Our horrible upstairs neighbors are screaming and thumping and throwing things that bounce loudly above our heads and generally making tons of noise in the middle of the night. AGAIN. I say to my sweetie, "Enough is enough, I'm going up there to tell them to shut up."
I put on shoes and a robe and go up there. One of the reasons it is so loud is because their door is open. These 3 drunk college students are engaged in some kind of altercation and they are making so much noise they don't notice me trying to get their attention. I reconcile myself to the fact that my plan to tell them to shut up or else we were calling the cops was not sufficient. I suddenly realize that they have to die. That is the only solution. So I take the big knife they keep beside the door (right next to the buzzer where you would let someone in the front door) and stab each of them neatly in the heart. They seem to understand that they deserve to die, and do not struggle, make extra noise, or even seem upset when I stab them.
I decide to look around the apartment to see why they are SO loud ALL THE TIME. They have almost no furniture except for a huge stereo and about 10 bunkbeds. In the bedroom over ours, I find 5 concrete balls varying in size from about 1 inch in diameter to basketball-sized. This is why all the bouncing noises are SO loud.
Then I find the shoes. About 10 pairs. Concrete sandals, to be specific. They are like birkenstocks, only 6 inches high and made of concrete. They have the 2 nubuck straps and the anatomical footbed. I try a pair on. They are the loudest thing I have ever heard. It all makes sense now. I go downstairs to explain to my sweetie. When I am at our door, I hear the cops pulling up; one of our other neighbors had called them because of the noise. He didn't want to fool with the college students without backup. "Get in bed and hide, pretend you were asleep," says sweetie. I know this is useless. My prints are all over everything up there. I go downstairs to talk to the cops. I invite them in and we talk in my living room.
The cops, to my complete surprise, are thrilled. One of them says, "we were hoping someone would kill those people." "They were a pain in my ass," says the other. "I live two blocks away and they still woke me up every night. You have performed a public service." The super appears at this point and thanks me profusely. "I didn't know how much longer I could take it," he says. The neighbor who called the cops comes in to see what is happening. He is overjoyed to hear the news. He tells me and sweetie that if there is anything—ANYTHING—he can do, don't hesitate… The cops tell me I will get a special commendation that they give to civilians who help out in difficult situations.
The next day, there is a block party in my honor. It is suddenly 70 degrees instead of the frigid 30° temps we have been having for the past month. An Indian restaurant has donated a huge buffet because they too, are so grateful our ex-neighbors are no longer of this earth. The whole neighborhood is eating and bellydancing to salsa music in the alley around the building. Sweetie and I are happy even though the samosas are lamb and there are no chickpeas or kashmiree naan on the buffet.
We still can't get over the concrete shoes.