I called my buddy, someone who actually respects boundaries and also happens to own a tow truck. When he arrived, he took one look at the RV blocking my driveway and burst into laughter. I directed him to hook it up and tow it straight back to Dorothy’s property. Since she wasn’t home, I made sure to film everything from start to finish. The chains, the lift, the wheels rolling away. It was all on camera.
Once the RV was dropped perfectly in front of her garage, I sent her the entire video. No caption, no explanation, just pure evidence of her entitlement being returned to its rightful location. She didn’t respond immediately, which surprised me because she usually replies faster than a smoke alarm during a kitchen fire. Hours later, my phone vibrated with a message containing only three words: “You’ll regret this.” That’s when I realized Dorothy wasn’t just angry. She was plotting.
Saturday morning rolled in calm and quiet. The kind of morning you’d think would bring peace after a long week. I wasn’t working that day, so I planned to relax, maybe make breakfast, and enjoy the silence that had been missing ever since Dorothy decided to invade my driveway with her oversized disaster on wheels.
I genuinely thought towing her RV back home had delivered the message. Surely even Dorothy would understand that not every homeowner could be bullied. But apparently I was giving her way too much credit, because the peace didn’t even last an hour.
While I sat on the couch scrolling through my phone, I suddenly heard a loud engine revving outside, way louder than anything normal for our neighborhood. Before I even stood up, tires screeched so aggressively it sounded like someone was drifting through my front yard. My heart jumped, and before I could reach the door, an explosion of noise shook the entire house.
A violent bang tore through the walls as something massive crashed straight into the front of my home. The impact threw me off my feet, the world spinning as dust, drywall, and debris rained down. I hit the floor hard, coughing and trying to clear my vision.
When I pushed myself up, my head throbbing, I saw the unbelievable truth. Dorothy’s RV had plowed directly into my living room like it was auditioning for an action movie. The front end was buried inside the wall, crushed furniture surrounding it. My hands were shaking as I wiped blood from my forehead, still trying to understand what happened.
Then the driver’s door opened and Dorothy climbed out, completely unbothered. She brushed off dust like she had simply stepped out of a parked car and immediately began yelling at me. “I told you you’d regret this,” she screamed. “I’m not the type you mess with.” I stared at her, stunned, barely able to form words.
And then, because of course she did, she pulled out her phone and called 911. I thought I was hallucinating. She had just driven a whole RV through my house, and now she was dialing emergency services like she was the victim.