Chapter 2: The Price of Pettiness

Chapter 2: The Price of Pettiness

The drive to the hardware store was a silent, simmering affair. Jake’s hands gripped the steering wheel of his Ford F-150, his knuckles white. Beside him, Boris stared out the passenger window, a silent testament to a friendship that didn't require empty chatter to fill the space. The brilliant morning, once full of promise, was now tainted, soured by the greasy black smoke that still seemed to hang in the air.

“They’re not just thieves,” Jake finally said, his voice a low growl that barely disturbed the quiet hum of the engine. “They’re idiots. Poisoning their car with two-stroke mix. What kind of moron does that?”

“The kind who has never worked a day in his life for anything he owns,” Boris answered, his tone grim. “To them, that car, your gas… it’s all just stuff that appears. They don’t understand the cost.”

Jake grunted in agreement. He understood cost. He understood it in the ache of his back after a long day of landscaping, in the grease permanently etched into the lines of his palms, in the mortgage payment that left his account every month like clockwork. Cost was the foundation of his world.

At ‘Builder’s Depot’, the fluorescent lights seemed unnaturally harsh. Jake moved with a clipped, angry efficiency, striding down the aisle of lawn and garden supplies. He grabbed two red five-gallon gas cans and one smaller one, identical to the set that had been stolen. The plastic felt cheap and hollow compared to his old, trusted ones. He added them to his cart with a thud that echoed his frustration.

At the checkout, the total came to forty-two dollars and fifty cents. He paid with a crisp fifty-dollar bill and took the change without a word. Then it was on to the gas station, where he filled the new containers. The pump clicked past thirty, then thirty-five dollars. By the time he screwed the final cap on, eighty dollars of his hard-earned money and nearly an hour of his valuable Saturday had been vaporized. Gone, all to replace what had been casually lifted from his garage.

The price of their pettiness.

As he loaded the gleaming new cans into the bed of his truck, the anger that had been a hot, roaring fire began to cool, hardening into something denser, heavier. It settled deep in his gut, a cold, solid knot of resolve. This wasn't just about eighty bucks anymore. It was about the principle. It was about the smug, insolent wave from Billy as they’d driven by, a gesture that said, We took your stuff, and what are you going to do about it?

The drive home was just as quiet, but the silence had changed. It was no longer simmering; it was calculating.

They pulled back into Jake’s driveway just as the sputtering cough of the Chevy Cavalier announced its return. Jake killed the engine of his truck and sat, motionless, watching. The rust-bucket pulled up across the street, idling noisily. Randy was in the driver's seat this time, his wiry frame hunched over the wheel. Billy was riding shotgun, his arm hanging out the window, thumping a beat against the door in time with the obnoxiously loud rap music bleeding from the car’s blown-out speakers.

They saw him. There was no doubt. Randy’s shifty eyes met Jake’s through the windshield, and a slow, greasy smirk spread across his face. He revved the engine, sending a fresh plume of thick, oily smoke into the air, a deliberate and defiant middle finger.

That was the moment the last of Jake’s restraint evaporated. It wasn't just theft. It wasn't just disrespect. This was gloating. They were flaunting their crime right in his face, daring him to react.

“The nerve on those two,” Boris muttered, his voice tight with disbelief. “They’re mocking you.”

“I know,” Jake said, his own voice unnervingly calm. He watched as the Cavalier, having made its point, finally lurched into its parking spot. The music cut out, and the two cousins tumbled out of the car, laughing about something.

They had sealed their own fate. The vague idea of teaching them a lesson was no longer enough. They needed more than a talking-to. They needed an education. A slow, painful, and expensive one.

Jake and Boris unloaded the new gas cans, the project with the wood chipper now feeling like a distant memory. The day's energy had been redirected. As Boris was about to head back to his own yard, Jake’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen: Sarah.

He braced himself and answered. “Hey, honey.”

“Hi, babe. How’s the big cleanup going?” Sarah’s voice was warm and cheerful, a stark contrast to the cold fury solidifying in his chest.

“Little bit of a late start,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Had to make a run to the store.”

“Oh? Well, listen, I know you’re busy, but Grandma just called. She’s having everyone over for a last-minute potluck dinner tonight. My aunt and uncle are in town unexpectedly. She really wants us to be there.”

Jake’s mind raced. A family dinner. With them. His first instinct was to refuse, to make an excuse. But then, an image flashed in his mind: his old gas can, the five-gallon one, with the distinctive splatter of blue paint on its side from when he’d repainted the shed door last spring. If they were as stupid as he thought they were, it might just be sitting in their trunk. He needed to be sure. He needed to see it.

“Jake? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking,” he said, his voice smooth as glass. “What time?”

“Around six. And please,” she added, her voice dropping into a gentle, pleading tone he knew all too well, “Randy and Billy will be there. Just… try to be nice. For me?”

The irony was so thick he could taste it. “Of course, honey,” he lied. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He hung up the phone and looked at the three pristine, red plastic cans sitting on his garage floor. They looked alien, intrusive. Then his gaze drifted over to a shelf in the corner, a dark, dusty collection of half-used containers: a can of waste oil from his last oil change, a jug with a gallon of old diesel fuel left over from a tractor project, a bottle of brake fluid.

An idea began to form, a beautiful and terrible piece of mechanical malevolence. They wanted his gas? Fine. He would give them gas. He would prepare a special blend, a custom brew just for them. An alchemist’s cocktail designed not for combustion, but for destruction.

He wouldn’t confront them. He wouldn’t yell or make threats. He would simply set a trap and let their own greed and stupidity do the rest. The game wasn’t about shouting matches or fistfights. It was about patience, precision, and the sweet, symphony of a perfectly executed plan. The family dinner, he realized, wasn't an obligation. It was an opportunity. Step one: reconnaissance.