The first six months I lived here were relatively quiet. The next six were punctuated by loud bangs from above at random hours. And the last month, well, my neighbor has decided that night time is the right time for noisiness. And now he seems to have a dog that's just as lead-footed as he is.
What is that guy doing up there? Is he walking around with cement blocks strapped to his feet. Is he wearing a scuba tank and doing jumping jacks. Is he poorly juggling anti-matter?
I'm half tempted to say something, but that guy would probably answer the door wearing a suit of armor and carrying a baby hippo. And I'd say something to the office, but it would be quite obvious where the noise complaint came from. It's not like there are fourteen apartments below him (just me). And you don't want to piss off a noisy stranger.
Maybe the guy is a Dance Dance Revolution phenom. Only he's gotten so great that his competition makes him wear handicapping weight belts like in "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut.
Maybe he has an extreme infestation of giant spiders and he must continually smash them. With a lead mallet.
Maybe he's just a really really really big dude. With bones made of the heaviest of metals. And skin made of the heaviest of metals. And he's got 18 pounds of necklaces on.
Whatever the case, the dude is loud. I might have to declare war. I'm going to need at least a dozen ten-inch sub woofers and an amp that can power an IMAX movie theatre. And a bullhorn just for kicks. And a trampoline. And some babies- lots of babies. Screaming, angry, gassy babies that haven't had their nap time.
And a howling coyote! And a police siren.
Or just enough guile to figure out who this guy is, befriend him and then coerse him into moving into another apartment.
He can take that freaking spider on my door with him. Yeah, that bastard is still there.
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