I call the shitheads upstairs the Ubangis. As in, they bang-ee shit against the floors a good 14 hours a day, slam drawers and otherwise move shit around constantly.
This is in addition to their blasting of horrible music, their small kids falling and screaming, the couple screaming at each other and other general unpleasantness I hear through the very thin (and bare) floors.
I finally met the fuckers tonight. Although “met” isn’t the right word. It was more like I’d had enough of their shit and I ran upstairs with the intent of glaring at their door until they died from the death rays shooting out of my eyes.
The cops told me they were violent and to not approach them. The guy is a good 6-foot-5, so yeah he could definitely snap my fat widdle neck.
The kids are a barely walking toddler and another girl of about 5. I assumed they were boys because they BANG SHIT OFF THE FLOOR like it’s their job.
The older girl was running and hollering and bouncing off the walls of the hallway. The baby SCREAMED the whole way as they walked to the parking garage.
I went to another entrance to the garage. They park directly above me so I know the spots belong to their unit. They had music BLASTING out of their two cars. The older girl ran up and down the garage floor, bellowing and screaming.
The mother was there. Looking evil. Funny that she probably is the one who stomps around the loudest. I hear her following her husband from room to room, screaming at him.
They stopped yelling over the music to look at me. The husband almost smiled.
I contemplated being friendly so I could talk to them. And the “Fuck It, I Hope You DIE” wave washed over me. I glared at them all and walked away.
They treat this place like a ghetto. I bet the people who live adjacent to the garage didn’t care for their concert. But it only lasted maybe five minutes. By the time I got back to my unit, they started stomping and rolling shit around almost instantly.
You know how people joke that, if they see a spider, they will do the only reasonable thing … burn the house down.
That’s the same feeling they inspire in me.
How can they not know what pieces of shit they are? And just how much would they harm me if I let them know in no uncertain terms?