Serving Karma, One Delivery at a Time

It all began with a single post about canceling a food delivery order. Overnight, I became the internet's punching bag.

Thousands of vicious messages flooded my inbox, filled with photoshopped memorials urging me to die.

They doxxed my family, plastered my personal details across shady websites, and used AI to create obscene images of me, spreading them in vile chat groups.

They spread lies about my income, claiming it came from illicit sources, and accused me of carrying diseases.

I didn't call the police or block the messages. Instead, I read every hateful word before singling out the 100 worst offenders. Every day, I sent each one a luxurious meal: Boston lobster, Australian wagyu, the works.

Each delivery came with a simple note: [Thank you for your hard work.]

[What kind of trash bag are you, holding so much garbage?]

[Peacocks flaunt their tails to attract mates. What's your excuse for parading your ass online?]

[Patricia Harris, why don't you just die?]

[Slut, you're probably wild in private, right? That video's gone viral.]

[Heard you're diseased. Stay home! Don't infect us!]

I stared at my phone screen, the barrage of insults washing over me. Doctored memorial photos and grotesque AI-generated images assaulted my eyes.

My boyfriend, Riccardo Lemke, stormed into the room and yanked the phone from my hands.

"Patricia, stop looking!" he pleaded. "We're going to the police. I'll track down every one of these cowards and sue them. Please, stop torturing yourself."

"I'm fine," I said calmly, retrieving my phone. "I just want to thank them properly."

He froze, worry deepening the lines around his eyes. "You're scaring me."

I ignored him and opened the food delivery app. Many of my haters used their phone numbers for social media accounts, often linked to their delivery profiles. Tracking them down was easy.

The first guy on my list was KeyboardFury. His latest post mentioned craving seafood.

I pinpointed his city, selected the priciest seafood restaurant, and ordered a Boston lobster feast. In the delivery note, I typed: [Thank you for your hard work.]

Riccardo grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. "Have you lost it? What are you doing?"

I gently pushed his hands away and moved to the next ID. Then the next.

100 luxury deliveries in total. The delicacies span from wagyu steak, foie gras, and bluefin to tuna sashimi, each costing $500.

Every order carried the same note: [Thank you for your hard work.]

Riccardo's voice trembled. "She's gone mad."

That night, KeyboardFury posted a smug update: a photo of the lavish lobster next to my note.

[LOL, that food vlogger Patricia has lost her mind. She sent me a free feast! Keep it coming, boys. Maybe I'll get wagyu next!]

The comments erupted in mockery.

[Haha, what's this? Stockholm syndrome?]

[Keep it up, Patricia! I'm craving some truffle pizza!]

[Free lobster for roasting her? Guess some people deserve the hate!]

...

Days later, Riccardo stared at me with bloodshot eyes. "Patricia, please stop. Let me take you to a doctor. Money can be earned back, but I can't lose you."

"Money?" I gave a faint smile. "You asked where it came from, didn't you?"

He blinked, and I explained, "I spent our wedding fund."