My Parking Spot, My Fury My parking spot. Karen claimed it every single day. She even ranted in the community SnapChat, calling me “selfish” right to my face. I’d had enough. It was time for her to taste true despair. I bought a junk car and personally welded it into my parking spot. Now, that spot was mine, and mine alone, forever. 0 Seven PM. The city was fractured by a sudden downpour. Rain lashed against the car windows, a relentless drumming, like countless tiny ice needles piercing my eardrums. I drove slowly, navigating into the apartment complex’s underground garage. The warm yellow lights blurred in the damp air, casting fuzzy patches of light on the cold concrete. Turning the final corner, my heart plummeted. That familiar spot. My deeded parking spot, B-77, the one I’d shelled out three hundred grand for. Again, it was occupied by a white BMW X5. The car sat there like a fat, arrogant white beast, defiantly sprawled across my space. Its front end was aggressively angled outwards, as if proclaiming ownership. It was Karen’s car, my upstairs neighbor. And this was the fourth time in two weeks she’d treated my private space like her personal, free parking lot. The air in my car suddenly felt thin. It was like a boulder was pressing down on my chest, each breath a dull ache. I switched off the engine. All that remained was the drumbeat of rain on the roof and the escalating thump of my own heart. I grabbed my phone, fingers whitening from the grip, and tapped on her familiar profile picture. I snapped a photo of her car brazenly occupying my spot, B-77 clearly visible in the frame, and sent it. Swallowing the fiery anger in my throat, I typed out the message, word for word: “Karen, please move your car.” Sent. “Read” immediately popped up in small gray letters on the screen. I stared at those four letters, waiting. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The phone screen dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again. The chat box remained eerily silent. No reply. I took a deep breath and dialed her number. “Beep… beep… beep…” After a dozen rings, the call was curtly disconnected. In that instant, I could almost picture Karen’s annoyed expression on the other end. Not giving up, I dialed a second time. This time, it rang twice before being cut off again. The third time, it went straight to voicemail. “Hello, the number you have dialed is currently busy…” The cold, automated voice seemed to mock my futile efforts. I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and leaned back heavily into the headrest, staring up at the ceiling. The garage’s damp, cold air, mingled with the smell of exhaust and dust, seeped in through the window cracks, enveloping me. I gave up. I restarted the car, turned around, and drove out of the garage, heading for the hourly outdoor parking lot outside the complex. After parking, I didn’t bother with an umbrella. The icy rain instantly soaked my hair and shirt, clinging to my skin and making me shiver. I walked home step by agonizing step, the streetlights stretching my shadow long and distorted. Every step felt like I was treading on broken glass. Entering the building, the elevator doors slowly opened. Just as I was about to step inside, I saw Karen’s latest Ins update. A photo of her, her husband Chad, and their ten-year-old son, all beaming, gathered around a table piled high with king crab and Boston lobsters. The location was tagged at the city’s most upscale seafood restaurant. The caption read: “Hard work pays off! Enjoying the good life!” In the picture, Karen, wearing immaculate makeup, held a glass of red wine, smiling charmingly at the camera. A wave of nausea hit me. Her “good life” was built on treating my parking spot like a trash can and my goodwill like dirt. Fury surged through my veins like molten lava, almost erupting from my eyes. But I didn’t let it. I simply walked into the elevator with a blank expression and pressed my floor. The mirrored elevator walls reflected my wet, pathetic reflection, and my bloodless face. I decided to give her one last chance to be decent. I went to the property management office. Mr. Henderson, the property manager, was a smarmy man in his forties with a noticeable beer belly, plastering on a fake smile. “Alex, this… this is a private dispute between residents. It’s hard for us to intervene forcibly.” He rubbed his hands together, looking troubled. “I bought a deeded parking spot. I have the title. Her actions are an infringement.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Yes, yes, we know. We’ll call her to mediate, we’ll definitely mediate.” He dialed Karen’s number right in front of me. This time, the call connected. I could clearly hear Karen’s sharp, impatient voice from the other end, mixed with the restaurant’s clamor and her son’s shouting. “Hello! Who is this?! So annoying!” Mr. Henderson discreetly lowered the speaker volume, then spoke into the phone with a fawning smile: “Karen, it’s Mr. Henderson from property management. The owner of B-77, Alex, said you’re parked in his spot. Would it be convenient for you to move your car?” Silence for a few seconds on the other end, then an even more grating shriek. “Just parking for a bit! What’s with the rush? Is he trying to kill me?! Tell him I’ll move it after dinner! Will his crappy car die if it waits a little? Being so selfish, he’ll die early!” Her voice was so loud that even I, standing beside him, heard every word clearly. Mr. Henderson’s face turned beet red, and he looked at me awkwardly. I ignored him, took his phone, and spoke into the receiver in a voice so cold it sounded alien even to me: “Ms. Smith, I’m informing you one more time. That is my private, deeded parking spot, which I paid three hundred thousand dollars for. It’s not a public area. Please move your car immediately.” “Who are you?! You—” She didn’t finish her sentence. I pressed the hang-up button. I handed the phone back to Mr. Henderson and turned to leave. Back home, I stripped off my soaked clothes and stood under the shower. The scalding hot water washed over my body, but couldn’t wash away the bone-deep chill in my heart. Just then, my phone vibrated furiously in the living room. Messages from the community group chat. I dried myself, walked out, and picked up my phone. Tapping open “Happy Homeowners,” the SnapChat group with 500 members, Karen’s name was flashing frantically on the screen. She had sent a 60-second voice message. I tapped play. Her tearful voice filled the quiet room. “Everyone, please be my judge! I just temporarily parked in a neighbor’s spot, and he’s being so persistent! Calling me, finding the property manager—a grown man harassing a woman, is there no justice?!” I watched as some unsuspecting neighbors in the chat began to echo her, accusing me of “going too far” and being “unreasonable.” I clenched my phone. The last flicker of warmth in my eyes, behind the lenses, was completely extinguished. Any last shred of decency, she had shredded herself. Fine. 0
The community SnapChat, an online community of hundreds of strangers, had, in that moment, become Karen’s personal stage. Like an actress suffering an immense grievance, she tearfully accused me of “atrocities.” She screenshot our chat history about me asking her to move her car and posted it in the group. But she was clever enough to only include my polite “Please move your car,” omitting the half-hour I waited and the fact that she had read but not replied. Slandering others was her specialty. She @mentioned everyone, typing in a tone of indignant fury. “Everyone, look at this! All because of this, he called me three times like a madman, and even went to the property manager to complain! Making such a big deal out of ‘ownership’ – is it really necessary? Our complex is so big, and the spot was empty. What’s wrong with helping each other out? We’re neighbors, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we look out for each other? But people these days, they have no human decency!” Her performance was a success. Immediately, a few familiar IDs—her usual crew from the neighborhood, probably her coffee buddies—jumped in to back her up. “Exactly! Karen, don’t bother with him. Men like that are always so petty, no class!” “A grown man squabbling with a woman over a parking spot, so embarrassing!” “Alex, is it? Young man, don’t be so impulsive. It’s better to be friendly with your neighbors.” Each seemingly conciliatory remark, actually designed to take sides, felt like a blunt knife slowly carving into my nerves. I stared at the phone screen, my fingers hovering over the cold glass for a long time. Then, I calmly opened my photo album. I uploaded every single photo from the past two weeks, documenting each time she had illegally occupied my parking spot. I screenshot my three call attempts, clearly marking the times they were disconnected. I also uploaded the video I’d taken in the property management office of Mr. Henderson’s call with her. Finally, I added a single sentence. “@Karen, is this what you call ‘just parking for a bit’?” The evidence was undeniable, the logic crystal clear. I thought, *now she’ll have nothing to say*. But I had utterly underestimated her shamelessness. The group chat fell silent for a few seconds. Then, Karen immediately flared up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. Completely ignoring my evidence, she cleverly shifted the topic and launched into a personal attack. “What do you mean?! You’re taking pictures of me?! Recording me?! You’re a single man, always alone, so dark and gloomy – who knows what your intentions are! Are you trying to pull something on me?!” That accusation, a dirty, heavy weight, was flung at me. “The spot was empty anyway, I thought I was ‘warming it up’ for you, to keep the dust off. And you’re not happy about it? Seriously, I was doing you a favor, and you’re treating it like I just insulted your mother!” “Warming it up”? Her bizarre logic actually made me laugh, a bitter, humorless laugh. Just then, a new profile picture popped up. It was Karen’s husband, Chad. He sent a voice message to the group, his voice slurred with alcohol and an air of condescending arrogance. “Alex, is it? This is Chad, Karen’s husband. Young man, don’t be so petty. It’s just a parking spot, why make such a scene? Tell you what, I’ll PayPal you two hundred dollars for parking tomorrow, and we’ll call it even. No need to act like enemies when we see each other in the elevator.” Two hundred dollars. A pathetic handout. His tone, trying to buy my silence, disgusted me more than any direct insult. My fury, at that moment, ignited completely. I typed my reply, word for word. “First, this parking spot is my private property. Not for rent, not for sale. Second, please instruct your wife to move her car from my spot immediately. Third, if you want respect, earn it yourself. Don’t expect me to give it to you.” My reply was like a depth charge, blowing up the group chat. Chad probably hadn’t expected me to talk back so directly. He didn’t say another word. But Karen completely lost it. She unleashed a barrage of the most vile, venomous insults in the chat, flooding the screen. “You scumbag! Will guarding that pathetic parking spot make you rich or help you breed?!” “You ungrateful piece of trash! Who do you think you are?!” “I think you’re a pervert! You deserve to have no wife! You deserve to be single your whole life!” On the phone screen, those filthy words crawled up like maggots. The group chat was dead silent. No one came forward to “mediate” anymore. They were all silently lurking, enjoying the online lynching Karen was unilaterally performing. I watched the insults, not replying a single word. Because I knew, arguing with a madwoman was the most foolish thing in the world. I calmly exited the community SnapChat. Then, I opened my browser and, in the search bar, calmly typed three words. “Junk car.” What I wanted was never an argument or an explanation. What I wanted was for her, and for them, to truly, unequivocally, feel what despair tasted like. **[PAYWALL]** 0
The city sank into its deepest sleep at three AM. All was silent, save for a few lonely streetlights casting faint yellow glows on the wet asphalt. A massive tow truck, like a silent steel beast, glided quietly into our complex’s underground garage. Behind the tow truck, chained with thick iron, was a car. A Santana. A dilapidated Santana, its paint peeling, riddled with rust, missing even one of its rearview mirrors – a vehicle on the brink of being scrapped. I’d bought it for two thousand dollars from a junkyard owner. The owner had looked at me like I was insane. I took a day off work and personally handled the ownership transfer. Now, this rundown Santana was legally, completely, mine. I directed the tow truck driver to precisely position this junk car in my parking spot, B-77. Karen’s white BMW X5 still sat there like an arrogant princess, deep within my spot. And my Santana, like a loyal but ugly guard, was now squarely blocking her car’s front end. Bumper to bumper, with barely ten centimeters separating them. This distance made it absolutely impossible for her to drive out. After completing the task, the tow truck driver gave me a complex look, a mix of curiosity and pity. Then he drove his empty truck, disappearing into the darkness. The garage returned to its dead silence. Only me and my two cars remained. I walked to my own car, opened the trunk. Inside, everything I had prepared lay quietly. A small, yet powerful inverter welding machine. Several steel plates, over a centimeter thick. A bundle of sturdy angle irons. And my complete protective gear – a welding mask, gloves, fire-resistant suit. On the surface, I was a mechanical structural engineer, spending my days drafting designs, living a nine-to-five life. But few knew that modifying machinery and metal welding were my true passions. In college, I was the champion of the school’s welding competition. I elegantly donned my protective suit, put on the thick gloves. Finally, I lowered the black welding mask. *Bzzzzz—* The welding machine hummed, a low thrumming sound that echoed distinctly in the cavernous garage. I pulled out the welding torch, clamped on a welding rod. *Sizzle—* A blinding blue arc instantly cut through the darkness, illuminating everything around it like broad daylight. Sparks flew, like a grand, silent fireworks display. I securely welded the first steel plate between the junk Santana’s chassis and the ground. The weld seam was even, dense, and solid. I wasn’t just welding it on. I was meticulously designing every weld point, every connecting structure, using my professional expertise. With angle irons and steel plates, I permanently fused the Santana’s four wheel hubs to the concrete floor of the parking spot. This was a masterpiece. A masterpiece born of cold fury and absolute rationality. Unless they used an industrial-grade plasma cutter, or literally tore up this section of the garage floor, This car would stand here forever. Like a monument. A monument to Karen’s arrogance and my rage. At five AM, I finished all my work. I took off my protective gear and packed away my tools. Like an engineer who’d just finished a complex machine, I surveyed my masterpiece with satisfaction. The old Santana, under the dim lights, looked so ugly, yet so indestructible. I went home, took a shower, and even had the presence of mind to brew myself a cup of coffee. At precisely seven-thirty AM, my phone rang. It was Karen. The moment I answered, her voice, distorted with rage, pierced my eardrums. “Alex! You psychopath! You lunatic! What did you do to my car!” I held the phone away from my ear, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain. Down below, at the garage entrance, Karen was wearing her pajamas, her hair disheveled. She was pointing at my window, bouncing up and down like a madwoman. I took a sip of my coffee, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “Ms. Smith, please mind your language. That Santana, it’s my car.” “Parked in my parking spot, which I own.” “Is there a problem?” She was so choked up she couldn’t speak for a moment, only managing incoherent “you-you-you” sounds. A few seconds later, she found a new threat. “I’m calling the police! I’m going to have them arrest you!” “Welcome.” I said blandly. “It’ll be good for the officers to come and judge for themselves, to see why your BMW is in my private, deeded parking spot.” “And while they’re at it, they can admire my newly acquired Santana.” With that, I hung up. I watched her frantic, almost broken figure below, a cold, thin smile playing on my lips. Don’t rush. The game has just begun. 0
Karen did call the police, of course. Less than half an hour later, a patrol car, lights flashing, pulled up to the complex entrance. Two police officers, led by Mr. Henderson, came down to the garage. The garage was already crowded with early-morning commuters, all buzzing about the welded-down Santana and the trapped BMW. I walked down calmly, dressed in a neat shirt and slacks, holding a file folder. The moment Karen saw me, she lunged forward like a madwoman. “Officers! It’s him! This lunatic blocked my car! Arrest him!” I stepped aside, easily evading her. The lead officer looked at me, then at the solidly welded Santana, his brow furrowed. “Did you do this?” he asked. “Yes, Officer.” I opened my file folder and handed him my ID, my parking spot deed, and the Santana’s registration and transfer documents, one by one. “This Santana is my legal property. This parking spot is also my legal property. I am parking my own car in my own space. This is not illegal.” The officer meticulously verified the documents, then walked to the car, tapping the welded steel plates with his hand, producing a dull metallic thud. He turned back to Karen’s BMW. “Ma’am, why is your car parked in someone else’s deeded parking spot?” Karen’s face cycled through shades of red and white as she stammered: “I… I was just parking temporarily…” “Temporarily parking?” I scoffed, pulled out my phone, and played the voice recording of her insulting me in the community group chat. “You cheapskate! Will guarding that pathetic parking spot make you rich?! You deserve to be single your whole life!” Karen’s venomous voice echoed in the garage, and the onlookers let out a suppressed gasp. The officers’ expressions grew serious. Finally, the lead officer handed me back my documents and said to Karen: “Ma’am, we’ve verified that this is indeed Mr. Smith’s private parking spot. Your vehicle was illegally occupying his private space first. As for him using his other vehicle to block yours, this falls under a civil dispute.” “The police cannot forcibly intervene. We recommend that both parties resolve this through negotiation or legal channels.” With that, they packed up and left. Karen collapsed onto the ground, unable to believe the outcome. Mr. Henderson sidled up to me again, sweating profusely as he tried to persuade me: “Alex, Alex, look at the mess this has become… How about you be the bigger person this time, move your car first, and everyone can talk it over peacefully? For the sake of harmony, for the sake of harmony…” I pulled another printout from my file folder and handed it to him. It was a screenshot of all Karen’s insulting remarks in the community group chat, each sentence highlighted in red. “Mr. Henderson, is this also ‘for the sake of harmony’?” Mr. Henderson stared at the offensive words, instantly speechless, his face twisted like he’d swallowed a fly. My “glorious deed” spread throughout the entire complex within a day. The community SnapChat completely exploded. Some cursed me for being too extreme, inhuman. Others anonymously posted, saying that this was exactly the kind of drastic measure needed to deal with parking invaders, secretly cheering me on. I became the complex’s headline news, branded as a “ruthless one.” Chad, Karen’s husband, seeing that neither the police nor property management could do anything, finally took matters into his own hands. He started pulling his “connections.” The next day, people from the Fire Department showed up. Their reason was that my junk car was blocking a fire lane and posed a safety hazard. I pulled out the garage’s blueprint, pointed to my parking spot, and calmly told them: “This is a deeded parking spot, not a fire lane. The blueprint clearly shows it. My car is parked in my spot, not occupying any public area.” The Fire Department personnel looked at the blueprint, then at the scene, and, with nothing to say, left. On the third day, City Bylaw Officers arrived. Their reason was that my junk car was an “illegal structure” and an eyesore. I presented a printout of property law, reading it aloud to them clause by clause. “According to Property Law, Article 74, the ownership of parking spaces and garages within a building area, designated for parking, shall be agreed upon by the parties through sale,赠送 (donation), or lease. I own the deed to this parking space, meaning I have the right to use and control it. I am placing my private property on my private deeded property. This is entirely legal.” The officers exchanged glances and eventually left, helpless. Chad, realizing brute force wasn’t working, tried a softer approach. Or rather, another form of threat. On the fourth day, I received a legal notice. It was from a locally recognized law firm. The letter righteously demanded that I immediately remove the “obstacle” blocking parking spot B-77, restoring access for Karen’s vehicle. It also demanded compensation for mental distress, lost wages, and vehicle depreciation incurred by them, totaling one hundred thousand dollars. Otherwise, they would initiate a lawsuit against me. I sat in my study, holding the sternly worded legal notice, carefully examining it page by page. Just then, the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw an unfamiliar man standing at the door. He was in his thirties, wearing a well-fitted suit and wire-rimmed glasses, looking refined and scholarly. I opened the door. “Hello, Alex Smith.” The man smiled and extended his hand. “My name is David Chen. I live in the building across from yours. I’m a lawyer.” I was a bit surprised but shook his hand. “Hello, David.” David’s gaze fell on the legal notice in my hand, and he chuckled. “Here about this?” I nodded. He pushed his glasses up, a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Dude, what you did is brilliant! I’ve been annoyed with their family for ages, always causing trouble in the complex.” “Can I take a look at that legal notice? I can give you some advice.” I invited him in. He took the legal notice, glanced at it, and snorted. “Full of holes, purely trying to scare you.” He pointed to the clauses, analyzing them for me one by one. “Look, they’re suing you for infringement, but that assumes your actions are illegal. However, parking your car in your own deeded spot is perfectly legal. In fact, they’ve been illegally occupying your spot for a long time, which constitutes infringement on *your* part. He’s just trying to turn the tables and play the victim.” “And this ’emotional distress’ claim is complete nonsense. You could easily countersue them for trespass and defamation.” David’s words opened up a whole new world of possibilities for me. He put down the legal notice, leaned slightly forward, and lowered his voice. “Let me tell you something else, an insider tip. Chad’s small company seems to be having serious cash flow problems lately, looking for money everywhere. His current arrogance, to me, is mostly an act, trying to intimidate you into backing down.” An alliance against them, at this moment, began to form. I looked at this sudden, unexpected ally before me, and the heavy stone that had been weighing down my heart for days, finally eased a little.
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