Chapter 2
The very next day, they doubled down.
I opened my door and found seven or eight massive bags of trash stacked in the hallway, blocking half the corridor.
The old lady downstairs had told me earlier I could complain to property management or call the police.
Call the police?
Please.
That wasn’t my style.
In my world, the first person to call the cops had already lost.
So I stood there looking at their garbage and thought, Fine. You want trash warfare? I’ll show you what truly lethal garbage looks like.
I went back inside, took care of business, tied up the bag, and set it gently right outside their door.
Even I had to admire the creativity.
Competition really did inspire greatness.
I almost wanted to knock and thank them for bringing out my best.
I went back inside and waited.
Ten minutes later their door flew open.
The screaming started immediately.
I nearly choked trying not to laugh.
A second later they were hammering on my door. I opened it and found the whole family there this time—husband, wife, and their son. Even the kid looked annoying. He had one of those mean little faces that just made you want to slap something.
While his parents cursed me out, the little brat actually tried to rush me.
I kicked him away, shut the door in all their faces, and let them pound as long as they wanted.
They screamed for ten solid minutes before calling property management up. The second staff arrived, the two of them transformed into respectable middle-class victims and started accusing me of everything imaginable. They said I had thrown human waste, assaulted their child, maybe I was even some kind of killer. Then in the same breath they complained that staff hadn’t removed their garbage quickly enough.
It was incredible.
The property guy eventually knocked on my door too, but I had the TV on and ignored him.
By the time the noise died down, I had already finished two episodes of The Knockout.
When I finally opened my door again, the hallway was spotless. Trash gone. My little “gift” gone. Everything scrubbed clean.
Property management had done the dirty work.
I stood there staring at the clean hallway feeling oddly disappointed.
Honestly, I had been looking forward to more.
For the next two days, though, there was nothing outside their door. No garbage. No drama. It seemed they had figured out they’d run into someone just as rotten as they were and had decided to pause the war.
But I knew better.
With people like that, the real fight never started with the first insult.
The real fight started when you went on offense.
And soon enough, they gave me the opening.
They used to leave a few pairs of shoes outside their door, but after the garbage incident there were suddenly more and more. Not just everyday shoes either. Fancy shoes. Kids’ shoes. Off-season shoes. Shoes they clearly didn’t even wear. Sometimes their son would kick one so hard it landed outside my door.
That made me happier than I care to admit.
I ordered a jar of itching powder online using a burner account.
When it arrived, I waited until late at night, slipped outside, and dusted every single pair.
Then I went home and lay in bed too excited to sleep.
By morning, I had barely dozed off when furious pounding shook my door.
I opened it and nearly burst out laughing.
The wife was bent over scratching at her feet while waving a shoe in my face, demanding to know if I’d put something in them.
Her skin was already red from clawing at it.
I didn’t even get a chance to answer before I laughed.
That was enough for her.
She started shrieking that they had already let the earlier incident go and I was shamelessly refusing to let them live in peace. She called me wicked, heartless, cursed my whole family, and carried on like she was starring in a daytime soap.
That was when something in me snapped.
I looked at her face, that ugly, raging face, and before I even thought it through, I slapped her.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the hallway.
She just stood there for a second, stunned, then dropped to the ground. She forgot all about scratching.
And I have to admit, it felt incredible.
Hitting a woman wasn’t exactly noble.
But I was never pretending to be noble.
I whistled toward the apartment and my dog came running out.
He lunged toward her barking like mad. Smart dog though—he didn’t actually bite. He just scared her half to death.
She finally scrambled up, shrieking, and slammed herself back into her apartment.
A second later her husband started pounding on my door and screaming that he was going to kill me.
That was the first time the police got involved.