.

This is not about hate This is about justice. This prank will finally set things right. 

And it will be side-splittingly hilarious.