Trust-Fund-Brat Turned Vigilant Vandal

The following true crime story is based on actual events, but the names, dates, locations, and circumstances have been altered to preserve the identities of the idiot(s) involved.

We all have a friend like Trevor: a pure energy guy with an inability to say the word “no,” capable of being both loved and hated, but respected nonetheless. Trevor was a 5th year, who was wrapping up his prolonged business management degree at the University of Oregon. Thanks to the hard work and the immense financial success of his father, Trevor grew up wealthy and quite frankly just had to not fuck up for his life to be successful. Unfortunately for Trevor, he was often the victim of his own impulsive and irrational decisions. His rationale was so weak, he made Dennis Rodman look like a Financial Advisor. He was an airhead of all airheads, who believed drinks at a country club were free, and can’t see that a line was crossed until he’s already been bailed out of jail.

While he was able to delay Judgement Day his entire life, the ground beneath his feet was shrinking quickly. He accelerated this process one day after he decided to run a bath for himself following an 8 hour drinking bender, fell asleep on the toilet, and then proceeded to flood his entire annex house. $10,000 worth of repairs later, Trevor’s father declared that Trevor had one strike left.

After that… Good night Jim Kyte.

No more allowances, no more bailouts, and the business empire that his father had spent his life building and preserving for Trevor would be handed down to someone else. Trevor understood the terms, the two shook hands, and his dad flew back home, believing that his son’s days of being a moronic yes-man were behind him.

Our story starts less than a week later, where Trevor took his buddy, Dylan, and Dylan’s girlfriend, Sarah, out for a joy ride. Trevor’s car was his father’s 1965 all black Shelby. It was the same car his father drove in college when he was Trevor’s age. While Trevor’s father claims he bought it at an antique car dealership, legend says that Trevor’s father won the car off of Deion Sanders at a Vegas poker table. Another legend says that Trevor’s father once evaded a squad of police cars and then later that night conceived Trevor in the backseat of that car with his eventual mother. Whatever tales these legends tell, Trevor’s very possession of the car embodied his father’s last line of trust in his son to not fuck up. But God forbid, if anything should happen to that car, Trevor would be locked in a cage and tossed off a boat into the Pacific, never to be heard from again. Not to mention, he would have swung and missed on his last strike. 

Upon the return home from the joy ride, Trevor was dared into doing donuts in his street, outside of his house. Without question or resistance, Trevor accepted the challenge. Being that he was not a drag racer, nor has ever had any driving experience other than simply going forwards and backwards, it wasn’t long before Trevor uncontrollably smacked his car into the street’s stop sign, crushing the front bumper and absolutely obliterating the windshield. He didn’t even have to get out of the car to know that his life was finished. His existence would be nothing but a fun memory and his future was as dead as dirt.

While his passengers were unharmed, their faces were consumed with sadness and worry, as they too knew the implications of the car crash. Trevor remained frozen and silent, imagining the horrifying sounds his father would make over the phone upon hearing the news. He couldn’t imagine it, because he wasn’t going to tell him. But he couldn’t afford to fix the damage himself. He also didn’t have the personal financial standing to ask his friends for a loan either, as his word was as worthy as a peanut. At this point, his only options were either ditching the car and saying it was stolen, or escaping with the damaged car off to Mexico, but neither was promising enough to pursue. Either way, he would quickly meet his demise. Dylan, being an optimistic energy guy himself, tried to cheer him up by saying, “At least no one got hurt. Imagine if you accidentally hit one of these houses, that could have caused some serious damage… and legal trouble.” 


At this moment, Trevor’s eyes widened and his posture stiffened as he discovered a third option. Without telling his friends what his plans were, he drove them back to their houses to drop them off. As they were exiting his car, he turned to face them, looked them both in the eyes, and said, “What I’m about to do will either save my skin or further cement my fate as a dead man. No matter what happens, just know that I had fun today, and that it was worth it. Now, never speak of this day… or any of the days that might follow. I wasn’t here. I was out of town this weekend, camping deep in the woods.’” Dylan and Sarah both nodded and seconds later, Trevor sped off, burning rubber as he drove out of sight.

The following day, Dylan and Sarah were walking through the college neighborhood on their way to breakfast. Their delightful morning walk was halted after they turned a corner to see a blockade of police cars and a neighborhood road closure. The homeowners were peppered all over the place talking to one another, out on their yards and in the street. As Dylan and Sarah came closer to the blockade, they then saw that an entire line of houses were completely damaged. Every house had shattered windows, ruptured foundations, torn up grass and broken tree branches in their yards, among countless other weird and obscure damages. It looked like an F-5 tornado came and lit up the entire street.

Dylan approached a police officer and asked him what happened. The officer said, “We’re not exactly sure, but we think that a vandal came and beat all of these houses to hell, starting at that house way down there and then finishing up right here.”

Dylan and Sarah both gasped. Sarah then asked, “Who would do such a thing?”

The Officer shook his head before saying, “Hard to tell. It could be school rivalry related or it’s just the work of some nut. A damn shame though. He made sure he got the cars too. Including that one. You can even see that the bastard left his tools of destruction behind,” he said, before pointing at a parked car on the side of the street. It was a smashed 1965 all black Shelby that had a rusty sledgehammer leaning up against it.

Sarah covered her mouth in shock while Dylan just stared at the car. For many seconds, he didn’t move a muscle. He finally looked down at his feet and then chucked slightly. It was Trevor’s car. “Who’s gonna pay for all of this?” Dylan asked, still looking down, trying hard not to smile. The officer then replied, “Again, that I’m not sure of. Although, I can tell you one thing, it won’t be the car and homeowners. They didn’t ask for this. Insurance will take care of it.” 

The officer was right. Trevor’s car and the other houses were paid for and taken care of by insurance companies. But as far as the vandalism case goes, the police never found their guy. Was he working alone? Was this the mistake of a drunk college student…or the work of a violent vigilante? Are there more of them?

These are questions that still haven’t been answered, as the police have yet to find this mysterious vandal. For all we know, he’s still out there.

Written by Henry Marken

I lost my pinky finger at age 4, but then found it again at a soup kitchen when I was 15. Survivor of a wild turkey attack (2008). I went to the University of Phoenix before it was cool to do college online. Currently in a lawsuit with Crayola after a devastating purple crayon incident.

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