|IS MY MUSIC BOTHERIN YOU ? (standard:Flash, 577 words)|
|Author: Danny Zil||Added: May 11 2013||Views/Reads: 1136/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is what could happen when you play your music too loud, too late....could wind up bein too late for you!|
IS MY MUSIC BOTHERIN YOU ? So I moved into this flat a coupla weeks ago. Top floor. Usual shit view of the South Bronx shithole. Decided to intraduce myself to the neighbours. Gave them Nirvana for a few hours at two in the mornin. Full blast. Fuckin walls were bouncin. Turns out the deadbeats below me are two deaf ole fuckers who drift into a Prozac coma early every nite an don't wake up till mid-mornin, both havin shit the bed. But the dicks across the landin! A weedy lookin, specky little fucker with his mousey wife an their two brats. They'll do! Next nite I gave them Meat Loaf till the early hours. Full blast. Fuckin windows were rattlin. Then I strolled across the landin. Kicked Weedy Cunt's door. Stood there. Six feet of bad attitude. Sixteen stones of muscle. Beard. Earrings. Scars. Tattoos. Denims. Weedy Cunt answered the door. Dressin gown, pyjamas an specs. Scared to look at me. “Just moved in,” I growled at him. “Is my music botherin you?” He swallowed nervously. “Not so far,” he mumbled. I grinned. “It will,” I told him an swaggered back to my flat. Next nite I gave Weedy Cunt the Doors. Every album. Full blast. Fuckin room was jumpin. Strolled across the landin at six. Kicked the door. Stood there. Big arms folded. Mean mother-fuckin stare. Weedy Cunt arrived. Looked like he hadn't slept. “Is my music botherin you?” I growled. “Not so far,” he muttered, not darin to look at me. I grinned. “It will,” I told him then swaggered back to my flat an slammed the door on him. Carried on like that for a coupla weeks. I gave them a Led Zep nite. Then a Stones nite. Then a Motley Crue nite. Then a Hendrix nite. Felt like goin across an askin if they had any fuckin requests. Then I met Weedy Cunt in the lift one time. He was wearin a duffel coat. A fuckin duffel coat! Looked like Woody Allen. I took up most of the lift space. Didn't move for him. He siddled in. Stood there lookin at the floor. I stared down at his thinnin hair an them black specs all the way up to the fifteenth floor. The lift stopped an the door slid open. “Is my music botherin you?” I growled at him. “Not so far,” he muttered then scurried across the landin. I grinned. “It will,” I growled after him. I swaggered into my flat. Got a big nite planned. Two cases of Millers. Litre of vodka. Some good grass. Best of Doors, Stones, Zep, Nirvana, Crue, Iron Maiden. Full blast. Fuckin buildin would be shakin. Towards dawn, between trax, I heard a timid knock at the door. At last! Weedy Cunt has finally come to complain. I grinned an staggered to the door an glanced thru the peephole. It was him! Dressin gown, pyjamas an specs. Looked like he was gonna shit himself. He would after I flattened him. I opened the door an fuck me if I wasn't starin at the barrels of a sawed-off twelve bore shotgun he'd been hidin. It was pointed straight at my guts. Weedy Cunt looked me right in the eye. “Is my sawn-off twelve bore botherin you?” he asked. “Not so far,” I told him. He grinned. “It will.” Then he gave me both barrels. Christ, I'd hate to be the fuckin cleanin lady in that flat. Tweet
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