I never really minded living next door to grumpy people. Everyone has their moods. But Mr. Holloway—our next-door neighbor—was something else entirely.

He made it his hobby to insult my family. If my mom planted flowers in the front yard, he’d mutter loud enough for us to hear: *“Trashy colors, looks like a circus.”* When my dad washed his old pickup, Holloway would snort: *“Scrubbing rust doesn’t make it new.”* Even my little sister wasn’t safe. Once, when she rode her bike past his driveway, he called out, *“Try not to break the pavement, chubby.”*

I tried to ignore him at first, but it started eating at me. One night at dinner I said, “Why don’t we say something back? We can’t just let him talk about us like that.”

Dad just shook his head. “Some people feed on reactions. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

But I couldn’t let it go.

The opportunity for revenge came by accident. One Saturday morning, I heard Holloway cursing in his yard. He was wrestling with a massive grill—shiny, expensive, probably the thing he bragged about the most. I poked my head over the fence.

“You need a hand?” I asked, all sweetness.

He sneered. “What would *you* know about this? Your family can’t even manage their own junk.”

I bit my tongue, smiled, and walked back inside.

That afternoon, Mom reminded me: “We still have that community block party coming up. Everyone brings food. Holloway will be there too.”

That’s when it hit me—the perfect plan.

The night of the block party, I showed up early with a tray of ribs I’d helped Dad make. Everyone gathered around to eat. Holloway strutted in late, dragging his prized grill behind him, and loudly announced, *“Time to show you amateurs how real barbecue is done!”*

He fired it up, but something was off. The flame shot too high, sputtered, and then fizzled out completely. He tried again—same result. People started laughing.

He turned red. “What the hell…?”

I leaned casually against the picnic table. “Oh, Mr. Holloway,” I said, loud enough for the crowd, “I couldn’t help but notice last weekend that you left your propane valve cracked open. Maybe the tank’s empty? I figured you’d know better, being such an *expert*.”

The laughter doubled. Holloway glared at me, but it was too late—the neighborhood had seen his big moment collapse. Meanwhile, my dad’s ribs disappeared in minutes, and everyone kept complimenting *our* cooking.

Later, as I carried plates back inside, Holloway hissed, “You little punk. You embarrassed me.”

I smiled, meeting his eyes. “No, Mr. Holloway. You embarrassed yourself. I just pointed it out.”

And for the first time since we’d lived there, he had no comeback.

That night at dinner, my sister asked, “So… did we finally get the last word?”

Dad raised an eyebrow at me. I just grinned. “Oh yeah. The ultimate revenge is letting someone prove themselves wrong in front of everyone.”