I worked as a deckhand on a crab boat in Alaska for a few years and got a tale our two of revenge out of the experience.
Here's my favorite, let's call it:
The Cook, The Toothbrush and The Disposable Camera.
The boat I was on was a fisher/processor. We caught the crab and then processed it at sea so that we could spend more time on the fishing grounds without having to run back to town when the fishing went to 'scratch'. We might be out for two months or more at a time without a break and in situations like that little things can really get to you.
There was a core crew of eight: Five deckhands, one mate, one engineer and one captain. The rest of the crew were processors and mainly composed of migrant workers and college-aged kids whom, for whatever reason, weren't doing the college thing. The core crew worked 18-hour shifts seven days a week and it was extremely brutal and dangerous work. The processors worked 16. The cook worked 12.
Why did the cook work only twelve hours a day? Because it was a tradition and there was a good reason behind it. When you're working 18 hours a day and your slave driving captain only allows twenty-minutes for a meal, including the time it takes to get in and out of your gear, you want that meal to fucking shine.
You don't want your cook strung-out from overwork. You wanted to give him plenty of time to rest and cook you up some delicious goodness.
You want the serving ladle to dollop little mounds of heaven from the steam table.
You want transcendence to steam off your plate and bring tears to your eyes.
You want service with a smile.
And sometimes you want to eat when it's convenient to the crew.
And on this particular trip what did we get? A lazy, bad cook who threw a hissy fit if asked to prepare a meal early or refused to reheat a meal if we were late coming off the deck. The guy couldn't fry an egg. He didn't know what spices were. He was belligerent. He was anal-retentive. He was a nightmare. We got a total fucking asshole.
My shift was to wake at one p.m. and go to bed at seven a.m. Now remember I have been working 18 a day/seven a week for over a month and a half straight, scratching out the last of the season, when this happens.
It's 6 a.m. and we have run through our gear. We have a 20-mile 'run' to the other end of our gear before we start fishing again. Woo-hoo! I'm off an hour early and the guy that replaces gets to sleep an hour late! This is a major boon. So I come off the deck and the cook is up preparing for breakfast at 7 a.m. In the steam table is huge mound of mouth-watering bacon! I grab a couple slices of bread and head for the steam table hoping to get a quick snack before bed. In fact, I was planning on eating in my rack as I drifted to sleep. So I step up grab the tongs and... THWACKK! The fucking cook raps my hand with a cooking spoon and tells me no one eats till seven.
"Yeah, bullshit." I say.
He removes the tray of bacon from the steam table and takes it back into the pantry.
I'm dumbfounded. But at this point I'm still nice.
"Mike, come on, I got off early and I just want some bacon."
"There's cereal and toast and peanut butter and jelly for that." He says.
"But the deckhands pay $18.00 dollars a day for three meals. I've only had two. I want my $6.00 dollars worth of bacon." And this was true. The core crew pays a daily rate for food and a percentage of the fuel bill for each trip.
He still refuses.
I ignore him and head back into the pantry for the six-dollars worth of bacon I goddamned paid for.
He comes after me and tackles me and throws what can only be described as the largest, most shrieking, hissy fit I have ever seen. The guy is coming unglued, but I still want my bacon.
He hits me with two punches. Punches! Over bacon! Bacon I paid for no less!
But I didn't throw a punch back. I was furious but I didn't see the point. He kept throwing punches, and not that they didn't bother the hell out of me, but he was throwing wild, didn't have the reach to hit my head and wasn't that strong. I grabbed a handful of bacon, about ten slices, and ran back out into the galley.
I got some new bread, called the guy a fucking asshole and went up to my room to make my sandwich.
The cook has an assistant, we call him the galley bitch, and he rooms with the cook in a two-man stateroom. The assistant was on almost the same schedule as I was and was heading for the shower.
An Idea popped into my head.
I stopped the assistant, his name was Tommy and we called him Tommy-Gun for shits and giggles. He was a good guy and hated the cook more than anybody. He had to work and live with the asshole all day long.
I asked him to do me a favor and headed to his stateroom. Inside I asked him where the cook kept his disposable cameras. Everyone brought at least one and it was a long-running prank aboard the ship to sneak someone's disposable and take a picture of someone mooning the camera or the dick on the face when you're sleeping thing. But I had something better in mind.
I dropped my drawers, grabbed the cook's toothbrush and rammed it up my ass. I made sure to twist and turn it around real good. I made sure Tommy got a picture of it, on the cook's camera, actually going into my rectum. I took it out, got another shot of it for the camera (Yes, there was butt-stuff on it), cleaned it off a little, but not too much, and placed it back in its holder.
Then I went to my room and made my bacon sandwich, thinking about that guy unsuspectingly brushing his teeth for the next few months with a toothbrush that had been up my asshole, kinda lost my appetite, started to drift to sleep and wished to God above I could be there the day, a few months from then, when the cook got his pictures back from one-hour photo or wherever and saw what developed.