Arma's Favorite Siblings

Continuation of The Day the Wi-Fi Betrayed Me from Traci's point of view.

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I broke away from the hug first, feeling like if I stayed wrapped up in it any longer, I might actually cry, and that was not happening. Not today. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked toward the front window, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. I stared across the street at Rick's house, my jaw clenching so hard it could crack concrete. The stupid truck in his driveway, the one that had been parked there every damn day for years, suddenly looked offensive. I imagined it bursting into flames, or at the very least, getting hit by a freak hailstorm targeted at just his windshield. That would be satisfying.

Behind me, the room had gone quiet. Too quiet. I could feel my dad's eyes on me, along with Francis and Beth, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Finally, Dad sighed, and I heard him shift on the couch. "Alright, Traci. What are you thinking?" His voice was measured, but I knew that tone--the 'don't do anything stupid' tone.

I turned my head just slightly, my eyes still locked on the House of Betrayal across the street. "I'm just wondering," I said, keeping my voice casual, "how hard it would be to get my hands on industrial-strength superglue."

Beth let out a choked laugh, while Francis groaned. "Oh God, she's gone full vengeance mode."

Dad rubbed a hand down his face. "Traci, I need you to take a breath and not--"

"Not what?" I interrupted, finally spinning around to face him. "Not take action? Not do what needs to be done?" I threw my hands up. "You're telling me we're just gonna let this slide? Just let Mom get away with it?"

Beth, still sitting on the couch, reached out and grabbed my arm. "It's over, Traci," she said, her voice calm but firm. "Mom's gone. It's best to just accept the inevitable."

I scoffed, but before I could argue, I caught something that made me pause. Dad wasn't arguing with me. He wasn't telling me I was wrong. He wasn't defending her. He was just watching me, like he understood.

That realization sucked the fire out of me a little. My dad had always been solid, the kind of guy who held the line even when things got messy. But now? He looked exhausted. Worn out. And if he, of all people, was letting this go...

I exhaled, shaking my head. "This isn't fair," I muttered.

"No, it's not," Dad agreed. "But fairness has nothing to do with it."

I crossed my arms, biting the inside of my cheek. Then, after a moment, I huffed out a breath. "Fine." I glanced back at Rick's house one more time, then sighed. "But if his truck mysteriously stops working next week, I know nothing."

Dad groaned. Beth laughed. Francis muttered something about plausible deniability.

And just like that, the Parker house felt a little more like home again.

Later that night, I found myself back at the window, arms crossed, eyes locked on Rick's house like I was waiting for a sign from the universe that karma was about to handle things for me. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. The man was still standing, his truck was still in one piece, and worst of all, he was probably sleeping just fine, while my family was left trying to pick up the wreckage. The unfairness of it all sat like a rock in my chest.

I heard footsteps behind me, then the sound of Francis plopping down on the couch. "Okay," he said, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'll bite. What's the plan, Traci?"

I glanced at him, then turned back to the window. "Dad needs to focus on dealing with Mom and the divorce. That's where his head has to be. We, however..." I let the words hang in the air before turning to look at him fully. "We need to handle Rick. It has to hurt, but we can't wreck our own lives in the process."

Francis let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, first rule of engagement? We are not to touch Mom." His voice was firm, absolute. "I don't care what case of the stupids she caught, she's still our mother. That is not negotiable."

I clenched my jaw, staring at him for a long moment. Did I like it? No. Did I want to see her suffer? Absolutely. But deep down, I knew he was right. After a beat, I exhaled sharply. "Fine," I muttered, crossing my arms. "But whatever we do, it needs to happen before I go back to New York and before you start at UNC in the fall."

Francis smirked. "Oh, so we're working on a tight deadline, huh?"

I cracked a grin. "We work best under pressure."

His smirk grew, and just like that, our mission was set.

"We're heading out to grab food," I announced as Francis and I stood by the door, keys in hand. "Since, you know, Mom was the only one who could cook without burning the house down."

Dad didn't even try to argue. He just waved us off from his seat on the couch. "Fine by me. I'd rather not commit accidental manslaughter in the kitchen."

Beth, however, wasn't so easily convinced. She crossed her arms, looking between Dad and us. "I don't know... maybe we should just order something. I don't really like the idea of leaving Dad home alone right now."

Francis slung an arm around her shoulder and gave her a reassuring shake. "Come on, Beth. You need to get out of the house for a bit. It'll be good for you. And let's be real, Dad's just going to sit there watching old action movies and pretending he's fine."

Beth hesitated but sighed in defeat. "Fine," she muttered, grabbing her phone as she followed us out the door.

As we drove down the road, Beth, ever the sharp one, narrowed her eyes. "Okay... this isn't just about food, is it?"

Francis and I exchanged a knowing glance.

"Not exactly," I admitted, smirking.

Beth sat up straighter. "Oh my God, are we getting revenge on Rick?"

I grinned. "Welcome to the mission, kid."

Beth's expression lit up like a Christmas tree. "Hell. Yes."

We pulled into a parking lot, somewhere we wouldn't be disturbed, and turned off the car. "Alright," Francis said, cracking his knuckles. "We need something epic--something that'll ruin his day, but not ruin our lives."

Beth's eyes gleamed with pure mischief. "Let's make this legendary."

We sat in the parked car, the war council assembled, ready to plan our campaign of revenge against Rick. The rules were simple: maximum psychological damage, zero legal consequences. It had to be clever, brutal, and ongoing--a slow-burn torment that would make his life just inconvenient enough to drive him insane. And most importantly, no exposing Mom. That part was crucial. We weren't about to make Dad look like a fool to the world.

Beth leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Okay, first off--sugar in the gas tank?"

Francis immediately shook his head. "Too destructive. That's straight-up felony-level vandalism. We're not trying to go to jail, Beth."

Beth huffed. "Fine. What about stealing his truck keys and mailing them to Alaska?"

I grinned. "Now that's the kind of creative thinking I like."

Francis smirked. "Okay, but let's think bigger. What if we hit him with a series of weird, unexplainable incidents? Not one thing--a bunch of things. Different enough that he never knows where it's coming from, but consistent enough that he starts to lose his damn mind."

Beth nodded excitedly. "Like, mess with his deliveries. I can sign him up for every free sample and subscription box on the planet. Imagine him coming home to a pile of weird, random crap every day."

"Ooh, yes," I said, feeling the evil genius energy flowing. "And let's mess with his house. Nothing too crazy--just small inconveniences. What if we loosened his showerhead just enough so it sprays all over the bathroom? Or--better yet--flip his doorknob around so it locks from the outside?"

Francis laughed. "Damn. That's diabolical. I love it."

Beth was grinning now, fully on board. "Or, hear me out--crickets."

Francis and I looked at her.

Beth shrugged. "You can buy live crickets online. Like, a lot of them. Imagine him lying in bed at night, and all he hears is chirping. Constant, endless chirping."

I stared at her, stunned. "Beth... I underestimated you."

Francis nodded, impressed. "Okay, this is the plan. We hit him from all angles. Just enough to make his life miserable, but never enough that he can prove it's us."

I smirked, feeling victorious already. "Let the games begin."

The next morning, Operation Rick's Slow Descent into Madness was officially underway. We huddled around the kitchen table, laptops and phones out, each of us dedicated to our assigned tasks. The first phase? Bury him in unsolicited junk. Beth, resident internet gremlin, took the lead on signing Rick up for every free sample, mailing list, and promotional offer she could find. Within minutes, she had him subscribed to newsletters for cat food, adult diapers, and a weekly pamphlet about maintaining strong, healthy hooves for your livestock.

"Alright," Beth muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard, "he's now the proud recipient of a personalized senior citizens' guide to intimacy, a monthly cheese club membership, and--oh, this one's great--a 'New Baby Starter Kit.'" She smirked. "Congratulations, Rick. It's a boy."

Francis, meanwhile, handled the deliveries. He found every weird, mildly concerning subscription box service known to man--essential oils for your aura, unmarked international snacks, a weekly tarot reading kit. "I just pre-ordered an entire box of clown noses for him," he said, biting into his toast. "No context. Just clown noses."

I leaned back, smirking. "That's good. But we need something that keeps hitting him, day after day." I tapped my phone. "I ordered fifty address-change forms from the post office. If we fill those out every few days and mail them in, his bills and packages are gonna get rerouted all over town."

Beth whistled. "Damn. That's evil."

Francis nodded approvingly. "Alright, phase one is locked in." He shut his laptop, stretching. "Next up? Small, annoying house problems."

I grinned. We were just getting started.

Two weeks into Operation Rick's Breakdown, the first phase of our plan started paying off. From our perch in the living room, we had a front-row seat to Rick's daily battle with his mailbox. Our security camera feed showed him yanking open the box, only for a tidal wave of unsolicited mail to pour out like he had just opened Pandora's Junk Mail. His face was priceless--pure confusion, mild panic, and growing frustration as he sifted through brochures for retirement homes, baby formula samples, and a coupon book for bulk adult diapers.

Beth snorted into her soda. "Oh my God, look at him. He looks like he's questioning every life decision that led him here."

Francis leaned forward, grinning. "We should ratchet it up. He's irritated, but we need to get him to the point where he starts actively losing his mind."

I smirked. "Agreed. What's next?"

Francis cracked his knuckles, grabbed his laptop, and started typing with the confidence of a man about to commit legal yet morally questionable genius. "I'm drafting a fake HOA letter."

Beth's eyes widened. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Francis grinned, reading aloud as he typed:

"Dear Resident, all homes must now be painted neon green to comply with our 'Vibrant Community' initiative. Please submit proof of compliance by next Tuesday to avoid penalties."

I nearly choked on my drink. "Oh, that's evil."

Francis shrugged. "Rick doesn't come across as particularly smart. He's either too lazy or too stupid to actually check with the HOA, and let's be real--he'll probably just do it."

Beth clapped her hands together. "I love it. Also, I found something." She pulled up her phone. "I'm ordering a wireless speaker--we can hide it near his bedroom window and play random creepy sounds at night. Just... little things to make him paranoid."

I grinned as I looked between the two of them. We were absolute menaces.

"Do it," I said.

And just like that, Phase Two began.

A few days later, we gathered around the security camera feed, snacks in hand, ready to witness the fruits of our labor. And boy, did it deliver. Rick, who had apparently taken a few days off work, was outside in broad daylight, painting his house--and not just any color. Neon. Freaking. Green. It was blinding, an absolute eyesore, the kind of color that made you wonder if the sun itself was offended.

Beth covered her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my God, he actually did it."

Francis laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach. "Holy crap, I didn't think he'd fall for it this fast!"

But then, things got even better.

A real HOA rep happened to be driving by--an older guy in a button-up who, judging by his face, was deeply, personally offended by the assault on neighborhood aesthetics. He parked, got out of his car, and approached Rick. We couldn't hear what was being said, but it was clear the HOA guy was not pleased. Rick, already sweaty and irritated, gestured wildly with his paint roller, his face red and aggressively stupid.

"Uh-oh," I muttered. "This is escalating."

Then, it happened.

Rick shoved the HOA rep to the ground. The guy scrambled away like he had just been shoved by a rabid gorilla in cargo shorts. Rick, still fuming, stormed back to his half-painted house and went right back to work, as if assaulting an HOA official was just part of his afternoon routine.

We sat in stunned silence.

Then Francis, deadpan, took a sip of his drink and said, "Dude should've cracked open a book instead of protein powder."

Beth lost it. I was crying with laughter.

Rick had officially out-dumbed himself.

Dinner had barely started when the shouting began. One minute, we were eating in relative peace--or as peaceful as dinner gets in our house--and the next, we heard angry yelling from outside. Forks clattered onto plates as we all scrambled toward the front window like nosy neighbors watching reality TV unfold in real time.

Rick was out in his yard, absolutely losing it at a pair of police officers standing on his lawn. His face was redder than a stop sign, his arms flailing as he pointed toward his half-painted neon green house like it was some kind of legal defense.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," Beth muttered as she pulled out her phone and quickly hit record on the security camera feed.

A third cop car pulled up, and another officer stepped out, clearly there to handle business. The moment the second cop tried to put Rick in handcuffs, he snapped. He yanked his arm away, puffed up his chest, and started resisting. Not in a "I demand to speak to your supervisor" kind of way, but in a "this is about to go on YouTube" kind of way.

"Oh, he's actually fighting them," Francis muttered, grinning.

"He's gonna get tazed," I predicted, taking a bite of my dinner.

Rick's shouting turned into grunts of struggle, and sure enough--one of the cops pulled out a taser. Within seconds, there was a loud crackling sound, followed by Rick going stiff as a board before collapsing onto his lawn like a felled tree.

We erupted into laughter.

Even Dad, who had been walking around in a numb daze for weeks, barely speaking unless necessary, let out a deep, genuine laugh. It was the first time since everything with Mom went down that he actually seemed like himself.

Beth wiped away tears of laughter. "Holy crap, this is the best thing I've ever seen."

Francis nodded. "I don't think we even need to do anything else. Rick just self-destructed."

Later that night, after Dad had gone to bed, the three of us sat in the living room, still riding the high of watching Rick get himself tased into next week. The air was lighter than it had been in days, but we weren't done yet. Beth leaned back against the couch, grinning as she scrolled through her phone. "Alright, so just before we came back home, I placed the wireless speaker near Rick's bedroom window and set it to go off at 3 AM." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Let's see how he enjoys some random whispers in the night."

Francis snorted. "God, I love this family." He stretched, then smirked. "Since we're in maximum chaos mode, I went ahead and changed the Wi-Fi password--because, you know, Rick loves mooching off other people's networks."

Beth perked up. "Ohhh, what'd you change it to?"

Francis grinned. "New Wi-Fi name: 'Move Out Already, Rick.'"

We burst out laughing.

But as we sat there, basking in our masterpiece of petty revenge, the conversation took a turn. Francis shifted, his smile fading as he stared at his phone. "Alright, serious question," he said, voice somber. "What are we gonna do about Mom?"

That killed the mood fast.

Beth sighed. "She's been texting me nonstop. Pleading with me to just call her."

Francis nodded. "Same here. What about you, Traci?"

I shrugged. "I don't have any plans to reach out." My voice was flat, emotionless. "She broke Dad's heart. She broke our family. What's left to say?"

Francis sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't know... Dad seems sad."

I looked at him, shaking my head. "You've got it wrong, Francis. Dad's not sad."

Francis frowned. "Then what is he?"

I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. "He's angry."

Francis scoffed. "I don't know, Traci. He doesn't look angry--he just looks... numb."

Beth suddenly cut in. "Francis, let me ask you something. Have you ever seen Dad yell? Like, really yell? Ever seen him lose his temper?"

Francis blinked, thinking. "No," he admitted after a moment. "Never."

I nodded. "Exactly. He doesn't know how to vent his anger, so it just sits there. It doesn't come out in yelling, or smashing things--it just sinks into him, like a weight." I crossed my arms. "He's not walking around numb because he's broken. He's trying to figure out what the hell to do with all that rage."

Francis sat back, letting that sink in.

Beth exhaled. "Well, that's kinda terrifying."

I smirked. "Yup. And Mom has no idea what's coming."

Rick came stumbling home the next day, looking like jail had done him no favors. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. I was watching from the window--

because let's be real, at this point, keeping tabs on our favorite neighborhood idiot had become part of my daily routine. As he trudged up to his mailbox of doom, I couldn't help but grin.

The second he opened it, a tidal wave of junk mail came pouring out. Again. This time, Rick just stared at it, his shoulders slumping before he let it all fall to the ground like he had simply given up. He didn't even try to pick it up--he just walked to his door, looking dead inside.

Unfortunately for him, the next-door neighbor, who had been mowing his lawn, saw the whole thing. "Hey, man," the neighbor called out. "You can't just leave your mail all over the ground."

Rick, already on edge, snapped. "Mind your own damn business!" he barked before storming inside.

I smirked. Oh, buddy. It's only getting worse from here.

At exactly 3 AM, Beth's wireless speaker did its job. That night's sound? A chorus of barking dogs. Not loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, but just enough to hopefully jolt Rick awake in a panic. And if our security cameras were any indication, it worked.

This became a nightly tradition. Different noises. Same time. Some nights it was whispers. Other nights it was random static, eerie music, or even a low growling sound. And every night, like clockwork, Rick would stumble outside, looking for the source. But he never found it.

By the end of the week, Rick looked like he was one bad night away from a full mental breakdown. His eyes were sunken, his clothes disheveled, and he was jumping at shadows. He looked like a man on the verge of snapping.

Then, Monday morning rolled around.

I was casually enjoying my morning stakeout, sipping my coffee when I noticed a young blonde woman pull up in a black sedan. She stepped out, looking way too polished for this neighborhood--pencil skirt, blouse, the whole professional look.