Iceberglandia

In case I haven’t mentioned anything about my downstairs neighbors before, allow me to.

They are a couple, mid-twenties, I’d wager, who happen to fit into the category of “pests”.
They moved in a couple of months ago, and since then things have been disappearing from the house. Not just my things, but the other people’s stuff as well.  See, in this here house, you rent a room, and you share kitchen, washroom, etc. I don’t even go shopping anymore. What’s the point? As soon as I bring something home, these fucking raccoons crawl up from their hole and without a care in the world feel entitled to it. The first time I noticed it, I had bought 3 packs of fruit turnovers (cookies, for the inexperienced). I was sure I hadn’t opened any of them, which struck me as odd, because one of the packs was open and three turnovers were missing. “Well”, I thought, “maybe my sister helped herself last time she came”. But nope. Next morning, the pack was empty. They were nice enough to leave the empty plastic tray (god forbid I have to live with the thought of others throwing out my garbage!). I’ve not made a comprehensive list of all items missing from my personal belongings since then, but there seems to be a complete absence of the set of containers I bought, packs of Ramen noodles, 4 pounds of ground beef, 2 milk cartons, water bottles by the dozens, 2 bags of sugar, and my salt and pepper. Who in their right mind steals salt? Oh, well…
They also have the lovely habit of taking out their trash and leaving it in the back yard of the house. Inside their bags I have seen many of my, and of the other people’s, wrappers and empty containers. But the worst part is, I’ve seen maggots. Not just one or two, but colonies of maggots. Stupid filthy people. I mean, how hard is it to wait until monday, and take the trash to the curb like everyone else? Nah, these people prefer the old fashioned way of garbage disposal. Set it aside, and let it decompose. Fuckers.
According to rumors, and to evidence collected by myself (I’ve seen ‘em), they are addicted to a vide variety of narcotics, included, but not limited to, weed and crack. Now, this is Canada, so the weed is pretty much a given. But you see the glazed stares, the crusty skin, the open sores in their mouths (damn, you can almost smell the herpes!), plus their “confessions” (more on that in a second) and you know, you just know, they’re crackheads.
One thing they love to do, besides scavenging for items, is fight. Oh, they love to fight. Screaming, throwing stuff around, slamming doors, breaking stuff… and this can happen anytime! Oh, the excitement of living here, you never know when Wrestlemania is going to begin. Why, just this morning, around 6 AM, I almost went to the kitchen to get popcorn. This time, the girl had just arrived, and the guy inspected her panties and noticed they were exceptionally clean, so he assumed she had been, well you know… He must’ve called her a whore at least 100 times before I fell asleep again. He slapped her around a couple times, and according to her screams, he tried to slam the door and caught her arm. Can’t you just feel the love?
On a number of occasions, said fights have included references to the girl being a whore, a crack whore, a slut and a fucking bitch. The guy, on the other hand, has been dubbed a crackhead, an asshole, a piece of shit and a woman beater. Some fights have gone, um, “a little out of hand”, and the police have been here a couple of times. The owner of the house, for some reason, is very pleased to have them living here (even though, if they have the need to steal salt, I am clueless as to how in the world they can afford the rent). Everyone else, myself included, have threatened to walk out, but he just won’t kick them out.
On one occasion, I arrived from work and saw the guy downstairs sitting by where I park my bike. He asked if he could borrow 40 dollars, and included his best effort at giving me a heartwrenching sob story. I told him I didn’t have anything on me at the time, and to further my explanation I made the mistake of mentioning I needed to go to the bank the next morning. Well, if I told you the fucker woke me up and offered to walk me to the bank… As luck would have it, I did have the need to visit the aforementioned financial institution, so I crawled out secretly (or so I thought). One block away, the guy catches up to me, and just like an old friend, offers to walk with me all the way downtown. I had two choices, there and then. Make him kiss my fist a couple hundred times, until his front teeth bit into his brain, or give him 20 bucks, send him on his way to fuck-off land and hope he paid me back. Being as I’m not a violent guy, I took the second option. Now that I reflect upon it, I consider it this way: I paid 20 dollars for the privilege of being walked downtown by a crack addicted piece of shit wife beater asshole (his girlfriend’s words, not mine). Stupid, but it’s also an investment. See, I might not have conclusive evidence as to the rest of their pirating ways, but those $20 give me a ticket for revenge. And boy, will I collect. In fact, a small victory, yes, but maybe I have already started to collect.
See, you might have noticed part of the title of this post is “Coitus Interruptus”, which is Latin for “the interruption of sex”. It usually applies to an ineffective method of birth control in which… oh, go read a book!
Anyway, one night last week, I was doing my regular stuff here on the computer at around 3 AM, when these two illustrious beacons of well-being started, um, how can I put this, “engaging in the act of sex without intent to procreate”, a big no-no if you’re of conservative leanings. Now, I’m no conservative, but it you’re going to fuck, keep it quiet! Especially if I already hate you. Now, the noises they were making were loud and were really starting to get on my nerves. And I soon came upon the realization that I had a problem in my hands. No, not a problem, an opportunity. How could I ever put an end to their pelvic grinding (or whatever they were doing down there)?

One quick look at my oh so extensive mp3 collection, and a ray of enlightenment shone upon me. Why, of course! Serendipity struck me, and as I proclaimed “Eureka!”, like I’m prone to do when I’m by myself, I came upon a death metal band called ‘Bolt Thrower’. I opened WinAMP (it really whips the llama’s ass) and turned the volume to 11, figuratively speaking. Well, rest assured, people of the world, that by the end of the title track (the album was “The IVth Crusade”), all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. As I said, a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. And this is only the beginning. Of course I can’t poison something and leave it in the fridge so they take it, eat it and die like the cockroaches they are, because according to the law they’re still “human”, so I’ll just have to get creative. Maybe some of you are familiar with some revenge tactics you’d like to see me try?

Well, I’ve been absent from here, but I haven’t forgotten all of y’alls! I’ve written some stuff, but I’m trying to figure out the picture posting part. As soon as that’s done, you’ll be able to read all kinds of exciting stuff, such as my route from work back home, or a 3-part recap of my recent vacation to the land of Vitamin T (tacos, tequila, tamales)…
Stay tuned, and in the meantime, while I’ll be posting a full review sometime soon, take my word for it: Go and buy (or download, whatever) Slayer’s “Christ Illusion”. It rules.

The Iceberg