"I had a problem for a while with my morning newspaper being stolen out of my driveway.
So one morning, I got up early and waited on the paper to be delivered (4 am or so) and got it. I opened it up and took a huge dump in the middle of it. I then rolled it up and put it back in the plastic sleeve. I placed the sleeve back in the driveway and went to bed.
I woke up later that morning to see my paper missing, but that was the last time it went missing."
"Back in high school, some guys who were not on the greatest terms with my brother (used to be friends, but now had nothing in common and were basically bullying him) used to come by my house in the middle of the night and egg us and ring the doorbell. Since we figured out who was doing it, we tried politely asking them to stop. When they didn't, we went to their parents. They just got sneakier about it and invited more people in on their little schemes, people we didn't know and could not contact. That meant that at least three times a week, we'd stay up for large parts of the night either trying to prevent people from approaching our house or chasing them off when they rang the doorbell.
It pretty much only stopped because of two things. My brother sat in the driveway with the front porch light shut off, huddled in the car in complete darkness. I was at the front window, also in the dark. My dad was in the foyer. I saw them coming and told everyone to get ready. The guys ran up, smashed their fists against the door, predictably getting my senior dog all fired up over nothing. My brother turned the car on, floored the engine, and put on the high beams. The guys freaked out, and dropped the hockey sticks, bolting for their truck being driven by the first guy who started messing with us in the first place.
My dad came roaring out of the house, chasing these guys on foot. My brother peeled out of the driveway, lifting his paintball shooter off of the passenger seat. I watched them go - they jumped in their truck, while my brother is half hanging out of his car, shooting pretty impressively with one hand on the wheel as he sped after them. They got to a busy intersection, rode up on the curb and wrecked the bumper and maybe the bottom of the truck, which most likely belonged to one of their parents. No one was injured, but they drove off and never came by again.
I also like to think it was because I (a quiet girl in grade 9 at the time), approached them at school the day after and told them to stay off my property or they'd regret it. One of the guys' sister, who was in my grade, tried to get me to tell her what the other repercussions would be, so I made up stuff about police now patrolling by my house, a hidden camera, and buying a rottweiler."
"Each year, my father would put on a haunted house. He was really into projectors, lights, sounds, and the works - even back in the early '80s, I remember blood and guts every year.
By the time I turned 16, we had about 2,300 people show up each year. The Connecticut State PD patrolled the area and because of the number of kids, they quickly became friends with my dad after seeing his haunted house.
The problems started mostly because I was the youngest kid and my dad started to wind down the haunted houses. Kids in our area didn't take too well to it and each year, we would have a handful who would sneak up in the backwoods and paintball our house, RV, and other belongings. They even broke some windows doing this.
So, one year, I got on the roof with my own paintball shooter and hid behind the chimney. My thought process was simple: we had large speakers on top of the chimney (so no one could hear me), and because of the past issues, we had floodlights aiming towards the woods and out to the front yard (so they couldn't see me up there.
Sure enough, the kids came around with the intent of continuing their annual tradition of decorating our house with paintballs, and as soon as I saw them, I put several rounds off in their direction. I hit the first kid in the forehead the other in the neck and arm. They quickly retreated.
The next year, they changed things up. One went through the woods, intent on catching me off guard, the other went out front with the rest of the kids.
For whatever reason that year, the 'popular' girls in my school got together and thought it would be fun to wear nothing but a bath towel as their costume.
So the first kid showed up in the backwoods and I took him out. I remember hearing him cry as he ran off. The second kid was walking along the front of my house and pulled out his shooter to plaster the front (large bay style) windows. I put two on his chest and one on his knee. He took off running, still unable to locate me to shoot back. I was evil and put two more onto his backpack and he flopped forward on his stomach. Again, he looked for me, and when he couldn't find me, he ran off to join a group - that had the girls in it. I was a jerk and thought I could manage to hit him once more, so I aimed forward a bit, expecting him to walk into the shot and fired off one paintball.
But it missed him - and hit one of the girls in the butt! Her towel dropped off and she screamed out in pain. The whole group of kids turned around and started yelling at the second kid, thinking he shot her.
She was so mad, she went to the police who were half a block away. They brought both kids right in front of my house, as that's where it happened. They found paint on the road, took his weapon and called his parents to come get him.
To this day, I haven't told the girl that it was me who shot her. I feel bad about that, but the end result was just too priceless."
"My great-grandfather lived in Southern Indiana during the Great Depression and always chopped all of his own wood for the winter. One day he went out and someone had stolen all of his wood. So he went down, angry as a first generation Irishman can be, to the family farm to chop up some more wood. This time, he built a shed to put the wood in, a few weeks later they stole the shed's door and the wood. Great-grandfather said consarn it, went into town, out to the bars and got wasted. While in the third or fourth bar he went to the bathroom to find the door to the ladies room was his freaking shed door. How he knew this, I don't know, but he proceeded to take it off its hinges while someone was inside. Bar patrons took him down and threw him out into the cold.
A few days after sobering up, he decided he was going to do one more stack of firewood and if they stole that, he would just freeze to death. After getting home with a load of firewood, he went out to his workshop and drilled a hole in one of the logs and filled it with dynamite, then he put the log on top of all the other logs. A few days later, the pile was gone; a week or so later, the owner of the bar's house exploded, killing him. My great-grandfather, who was engaged to my great grandmother at the time, eloped and moved 200 miles away and changed his name, which is now my last name."
"These little idiots used to kick the orange cones around from some long-running construction work near my house. The workmen got so sick and tired of it, they put a line of cones near the edge of the road and the final one went over a short cement post that started a line of posts.
One night around 2 am, I was chilling out in my backyard when I heard a blood-curdling scream.