I dragged my exhausted body through the front door after a long shift at the hospital. Fourteen hours of bedpans, vomit, and a guy who insisted his “friend” was the one who “accidentally” sat on a remote control had left me drained. All I wanted was a hot shower, some pizza, and a little peace.
Instead, I found myself standing outside my front door, holding tweezers like a lunatic, trying to get a toothpick out of my lock.
It had been like this for days. The first time, I came home to find a toothpick jammed in the keyhole. I shrugged it off, thinking it was some bizarre prank. But then, it happened again.
I stood there, squinting at the lock, my fingers stiff from the cold. “Seriously?” I muttered, trying to wiggle my key in. “Come on… I’ve had patients at the ER less difficult than you today.”
The key wouldn’t budge. I twisted it, jiggled it, and even turned it upside down because—hey, sometimes keys are just picky like that. Still nothing.
Then I saw it. A tiny sliver of wood wedged deep into the keyhole. A toothpick. Again.
I poked at it with my car key. Nothing. I cursed under my breath and even tried a bobby pin, but the toothpick wouldn’t budge.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still standing there, freezing, with my patience hanging by a thread.
I called my brother, Danny.
“Danny? It’s me. I’m locked out again.”
“Again? Did you lose your keys at the hospital? Because last time—”
“No, this time there’s a toothpick in my lock.”
“A toothpick? What the hell? I’ll be right over.”
Ten minutes later, Danny’s rusty pickup rolled into my driveway. He climbed out, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE.”
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?” I asked, shivering.
“Shouldn’t you be inside your house?” he shot back, pulling out a mini toolkit like he was about to defuse a bomb.
I watched as he crouched down and inspected the lock. His breath puffed in little clouds in the cold air.
“Yep. That’s a toothpick,” he said, pulling out a pair of tweezers. “And it didn’t get there by accident.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“Someone put it there… on purpose.” Danny carefully pulled out the toothpick and handed it to me. “Try it now.”
I slid the key into the lock. It turned smoothly, and I let out a relieved sigh.
“You think it was just kids?” I asked hopefully.
Danny shook his head. “Kids don’t have this kind of patience. Call me if it happens again.”
“It won’t!” I said confidently.
“Famous last words,” he said, heading back to his truck.
And of course, it happened again. Exactly 24 hours later.
I FaceTimed Danny, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “You’re kidding me,” he said, the sound of clinking beer bottles in the background.
“Maybe I have a really dedicated enemy at the homeowners’ association? I did put up Christmas lights in February.”
Danny pulled into my driveway with an expression of exaggerated disappointment. “Alright,” he said, brushing past me, “now I’m interested.”
“This is targeted,” I said. “Want to catch them?”
Danny raised an eyebrow. “With what? A mousetrap?”
“Better. I’ve got a security camera. Used it to catch the raccoons that kept knocking over my garbage cans. I’ll set it up tomorrow.”
The next morning, Danny showed up with a camera that looked like it had been through a war and a fall off a cliff.
“This thing still works?” I asked, eyeing it skeptically.
“Of course it works. It’s built like a Nokia phone,” he said. He climbed the maple tree in my front yard like a pro, setting up the camera in just the right position.
“Perfect angle,” he said. “It’ll catch anyone coming up to your door, and you’ll get the footage straight to your phone.”
That night, I sat in my car, anxiously waiting for the footage to pop up on my phone. At 7:14 p.m., it buzzed. I clicked the notification, and my stomach did a flip.
The video showed Josh—my ex-boyfriend. The same one I’d caught sending late-night texts to his “work friend” Amber, while I was pulling double shifts at the hospital. The same one who’d been “working late” when his credit card was busy paying for dinner at restaurants I’d begged him to take me to.
I watched the video three times. There he was, in his puffy jacket, carefully jamming a toothpick into my lock, like he was performing microsurgery.
“What the hell?” I whispered, unable to believe my eyes.
We’d broken up six months ago, quietly. No shouting, no big scenes—just a conversation where I laid out all the evidence and walked away. Apparently, Josh hadn’t let go.
Furious, I didn’t call the cops. Instead, I called Connor.
“He did WHAT?” he bellowed on the other end of the phone.
Connor is six-foot-four, built like a tank, and runs a custom auto shop with Danny. He has a motorcycle that sounds like it could start a fire just by idling. We dated for a short while five years ago before deciding we were better off as friends. That line blurred on lonely holidays, though.
“He put a toothpick in my lock. Twice,” I repeated, staring at Josh’s face on the video.
“That’s… creative,” Connor said. “Want me to talk to him?”
I raised an eyebrow. “By ‘talk,’ do you mean threaten him with bodily harm? Because I’m not bailing you out of jail again.”
“That was one time, Reggie. And I didn’t actually hit anyone.”
“You threw a man’s toupee into a fountain.”
“It attacked me first,” he defended. “But no, I’ve got a better idea. Does Josh still drive by your place?”
“Probably. He lives three streets over.”
“Perfect. Here’s what we’re going to do…”
The next evening, I made a big show of leaving the house. I even called someone loudly on my phone: “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes! Save me a seat!”
Then I parked around the corner, snuck through my neighbor’s yard, and came in through the back door. Connor was already inside, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
“Wait… Is that my bathrobe?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at the bright pink monstrosity barely covering him.
“Yep. And I’m not wearing much underneath, so let’s hope this works,” Connor said with a wink.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You bet I am. Now shh… your creepy ex should be here any minute.”
At exactly 7:11 p.m., my phone buzzed. I pulled up the camera feed and saw Josh creeping up my front walk, toothpick in hand.
Connor grabbed a wrench from his toolbox and positioned himself by the door. “Wait for it,” he whispered.
Josh reached for the lock, toothpick poised—and that’s when Connor flung open the door.
I peeked through the curtains as Josh’s face shifted from intense focus to full-on panic.
“You must be the toothpick fairy!” Connor said, stepping onto the porch. His bathrobe flapped open, revealing far more tattooed skin than I ever wanted to see. “Got a message for you from the lady of the house, pal.”
Josh froze. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, then he bolted—sprinting down my driveway like it was a race to escape a bear.
I chased after him. “JOSH! STOP!”
Miracle of miracles, he actually did. He turned around, pale as a ghost, hands raised like I was holding a gun instead of just my finger.
“Why? Why mess with my lock?” I demanded.
“I thought… maybe if you couldn’t get in, you’d need someone to help… and I’d be right there. Then we could talk, and—”
“So you sabotaged my lock… to play the hero?”
Josh cringed. “It sounds dumb when you say it like that, Reggie.”
“It is dumb,” Connor said, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.
Josh’s shoulders slumped. “I messed up, okay? I thought if I could just help you again… you’d remember the good times.”
“The good times?” I scoffed. “You mean before or after you took Amber to Vincenzo’s while telling me you were seeing a therapist?”
“It was a mistake. I’ve been trying to tell you that for months.”
“Yeah, well,” Connor said, his arms crossed and his muscles flexing unnecessarily, “mission failed, buddy. Leave before I call the cops.”
Josh turned and slunk off, defeated.
Connor shut the door behind us, grinning. “That was fun.”
But I wasn’t done.
“What are you doing?” Connor asked the next morning, peering over my shoulder as I stared at my phone.
“Creating a TikTok,” I said, uploading the video.
“Savage! I didn’t know you had it in you, Reggie.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I replied, typing out the caption: “My ex keeps jamming my door lock with toothpicks. Here’s what happened when we introduced him to my new man. 🤣😈”
“New man, huh?” Connor raised an eyebrow.
“Artistic license,” I said, hitting post.
Two days later, the video had 2.1 million views. Josh sent me an email, ranting about privacy and how I’d ruined his life. I didn’t respond.
Instead, I forwarded the video to his boss—who just so happened to be Amber’s father. Turns out Amber didn’t know about me either. The plot thickened. Josh was “pursuing other opportunities” soon after, according to the company website.
Two weeks later, Danny helped me change my locks—not because I needed to, but because it felt symbolic, like closing a chapter.
“You know,” Danny said, tightening the last screw, “you could’ve just called the cops.”
“And miss all this?” I gestured vaguely to the chaos of the past week. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That afternoon, Connor brought pizza to celebrate what he called “The Great Toothpick Revenge.”
“To small victories,” he said, clinking his can against mine.
“And to idiots who think tampering with locks is a good flirting strategy!” I added.
“You know,” Connor said, leaning back on my couch, “I’m still waiting for my cut of the TikTok fame.”
“How about I don’t tell anyone you wore my bathrobe?” I grinned.
He laughed. “Deal!”
My phone buzzed again. The video had just hit three million views.
Turns out, revenge doesn’t always need a sledgehammer… sometimes a toothpick and a viral post do just fine.