What's the worst time that somebody stabbed you in the back?

My friend was dating a girl who I could just tell didn't like me.

But at least we were civil to one another until the camping trip on the May 24th holiday weekend.

She was adamant about keeping our alcohol separate and that was fine.

I had my beer, they had their Mike's hard lemonade, everything's fine.

Then I got up early on the first morning and I made pancakes for everyone. Why? Because that's

just how I roll. When the campers rolled out at their tents to the smell of apple cinnamon

pancakes and campfire coffee, she was the only one to flip out. I'd gone into her cooler and

used her margarine. My buddy just looked pained

and tried to keep the piece as I tossed her at Twoney and apologized. Her reaction was to grab a

lock from his gym bag and lock their tent with their booze and their food. Later he came to me

and asked if he could borrow the car so that they could run into town, get some protection, and have some words about being a bit easier with the other campers. I said, OK, and handed him the keys. When they returned, hours later, the tank was empty, and the field kitchen, a wooden box with straps called a Wannigan with plates, cutlery pots and pans and stuff, was missing from the back of the station

wagon. We searched the camp, nothing. It was my dad's and had been handed down in the family for

generations. I drove off to fill the tank and buy a new tub of margarine, and was halfway down

the country road when I saw the Wannigan on the side of the road smashed in the ditch.

There were marks along the back panels

besides the flattened down seats, where one of them had clearly pushed it out the back

of the moving car. After piling it all, stunned, piece by piece back into the wagon, I gassed

up and drove back, and then packed up. Not a word was said by anyone until I tore up the

camping permit and peeled out with their

shouts behind me in the dust.

Never spoke to either one of them again.

...