I dragged myself through the front door after a long day at work. I was exhausted—caffeine-depleted, covered in sweat, and drenched in the day’s hospital chaos. All I wanted was a hot shower, a frozen pizza, and some blessed silence. But instead, I found myself staring at a toothpick jammed into my front door’s lock. What the hell?
“Really?” I muttered to myself, squinting at the tiny wooden stick wedged into the keyhole. It was absurd. Who does this? And why?
I took a deep breath. Not the end of the world, right? So I tried to slide my key in. Nope. Wouldn’t budge. Okay, maybe the key was being difficult. I wiggled it around, hoping it would catch. Still nothing. I turned it upside down and tried again. Nada.
“Come on,” I grumbled, already losing my patience. “I’ve dealt with patients at the ER less difficult than you.”
I leaned in closer, using the flashlight on my phone to inspect the lock, and then it hit me—the toothpick was still stuck, mocking me. I tried pushing it out with my car key. No luck. Then I cursed, grabbed a bobby pin from my bag, and jammed it in. Still nothing.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still outside, standing in the freezing cold, my fingers aching, my toes numb, and my vocabulary far too colorful for public consumption. Finally, I gave up and pulled out my phone.
“Danny? It’s me. I’m locked out,” I said.
“Again? Did you lose your keys at the hospital? Because last time—”
“No, there’s a toothpick stuck in my lock.”
“A what?” Danny’s voice shot up in disbelief.
“A toothpick. Stuck. In my lock.”
“Are you serious?” he said, his voice full of amusement. “Alright, I’m coming over.”
Ten minutes later, I saw Danny’s rusted pickup truck crawl up the driveway. He hopped out wearing his signature sweatpants and a T-shirt that read “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE.”
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t you be inside your house?” Danny shot back, waggling a miniature toolkit in his hand as if he were about to disarm a bomb.
I couldn’t help but laugh as he approached the door, crouched down to examine the lock. “Yep. That’s definitely a toothpick,” he said, pulling out a set of tweezers. “And it didn’t get there by accident.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Someone put it there. On purpose.”
My stomach churned with unease. He worked in silence for a minute, then triumphantly held up a tiny wooden splinter. “There we go. Try it now.”
I slid the key in, and this time, it worked. The lock clicked open, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“You think it’s just kids?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Danny shook his head. “No way. Kids don’t have this kind of patience. Call me if it happens again.”
“Ha! It won’t,” I said confidently, but his warning echoed in my mind.
The next day, I found myself standing in the same spot again, only this time, my frustration boiled over. The toothpick was back.
“Are you kidding me?” I muttered to myself. I grabbed my phone and FaceTimed Danny.
“You’re kidding me,” Danny said, his voice full of disbelief. I could hear the clinking of beer bottles in the background. “This is becoming a thing?”
“I don’t know, maybe I’ve pissed off the whole homeowners’ association. I did put up Christmas lights in February,” I joked.
Danny shot me an exasperated look as he pulled up. “Alright,” he said, brushing past me, “this is officially interesting now.”
“Alright, I’m in,” I said, my mind racing. “Let’s catch this creep.”
Danny raised an eyebrow. “With what? A mousetrap?”
“No, I’ve got something better.” He reached into his truck and pulled out an old security camera, battered and covered in duct tape. “Used it to catch raccoons in my trash. If it can catch a raccoon, it can catch a person.”
I laughed, though I was still skeptical. “You sure that thing still works?”
“Of course it does. It’s built like a Nokia phone,” Danny said with a grin, climbing up the tree in my front yard with surprising agility.
“Perfect angle,” he said after a few minutes. “It’ll catch anyone coming to your door. And you’ll get the footage straight to your phone.”
That evening, I sat in my car, staring at my phone like a teenager waiting for a message from their crush. At 7:14 p.m., my phone buzzed.
The video was there.
I felt my heart drop into my stomach as I watched the footage. “JOSH??” I gasped.
It was him. My ex-boyfriend. The same one who’d texted late-night messages to his “work friend” Amber while I was pulling double shifts at the hospital. The same one who’d been “working late” at the office when I found out he’d been dining with her at the fancy restaurants I’d begged him to take me to for months.
I couldn’t believe it. He was standing there in his stupid puffy jacket, carefully inserting a toothpick into my lock with the precision of a surgeon performing microsurgery.
“What the hell?” I whispered, replaying the video three times. My mind was reeling. I hadn’t heard from Josh in six months. We’d broken up quietly. No screaming, no drama. I thought we were good.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I didn’t call the cops. I called Connor instead.
“He did what?” Connor barked when I told him.
Connor, a six-foot-four powerhouse with tattoos and an appetite for trouble, was the type of guy who ran a custom auto shop, rode a motorcycle, and had a way of making bad decisions work in his favor.
“He put a toothpick in my lock. Twice,” I said, my blood still boiling as I stared at Josh’s face on my phone screen.
“Let me guess. You want me to go talk to him?” Connor asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
I chuckled, despite my anger. “You mean threaten him with bodily harm? Because I’m not bailing you out of jail again.”
“That was one time,” Connor muttered defensively. “I didn’t actually hit anyone.”
“You threw a man’s toupee into a fountain.”
“It attacked me first. But no, I’ve got a better idea. Does Josh still drive by your place?”
“Yeah, probably. He lives three streets over.”
“Perfect. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”
The next evening, I made a show of leaving my house at 6:45 p.m. I called someone loudly on my phone, walking to my car. “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes! Save me a seat!”
I parked around the corner, snuck back through the neighbor’s yard, and slipped in through the back door. Inside, Connor was already waiting, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Wait… is that my bathrobe?” I asked, eyeing the pink monstrosity barely covering his chest.
“Yep. And I’m not wearing much underneath, so let’s hope this works,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I muttered.
“Hell yeah, I am. Now shh… your creepy ex should be here any minute.”
At precisely 7:11 p.m., my phone buzzed again. I pulled up the live feed, my heart pounding. There he was—Josh, tiptoeing toward my front door, toothpick in hand.
Connor grabbed a wrench from his toolbox and crouched next to the door. “Wait for it,” he whispered.
Josh reached for the lock, toothpick poised like a tiny wooden dagger—and then Connor flung the door open.
I peeked through the curtains, watching Josh’s face twist in horror as he stared at Connor, who stepped onto the porch with a dramatic flair.
“You must be the toothpick fairy!” Connor called out, his bathrobe gaping open to reveal far too much ink for my liking. “Got a message for you from the lady of the house, pal.”
Josh’s mouth flopped open and closed, but before he could say anything, he turned and bolted down the driveway, arms flailing like a cartoon character.
“JOSH! STOP!” I yelled, rushing out the door behind Connor.
Miraculously, he stopped. His face was pale, his hands raised like I was pointing a gun instead of just my finger.
“Why? Why mess with my lock?” I demanded.
“I thought… maybe you’d call me for help if you couldn’t get in. And I’d be right there to save the day,” Josh stammered, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“So you sabotaged my lock to be a hero?” I asked incredulously.
“It sounds dumb when you say it like that,” he mumbled, hanging his head.
“You think?” I shot back.
Connor snorted. “Mission failed, buddy. Leave before I call the cops.”
Josh slunk away, shoulders slumped in defeat.
I closed the door behind me, and Connor grinned. “That was fun.”
But I wasn’t done.
“What are you doing?” Connor asked the next morning when he saw me typing on my phone.
“Creating a TikTok account,” I said, uploading the video footage.
“Savage! I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I replied, posting it with 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 a rambling email about privacy, how I’d ruined his life, and how he’d “just been trying to help.” I didn’t respond.
Instead, I forwarded the video to his boss—who happened to be Amber’s father. Turns out Amber didn’t know about me either. The plot thickened, then quickly thinned when Josh was suddenly “pursuing other opportunities” 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,” he said, tightening the final screw, “you could’ve just called the police.”
“And miss all this?” I gestured to the whirlwind of chaos. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That afternoon, Connor brought over 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, grinning.
“You know,” Connor said, lounging back on the couch, “I’m still waiting for my cut of the TikTok fame.”
“How about I don’t tell anyone you wore my bathrobe? That’s payment enough.”
He grinned. “Deal!”
My phone buzzed again. The video had just hit three million views.
Turns out, revenge doesn’t always need a sledgehammer… sometimes all it takes is a toothpick and a viral post.