I was biking from Boston to Pinkham Notch, NH with full summer trail crew gear (except I had to buy boots in N Conway) when an 18 wheeler coming past me gave "a little toot" to let me know he was coming. I knew the beast was coming: you can't really hide the jake break or the wheeze/groan of the brakes from a near silent bicyclist on a hilly road. So when he let loose the air horn, I steered from the side of the road just as far into the margin as I could.
The truck passed me in the other lane, probably 25 feet from my track through three inches of soft roadside sand, a healthy portion of which now festooned my gears with grit which ground to finer sand with my exertions. I had to strip the chain, the gears and degrease and brush everything that night for hours in order to get the bike ready for day three of the trek. All the while I was cursing the driver who scared the crap out of me for no good reason.
When you are the little guy, there is little meaning or use for words like revenge. Staying alive is so much more relevant. This sort of scene feels good for a couple of moments, until you realize that, despite commuting buy bicycle, you are still a jerk.