Welcome to Chapter X of my novella ‘Peeved’ releasing chapter by chapter! You don’t need to read the previous chapters to know what’s happening in this story, but if you’re interested I’ll put the link to them at the bottom.
Recap
The plan was simple: Speak my mind, fix the world.
My quest:
Number 1:Cut out the baggage in my lifeNumber 2:Make my quiet carriage always quiet- Number 3: Start a revolt at Alliance that forces management to change the company culture
- Number 4: Stop my noisy neighbours from partying late at night.
- Number 5: Make Samuel the laughing stock of the company
- Number 6: Make all the carriages on my train peaceful
If I pull it off, maybe people would stop seeing me as just a little Indian geek they could slap around.
So far, I’ve made enemies, lost friends, and even drawn blood—some mine. Got written up for shutting down a clingy customer, nuked a uni friend, but now the quiet carriage is mine. Then I boarded the wrong carriage, sparking a new quest. Two weeks later, the commuters were running it better than I could. Which meant it was time for me to move on.
Weekends were usually my only chance to tackle Number 4 on my list:
Stop my noisy neighbours from partying late at night
Fortunately–or unfortunately, depending on the way you looked at it–I hadn’t spent many weekends at home, so I didn’t always know if my “old friends” downstairs were up to their usual antics.
But like clockwork, every Friday and Saturday night, the pricks in the apartment below threw their parties–drinking, smoking, and playing reggae music well past midnight.
The worst were random bursts of laughter. Less of a laugh than an animal call: a high-pitched, ‘Hiul, hiul, hiul!’
Honestly, it wouldn’t have been so bad if they just stayed inside. But no, they had to party on the balcony, way past 11PM, weed smoke drifting into my apartment so thick I couldn’t even watch Pulp Fiction with the window open. I’m not against smokers, I don’t want to inhale someone else’s leftovers.
And the balconies? Built opposite a giant ‘fuck you’ sized concrete wall that bounced every noise back into our bedrooms. Our literal echo chamber of hell.
This day was worse. Christmas morning. They’d started at 10PM last night, and by 8AM they were still at it, slurring words trying to sing to Bob Marley. My Christmas morning pancake ritual was ruined.
So instead of my usual half-hearted, ‘Hey guys, hey,’ I tried a different tact.
I stormed onto the balcony and screamed, ’Shuuuuuut the fuck up!’
The talking cut for a second while I Shot the Sheriff played on.
‘Defuck wassat?’ rumbled a deep voice, followed by howls of laughter.
‘Oi bru, stop bein’ a puss and call ‘er alreedy,’ another, weasely voice urged.
‘All right, all right!’ Deep Voice replied.
Then came the dial tone over their speaker. They’d put someone on speaker. You had to be joking.
I ran back inside, down to the foyer, down one level on the elevator, and followed the music to Unit 4. The stink of weed hit me before I was even near it. There was a smashed meat pie rotting in the corner next to their door, gravy puddling like a crime scene. Animals.
Intel gathered, I scurried back to the elevator.
Back in my flat, I could still hear the goons down below. I called the cops.
‘Penrith Police Station, Constable Alice Reeves speaking.’
‘U-Uh hello, o-officer, I’m calling about a noise complaint against one of my neighbours.’
‘Loud music?’
‘Oh yeah. They’ve been going on since last night. I think they’re smoking w-weed too, n-not that I really know what that smells like though. I just recognised it because I had a stoner neighbour when I was younger.’
I could almost hear her rolling her eyes.
‘Right… Sorry to hear about that. What’s the address?,’ she asked.
‘They live in Unit 4/24 George Road, Penrith.’
‘I’ll put a job through and the officers should be out there shortly.’
‘Thanks, Constable. Oh and uh Merry Christmas.’
‘You too.’
Click.
Unit 4 kept going. Louder. Thumping bass rattled the walls. I love reggae, but it became torture music.
An hour later, still no cops. I rang again.
‘Penrith Police Station, Constable Alice Reeves speaking.’
She gave another vague answer of when the officers would arrive.
I paced, made tea, tried to play Fallout New Vegas, but the noise drilled into me.
Finally, salvation: voices outside. I leaned over the balcony. The weed smoke turned my stomach. Two officers. The male officer in black shades barked, ‘Turn off the music. It’s 9AM, kids are trying to open their presents.’
‘Y-Yee, sir, of co-ourse, sir,’ Deep Voice quavered. I’m not afraid to admit I relished the fear. The music cut off.
The buff female officer added, ‘It’s passed your bedtimes, boys, yeah?’
‘Yee, you’re right,’ replied Deep Voice.
‘No worries, officer, have a good one, aye,’ said the weasely voice.
Bottles clinked. Relief washed over me. They were packing up.
The officers left. I karate kicked the air, collapsed on the couch, and let the adrenaline drain.
Five minutes later, just as I flicked the kettle on–
‘Hiul, hiul, hiul!’
My stomach turned sour.
For a heartbeat, silence. Maybe…
Then the music came back. Louder. Different. Hip hop now. Smoke flooded the air.
‘What the fuck, that’s gay, bro!’ Deep Voice shouted.
‘Hiul, hiul!’
Merry Fucking Christmas.
Isaiah Prasad 