IS MY MUSIC BOTHERIN YOU ?

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 s**t 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. F****n 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 s**t the bed.

    But the dicks across the landin! A weedy lookin, specky little f****r with his mousey wife an their two brats. They’ll do!

    Next nite I gave them Meat Loaf till the early hours. Full blast. F****n windows were rattlin.

    Then I strolled across the landin. Kicked Weedy C**t’s door. Stood there. Six feet  of bad attitude. Sixteen stones of muscle. Beard. Earrings. Scars. Tattoos. Denims.

    Weedy C**t 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 C**t the Doors. Every album. Full blast. F****n room was jumpin.

    Strolled across the landin at six. Kicked the door. Stood there. Big arms folded. Mean mother-f****n stare. Weedy C**t 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 f****n requests.

    Then I met Weedy C**t in the lift one time. He was wearin a duffel coat. A f****n 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. F****n buildin would be shakin.

    Towards dawn, between trax, I heard a timid knock at the door.

    At last! Weedy C**t 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 s**t himself. He would after I flattened him.

    I opened the door an f**k 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 C**t 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 f****n cleanin lady in that flat.