Our landlord raised our rent by $650, which was the last straw. Living in a shabby apartment with a malfunctioning fridge and regular harassment drove us over the brink. Determined to exact retribution, we devised a smart scheme to make him regret his avarice and teach him a valuable lesson.
Dennis is here. Let me tell you about the time my wife, Amber, and I had to deal with the worst landlord ever while saving for our dream house. It’s been a rollercoaster, but we’ve learnt a lot along the way.
Consider this: Amber and I moved into this small, run-down apartment a little more than a year ago.
We were squeezing pennies to save for a place of our own. We used the apartment as a stepping stone. It was small, but we managed to make it work. Amber furnished the space using used items and DIY projects. I swear that woman can make anything look good.
The trouble began immediately.
We met Mr. Williams, our landlord, at the lease signing. This guy appeared to have stepped straight out of a 1980s corporate villain film. Slicked-back hair, a cocky smirk, and a suit that exclaimed, “I have power, and I love it.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Williams,” Amber said, always the polite one.
“Likewise,” he said, barely looking up from his paperwork. “Let’s get this done quickly. I have other matters to attend to.”
We went through the motions and signed here and there. And then, like an idiot, I brought up my income.
Yeah, a hundred grand every year. It fell out as I was filling out an income verification form. Mr. Williams’ eyes sparkled like a kid at a candy store.
“$100k, huh? Impressive,” he said, his tone was filled with renewed interest. “Glad to have tenants who can pay on time.”
Amber gave me a look, but it was too late. The damage was done.
When we moved there, we quickly discovered that the home required far more than a makeover.
The fridge sounded like a ∂уιиg whale, the washer shook so violently that I felt it was ᴘᴏssᴇssᴇᴅ, and the faucets constantly leaked. The toilet, oh man, would randomly refuse to flush, making our bathroom a no-go area.
“Mr. Williams, the fridge is acting up again,” I called one evening.
He sighed heavily. “What did you do to it now?”
“Nothing. It just stopped working,” I responded, trying to keep my frustration under control.
“Well, I’m sure it’s your fault. I’ll come by when I have time.”
And he did come by, unannounced and frequently at the worst times. He once showed up when Amber was alone at home. She called me in a panic.
“Dennis, he’s here again,” she said over the phone. “He just let himself in!”
“Stay on the line,” I said, rushing home. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
By the time I arrived, he had left, leaving Amber shaken. It was αggяαναтιиg, but we were stuck. Moving out would necessitate delving into our funds.
We lived through this nightmare for an entire year. Every malfunctioning item, unannounced visit, and contemptuous word from Mr. Williams added to the tension. He seemed to take pleasure in our agony.
As our lease expired, we were so close to complete the construction of our new home. Just a few more months. We asked Mr. Williams if we might extend our lease for two months.
“Sure,” he said, a wicked grin flashed across his face. “But the rent’s going up. By $650 a month.”
“$650? Are you kidding me?” I nearly choked.
“Take it or leave it,” he shrugged. “It’s business.”
We had no choice but to agree. The financial strain was enormous. We reduced our spending on everything, including eating out, entertainment, and basic necessities.
We cleaned the unit well before leaving. I mean, you could eat from the floor. But when we asked for our deposit back, Mr. Williams scoffed at us.
“You trashed the place,” he said, arms crossed. “I’m keeping the deposit for repairs.”
“Repairs? We left it better than we found it!” Amber exclaimed.
“Not my problem,” he smirked. “What are you going to do? Sue me? Go ahead. Try proving anything.”
We were at a breaking point. After all of our hard work and sacrifices, this is how we were treated. I felt a mix of rage and helplessness, but most of all, I felt a strong yearning for justice.
Amber and I were distraught. We sat in our packed-up flat, starring at the blank walls and felt completely defeated.
But Amber, bless her fire soul, looked at me and exclaimed, “We’re not letting him get away with this.”
“What do you have in mind?” I asked, a spark of hope igniting.
She smirked with a naughty twinkle in her eyes. “We’re going to make him regret ever messing with us.”
And that is how our revenge plot began.
Amber and I discussed over a couple of drinks one night, doodling ideas on napkins. We sought something that would inflict pain on Mr. Williams while remaining undetectable.
Then it hit us: scents. Horrible, persistent scents that you can’t get rid of.
“Alright,” I said, leaning back with a grin. “We need tuna, rotten eggs, milk, and dead mice.”
Amber chuckled. “This is going to be epic.”
The next day, we went to the grocery store, trying to be inconspicuous in while packing our cart with the nastiest goods we could think of.
“I feel like a teenager buying toilet paper for a prank,” Amber whispered, eyeing the cashier nervously.
We paid and hurried home, ready to put our plan into action.
We carried out our strategy during our final visit to the apartment to gather the last boxes. First, we opened the tuna cans and positioned them beneath the AC vents. What about the smell of fish in the summer heat? Perfect.
“Rotten eggs next,” I murmured, holding my nose.
We delicately cracked a few and poured them onto the curtain rails.
Amber choked. “This is disgusting. But totally worth it.”
We dumped milk on the restroom rug, knowing it would quickly sour and smell like nirvana. Finally, we put the dead mice (courtesy of the local pet store) on top of the ceiling fans.
We left the flat with euphoric anticipation, now that everything was in place.
Finally, we moved into our new home, which was quaint and charming and felt like home. As we unpacked, we thought about the previous year.
“That was one hell of a ride,” I said, looking around our new living room.
Amber smiled. “But we made it through. Together.”
Two months later, we succumbed to our curiosity. Amber decided to check in with the rental agent and casually inquire about our old flat.
“Yeah, it’s been vacant,” the agent said. “There’s a terrible smell no one can seem to get rid of.”
Amber and I exchanged triumphant expressions. Our idea had worked.
The call came that evening. Mr. Williams’ voice was nearly seething over the phone.
“You two think you’re clever, huh?” he spat. “The apartment smells like a dumpster. What did you do?”
Amber, being the cool one, responded with the same line he’d used on us: “What are you going to do?” Sue us? Try proving anything.
Mr. Williams paused briefly before letting out an angry groan. “You need to fix this!”
Amber did not miss a beat. “We will, on one condition. You return our full deposit, the extra rent for those two months, and cover any additional costs.”
“That’s blackmail,” he snapped.
“No, that’s justice,” she said firmly. “Take it or leave it.”
Another long pause, then a reluctant, “Fine. You win.”
We met with Mr. Williams at his office. The expression on his face when he handed us the check was priceless—half fury, part resignation.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” he muttered.
“We won’t,” I said, taking the check.
We cashed it quickly, taking no chances.
Returning to the flat and cleaning up our mess felt strangely rewarding.
We removed the tuna, cleaned up the rotten eggs, washed away the milk stains, and disposed of the deceased mice. The odor finally began to fade.
“Good riddance,” Amber said, wiping her hands. “I hope he learned his lesson.”
And there you have it. The story of how we turned the tables on our greedy landlord and got the justice we deserved. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, remember: a little creativity and a lot of determination can go a long way!
