When an entitled couple refused to pay my Dad, a hardworking plumber, they thought they were clever. Little did they know their smugness would backfire, leaving them with a bathroom crawling with regret. Here’s how my Dad flushed their entitlement down the drain.
Hey there, folks! Phoebe here, but you can call me Pippi — that’s what my Dad does. Speaking of which, let me introduce you to Pete: 55 years old, ruggedly handsome with a white beard and hands like a roadmap of hard work. He’s your friendly neighborhood plumber and my superhero without the cape.
Close-up of an older man smiling | Source: Midjourney
Dad’s the kind of guy who treats every job like it’s his own home, redoing entire bathrooms if a single tile is off. But some folks see that dedication and think they can take advantage. That’s exactly what a pair of entitled homeowners tried to do.
Oh, but they had no idea who they were messing with.
It all started a few months back when I swung by Dad’s place. I found him on the patio, puffing away on his cigar and laughing like he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke.
A plumber installing pipe fittings | Source: Pexels
“What’s got you in such a good mood, old man?” I asked, plopping down next to him.
Dad’s eyes twinkled as he said, “Oh, Pippi, you’re not gonna believe what just happened. It’s a doozy!”
Dad leaned in, still chuckling. “Remember that bathroom remodel I was working on? Well, let me tell you about the Carlyles, or as I like to call ’em, the Pinchpennies.”
I settled in, knowing this was gonna be good. Dad’s stories always were.
A bathroom interior | Source: Unsplash
“These folks, they wanted the works. New tiles, fancy fixtures, you name it. They picked out every little detail themselves… even down to where they wanted the toilet paper holder.”
“Sounds like a dream job,” I said.
Dad snorted. “Oh, it started that way alright. But then…”
His face darkened, and I knew we were getting to the good part. “What happened, Dad?” I asked.
An older man fixing a faucet in the bathroom | Source: Midjourney
“Well, Pippi, on the last day, just as I’m to start the grouting, they’re sitting on this couch, ready to pull a real fast one on me.”
Dad’s voice took on a mocking tone as he imitated Mrs. Carlyle. “‘Oh, Pete, this isn’t what we wanted at all! These tiles are all wrong!’”
I gasped. “But didn’t they pick everything out themselves?”
“Exactly!” Dad exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “And get this — they had the nerve to tell me they were only gonna pay half of what they owed me. HALF!”
An older couple sitting on the couch | Source: Pexels
My jaw dropped. “HALF?? After two weeks of busting your hump to get their dream bathroom done. No way! What did you do?”
Dad’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Well, I tried to reason with ’em at first. But they weren’t having any of it. Mr. Carlyle, he gets all puffed up and says, ‘Just finish the job and GET LOST, Pete. We’re not paying a penny more.’”
I could feel my blood boiling. “That’s not fair! You worked so hard!”
A shocked young woman holding her face | Source: Pexels
Dad patted my hand. “Now, now, Pippi. Don’t you worry! Your old man had a trick up his sleeve.”
“What did you do?” I leaned in, eager to hear more.
Dad’s grin widened. “Oh, I finished the job alright. But instead of using water for the grout…”
“…I mixed it with sugar and honey,” Dad finished, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
I blinked, trying to process what I’d just heard. “Sugar and honey? In the grout? But why?”
A bottle of honey near a small mound of powdered tile grout | Source: Midjourney
Dad leaned back, taking a long drag on his cigar. “Just you wait and see, Pippi. Just you wait and see.”
He went on to explain how he’d packed up his tools, pocketed half the pay, and left with a smile, knowing full well what was coming next.
“But Dad,” I interrupted, “wouldn’t they notice something was off with the grout?”
A smiling older man holding a toolbox | Source: Midjourney
He shook his head, chuckling. “Nah, not right away. It looked just fine when it dried. But a few weeks later…”
I leaned in, hanging on his every word. “What happened a few weeks later?”
Dad’s grin widened. “That’s when the real fun began.”
“Picture this,” Dad said, gesturing with his cigar. “The Pinchpennies are sitting pretty, thinking they’ve pulled a fast one on old Pete. Then one day, Mrs. Carlyle goes to take a shower, and what does she see?”
Smiling older couple holding ceramic mugs | Source: Pexels
I shrugged, totally engrossed in the story.
“Ants!” Dad exclaimed. “Dozens of ’em, marching along the grout lines like it’s their own personal highway!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “No way!”
“Oh, it gets better,” Dad continued. “Next day, it’s cockroaches. Then every creepy-crawly within spittin’ distance shows up for the party.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s crazy! But how do you know all this?”
Close-up of an army of ants on a bathroom floor | Source: Midjourney
Dad winked. “Remember Johnny? My old pal? He’s their next-door neighbor and has been keeping me updated.”
“And the Carlyles?” I asked. “What did they do?”
Dad’s eyes sparkled with glee. “Oh, Pippi, they tried everything. Spent a fortune on pest control, but nothing worked. You wanna know the best part?”
I nodded eagerly.
A pest controller outside a house | Source: Pexels
“They blamed the pest control sprays for ruining the grout! Can you believe it?” Dad burst into laughter.
As Dad’s laughter died down, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the Carlyles. “But Dad, don’t you think that was a bit… harsh?”
Dad’s expression softened. “Pippi, you gotta understand. These people tried to cheat me out of my hard-earned money. Two weeks of backbreaking work, and they wanted to pay me half?”
I nodded slowly. “I get it, but still…”
Close-up of a stunned woman | Source: Pexels
“Look,” Dad said, leaning forward. “In this line of work, your reputation is everything. If word got out that I let clients walk all over me, I’d be out of business faster than you can say ‘leaky faucet.’”
I had to admit, he had a point. “So what happened next?”
Dad grinned. “Well, according to Johnny, they ended up redoing the whole bathroom about a year later.”
My eyes widened. “Did that solve the problem?”
A man working on a renovation project | Source: Freepik
Dad shook his head, chuckling. “Nope. The sugar residue was still there, lurking beneath the surface. The bugs just kept on coming back.”
“And the Carlyles?” I asked. “Did they ever figure it out?”
Dad’s eyes twinkled. “Not a clue. Last I heard, they were planning to redo the entire bathroom… again.”
I sat back, taking it all in. “Wow, Dad. That’s… something else. But didn’t you feel bad at all?”
Construction worker laying ceramic tiles | Source: Freepik
Dad sighed, his expression turning serious. “Pippi, let me tell you something. In all my years of plumbing, I’ve never done anything like this before. And I hope I never have to again. But these Carlyles, they weren’t just trying to cheat me. They were insulting my work, my pride.”
I nodded, understanding dawning. “They thought they could walk all over you.”
“Exactly,” Dad said, pointing his cigar at me. “And in this business, word gets around. If I let them get away with it, who knows how many other folks might try the same thing?”
Side view of an older man looking up | Source: Midjourney
“I guess I see your point,” I admitted. “But still, bugs in the bathroom? That’s pretty gross, Dad.”
He chuckled. “Well, I never said it was a pretty revenge. But it was effective.”
“So, what happened after that?” I asked, curious. “Did you ever hear from them again?”
Dad shook his head. “Nope. But Johnny keeps me updated. You should hear some of the stories he’s told me.”
“Like what?” I leaned in, eager for more.
Ants near a bathtub | Source: Midjourney
Dad’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Well, there was this one time Mrs. Carlyle was hosting a fancy dinner party. Johnny said he could hear her screaming all the way from his house when she found a cockroach in the guest bathroom!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh man, that must’ve been embarrassing!”
Close-up of a cockroach on a bathroom sink | Source: Midjourney
“You bet it was,” Dad chuckled. “And then there was the time Mr. Carlyle tried to fix the problem himself. Bought every bug spray in the store and went to town on that bathroom.”
“Did it work?” I asked, already guessing the answer.
Dad shook his head, grinning. “Nope. Just made the whole house smell like a chemical factory for weeks. And the bugs? They came right back as soon as the smell faded.”
Close-up of gloved hand holding disinfecting solution | Source: Freepik
I shook my head in disbelief. “Unbelievable. How long has this been going on?”
“Oh, must be going on over a year now,” Dad said, puffing on his cigar. “Johnny says they’re at their wits’ end. Talking about selling the house and moving.”
I whistled low. “Wow, Dad. That’s some long-lasting revenge.”
Side view of a cottage with a beautiful garden | Source: Unsplash
He nodded, a hint of remorse in his eyes. “Maybe it went on a bit longer than I intended. But you know what they say about karma.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s a real… well, you know.”
We shared a hearty laugh at that.
Close-up side view of an older man with his eyes downcast | Source: Midjourney
As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the patio, I sat back, processing everything Dad had told me.
“You know, Dad,” I said slowly, “I gotta admit, that’s pretty genius. Diabolical, but genius.”
Dad nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. “Sometimes, Pippi, you gotta teach people a lesson they won’t forget.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I bet the Carlyles won’t be trying to stiff anyone on their bill anytime soon.”
Close-up grayscale shot of a smiling woman | Source: Pexels
“You got that right,” Dad chuckled. “And every time Johnny gives me an update, I get a good laugh out of it.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sky turn pink and orange.
“Hey, Dad?” I said finally.
“Yeah, Pippi?”
“Promise me one thing?”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
Side view of an older man smiling | Source: Midjourney
I grinned. “If I ever need my bathroom redone, I’m paying you in full upfront.”
Dad burst out laughing, pulling me into a big bear hug. “That’s my girl!”
As we sat there, laughing and watching the sunset, I couldn’t help but think about the Carlyles and their bug-infested bathroom. It was a reminder that sometimes, karma comes with six legs and a sweet tooth.
An older man laughing | Source: Midjourney
Here’s another story: When a couple turned Toby’s 14-hour flight into a nightmare, he taught them an unforgettable lesson in airplane etiquette.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
Old Woman Brought Sons Favorite Pastry to His Grave And Found a Note upon Her Return, Story of the Day
For Nancy, her son Henry was everything. She couldn’t imagine life without him. It had been 23 years since the tragic accident that claimed Henry’s life, and every year on the anniversary, she honored his memory by bringing his favorite pie to his grave. But this year, something unexpected was about to happen.
For over two decades, Nancy, now 61, never missed a year. She would bake Henry’s favorite pie—an apple and cinnamon delight—and take it to his resting place. The scent of apples and cinnamon always brought back memories of her little boy eagerly running into the kitchen, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the fresh pie. It had been a tradition they both loved, a way for her to stay connected to him even after he was gone.
Since the accident that took Henry’s life at 17, this ritual became Nancy’s way of coping with her grief. The pain of losing him never truly left her, but baking the pie gave her a small sense of comfort, a way to feel close to her son.
On this particular day, as she carefully carried the freshly baked pie to the cemetery, the weight of the dish seemed heavier than usual. She placed the pie on Henry’s grave, gently running her fingers over the smooth stone that had become so familiar. “I miss you every day,” she whispered softly. “I baked your favorite pie again… I wish we could share it just one more time.”
With a heavy heart, she kissed her fingers and touched the gravestone, saying her quiet goodbye before leaving, as she always did. But the next day, when Nancy returned to clean up, she noticed something shocking—the pie was gone. Instead of the untouched or spoiled pie she usually found, the plate was empty. And on it was a folded piece of paper.
With trembling hands, Nancy opened the note. The handwriting was shaky, and it simply said, “Thank you.”
Anger surged through her. Who would take Henry’s pie? It was a private ritual, a way to honor her son, and now a stranger had intruded on that sacred moment. Determined to find out who had taken the pie, Nancy decided to take matters into her own hands.
The next day, she baked another pie and placed it on the grave, but this time, she didn’t leave. She hid behind a nearby tree, watching and waiting. After an hour, she saw a small figure approach. It wasn’t the thoughtless thief she imagined—it was a young boy, no older than 9, with ragged clothes and dirt on his face.
Nancy’s heart softened as she watched the boy kneel by the grave. He pulled out a scrap of paper and carefully wrote, “Thank you,” just like before. He wasn’t stealing out of disrespect; he was simply hungry.
As the boy reached for the pie, Nancy stepped out from her hiding place. Startled, the boy dropped the pie and backed away in fear. “I’m sorry,” he cried, “I was just so hungry. Please don’t be mad.”
Nancy’s heart broke for him. She knelt beside him and spoke gently, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m not mad. What’s your name?”
“Jimmy,” he whispered, ashamed.
“Well, Jimmy,” Nancy said with a soft smile, “you don’t have to steal. If you’re hungry, all you had to do was ask.”
Tears welled in Jimmy’s eyes as he explained how little he had to eat and how much the pie had meant to him. Nancy couldn’t help but think of Henry—how he had never known hunger, how he had always had more than enough. Jimmy, on the other hand, looked like he had been living with hunger for far too long.
“Come with me,” she said, standing up and offering her hand. “I’ll bake you a fresh pie, just for you.”
Jimmy hesitated, unsure if he could trust her, but eventually took her hand. Nancy led him back to her home, where she prepared a pie, just as she had done so many times for Henry. As the warm scent of apples and cinnamon filled the kitchen, Jimmy watched in awe. When the pie was ready, she placed it in front of him.
“This one’s all for you,” she said with a smile.
Jimmy took a bite, his eyes lighting up with joy. “This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” he said, his voice full of gratitude.
As she watched him eat, Nancy felt something she hadn’t felt in years—a deep sense of peace. For so long, she had baked pies for a son who could no longer enjoy them, but now, she was sharing that love with a boy who truly needed it. In some small way, it felt like Henry had brought Jimmy into her life, a reminder that love and kindness should always be passed on.
By the time Jimmy finished the last slice, Nancy’s heart was full. She realized that this unexpected connection was perhaps Henry’s way of showing her that even in her grief, she could still bring comfort to others. Maybe this was her new purpose—honoring Henry by helping those in need.
As Jimmy looked up with a smile, Nancy felt warmth and gratitude in her heart. She had found a new way to carry Henry’s memory forward, and it filled her soul with peace.
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