It wasn’t long before it happened. Through the crowd of partygoers, I saw Derek approach the box. He looked around suspiciously before crouching down to inspect it. I held my breath, anticipation coursing through me as he lifted the lid.

His scream pierced the night, loud enough to cut through the chatter and music. “OH GOD—WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” he yelled, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. The tarantula catapulted out of the box, its lifelike legs flailing. The guests, initially shocked, burst into laughter as Derek tried to regain his composure.

I watched from my window, a satisfied grin on my face. It was a harmless joke, but one that had certainly made its point. Derek now knew that actions have consequences and that his thoughtless act had been answered with a dose of his own medicine.

As the night wore on, Derek’s party continued, but the story of the “box incident” spread quickly. By the end of the night, it became clear that Derek’s reputation as the neighborhood prankster had taken a hit, and perhaps he’d think twice before egging anyone else’s car.

The next morning, as I cleaned the remnants of the eggs from my car, I noticed Derek watching me from his window. He didn’t say anything, but the sheepish look on his face said it all. We never spoke of the incident again, but a silent understanding hung in the air—a truce born from a mutual respect for the art of the prank.