The Neighbor, the Sewage, and Sweet Revenge
By Betty, 30, remote designer and unexpected garden avenger
I’ve had bad neighbors before, but none like this one. He didn’t just bring noise and rudeness—he brought a film crew, fake charm, and the plumbing habits of a wild raccoon. This guy ruined my grandma’s beautiful garden by secretly dumping his sewage into it—just to save a few bucks. But don’t worry, I got him back… and my revenge became the talk of the entire town.
Let me start at the beginning.
My name is Betty, I’m 30, and I live in the old cottage my grandparents left me. It’s a sweet little place with white picket fences and a garden full of flowers my grandma planted over many years. I work from home as a designer, and my office window looks out at that garden. It was peaceful, inspiring, and full of memories.
Then Todd moved in next door.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. His giant moving truck blocked my driveway, and he strutted around like he owned the whole street. Gold chain, slicked-back hair, designer sunglasses—it was like a walking billboard for bad decisions. He barked orders at the movers while yelling on his phone.
“Hey there!” I called with a friendly wave. “Welcome to Maple Lane! I’m Betty. I live next door.”
He lowered his phone and looked me up and down before flashing a practiced smile.
“Todd,” he said. “Just picked this place up for a steal. Gonna turn it into something people actually want to look at.”
I looked at his cute little house and blinked. “It’s already beautiful.”
He laughed. “If you like outdated garbage. Don’t worry, my upgrades are gonna boost your home value too. You’re welcome in advance.”
Charming.
His anxious little dog barked nonstop while Todd walked away mid-conversation. I turned to my garden and whispered, “Well, that’s going to be interesting.”
A month later, “interesting” had turned into a nightmare.
Construction sounds started at dawn and didn’t stop until night. Workers everywhere. Loud music. Trucks coming and going. And Todd? He acted like he was the king of the neighborhood.
One afternoon, I was pruning my old oak tree when he appeared at the fence.
“That tree’s gotta go,” he said, arms crossed like he was posing for a magazine.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It’s blocking sunlight from my new deck,” he said, pointing at the massive wooden thing he’d built. “I need full sun for my outdoor videos.”
I climbed down from my ladder. “This tree’s been here for 70 years. It’s not going anywhere.”
“Look, Betty,” he said, like my name was a joke, “I spent twelve grand on that deck. Your tree is ruining my investment.”
“That’s what trees do,” I said. “They make shade. It’s kind of their thing.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I could have it declared a hazard.”
“It’s healthy and nowhere near your property line.”
“We’ll see about that.” He turned to leave but stopped to add, “Oh, and train your dog not to bark at mine. Some of us work from home.”
“I don’t have a dog!” I shouted as he walked off. “That’s your dog barking at leaves!”
I looked at my oak tree and muttered, “Absolutely unbelievable.”
Then, my garden started to change. And not in a good way.
The sweet, earthy smell I loved turned… sour. The soil got squishy. My tomatoes turned yellow. My herbs wilted. And worst of all—my grandma’s roses, the ones she spent years caring for, started to die.
“No, no, no,” I whispered one morning, kneeling next to them. Their petals were brown and drooping. “What’s wrong, babies?”
The smell was horrible now—like something had died. Definitely not fertilizer.
I called a plumber immediately.
Mike showed up that afternoon, a kind man with a worn tool belt and gentle eyes.
“I think something’s leaking into my garden,” I told him.
He walked through the yard, frowning. “Something’s definitely not right here.”
He pulled out his equipment and got to work. An hour later, he called me behind the shed.
“Found it,” he said, pointing at a pipe half-hidden in mulch. “But here’s the weird part… this isn’t connected to your house.”
I froze. “Then where does it go?”
He fed a small camera into the pipe. We watched the screen together. It showed twists, turns, and then—it stopped right under Todd’s deck.
“That’s your neighbor’s house,” Mike said grimly. “Looks like someone rerouted sewage to drain into your yard.”
My stomach turned. “Why would someone do that?”
“Simple,” Mike said. “Money. Sewage hookups are expensive. Dumping it here saves him thousands.”
I stared at the pipe, my mind racing. “Can you take photos? A report? Everything?”
Mike nodded. “Already doing it. You gonna confront him?”
I looked at my grandmother’s dying roses. “Not yet. I need backup.”
That night, I called my cousin Nate. He’s a contractor who specializes in plumbing and electrical work—and he hates people who cut corners.
“He did WHAT?” Nate exploded.
“He dumped sewage into my garden,” I repeated calmly.
“That’s illegal. And disgusting. We’re calling the city first thing tomorrow.”
“Actually…” I looked out the window at Todd’s house, where he was setting up lights for another of his videos. “He’s hosting a big BBQ this weekend for his social media thing. Influencers. Sponsors. Local bloggers.”
Nate was quiet. Then he laughed low and dark. “What are you thinking?”
“Can you, hypothetically, reroute a pipe to connect to someone’s sprinkler system?”
A pause. Then: “You’re evil. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
The next night, Nate arrived with a toolbox and a grin.
“This is the dirtiest job I’ve ever done,” he whispered as we snuck along the fence line. “And I love it.”
He disconnected Todd’s illegal pipe from my garden and attached it—very carefully—to Todd’s sprinkler system.
“But wait, there’s more,” Nate said, adding a smart sensor. “This won’t spray randomly. It only activates when he turns it on.”
I nodded. “Perfect. He loves showing off those sprinklers.”
“Oh, and take this,” Nate said, handing me a ziplock bag.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence. Just in case he plays dumb.”
Saturday came—sunny, warm, and perfect for a backyard BBQ.
Todd’s yard filled with stylish guests. Music played. People took selfies. Todd wore salmon shorts and his usual gold chain, bragging to a local blogger about his “high-end outdoor oasis.”
From my patio, sipping lemonade with Nate, I watched as Todd grinned at the crowd.
“And now,” Todd announced, holding up his phone, “check out my custom sprinkler system!”
Nate nudged me. “Showtime.”
Todd pressed a button with a dramatic flourish. The sprinklers hissed to life.
At first, all was calm. Guests clapped and admired the mist.
Then, the smell hit.
“Oh my GOD,” someone gasped.
“Is this… POOP?!” another guest cried.
A woman in high heels shrieked, “My SHOES! These are designer!”
“It’s SEWAGE!” someone yelled. “The sprinklers are spraying sewage!”
Chaos exploded. People ran. Drinks spilled. A man slipped and landed in a puddle of brown water. Todd stood frozen, face twisted in horror.
The sprinklers kept going—for a full minute.
Finally, Todd looked up and saw me and Nate calmly watching from my yard.
He stormed over. “YOU!” he shouted.
I walked to the fence, holding the ziplock bag.
“Plumbing problems?” I asked sweetly.
“You RUINED everything!” he shouted. “There were influencers here!”
I held up the bag—inside were dead rose petals soaked in sewage.
“Funny thing about sewage,” I said. “It always flows downhill. Like from your house… into my garden.”
He sputtered, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“The plumber documented everything,” I said. “Photos. Reports. Illegal piping.”
A blogger behind him was filming.
“Is this true?” she asked. “Did you dump sewage in her yard?”
Todd turned ghost-pale.
I handed him the bag. A note was taped to it:
“Return to sender, Todd. We reap what we sow.”
On Monday, city inspectors arrived. Todd was slapped with thousands in fines for illegal plumbing, pollution, and code violations.
The blogger’s article went viral: “Influencer’s Backyard BBQ Goes Down the Drain—Literally.”
Videos of the sprinkler disaster spread fast. One meme showed Todd holding a hose with the caption: “Todd the Poo Sprinkler Manager.”
Sponsors dropped him. Followers disappeared.
A week later, I was in my garden when Todd showed up.
“I’m selling the house,” he said. No gold chain. No swagger.
“That was fast,” I replied.
“Can’t fix my brand here,” he muttered. Then, more quietly: “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would… kill everything.”
I looked at the damaged garden. “Those roses were my grandmother’s. You can’t just replace them.”
He nodded. “The new owners like your oak tree. Said it’d be great for a swing.”
“Good,” I said. As he walked off, I called, “Hey, Todd!”
He turned.
“Next time you mess with crap, try keeping it in your own yard.”
He actually smiled. “Fair enough.”
Three months later, my garden was healing. The new neighbors—Lisa, Mark, and their twin kids—were everything Todd wasn’t. Friendly. Kind. They even loved the oak tree.
One day, Lisa called me over. “We found something while digging for the kids’ sandbox.”
There, under a bush, was a scraggly rose plant. Barely alive. But hanging on.
“I think this was one of yours,” she said.
I touched its leaves gently. “It is. It survived.”
That evening, I replanted the rose in my garden. “Welcome home,” I whispered.
Weeks later, it bloomed. The scent carried me straight back to childhood summers with my grandma.
Now, every morning, I see that rose on my windowsill. And I smile.
Because sometimes, life gives you literal crap.
But if you’re patient and clever…
Something beautiful can grow from it.
