Browse·Pranks·6 live
Real requests from real people who’d rather pay than do it themselves. Pseudonyms only. Pick one and take their money.
Nothing here quite fits?
Each envelope contains a single Polaroid of my husband as a baby, lifted from her own album she gave me. She'll notice around week six. She'll bring it up to him around week fourteen. He'll never figure out it was me. Fifty-two envelopes, prepaid, planned. Worth every cent.
They're on a 10-day cruise and I have a key. I supply prints of one generic smiling stock-photo guy. Swap every framed photo, document each one, put the originals back exactly where they were on my go-signal. NYC area. No damage, frames untouched, dust patterns considered. The longer it takes them to notice, the better.
I'll send the backstory. Warm. Vague. Deeply uncomfortable for two specific people in the room. Bring a wrapped gift (a slim book of poetry, I'll provide it). Stay twenty-three minutes. Leave when my mother makes eye contact. Don't come back. Don't accept her follow-up call.
I cover the meals and the casting. Different age, different style, every time. Don't speak to them. Don't acknowledge them. Just be a person they keep noticing at the corner table. Six weeks. They will absolutely lose their minds trying to find the pattern. There is no pattern. That's the pattern.
Everyone's in on it except my aunt, who swears she remembers "cousin Dave". Show up, commit to a vague but warm backstory we'll script together, eat a burger, dodge specifics. Two hours, no money changes hands at the event, harmless fun. Stay in character. She will absolutely tell you about your "shared childhood".
Different handwriting each one. Coffee shop downstairs, his car windshield, the gym locker, his briefcase. The notes don't accuse — they reminisce. He's been faithful for eighteen years. I just want to remind him of all the women who could have been the wrong choice. I'll send the notes and the access. You handle the placement.