Chapter 4: Duck and Cover

Not long after, the quacking started again—louder and clearer than ever.

It was like they wanted to prove a point, cranking the volume up to eleven. I couldn’t tell if they were fighting, making up, or just trying to drive me insane. The building felt smaller, tighter, every noise magnified.

If before it was Donald Duck, now it was Turbo Duck.

They’d found a new gear—a frequency that vibrated in my teeth. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so I just sat there, hands pressed over my ears, feeling my patience unravel.

I knew they were doing it on purpose, so I recorded it and called the police.

I grabbed my phone, hit record, and captured every last quack. When I played it back, I winced at how bad it sounded. I dialed the non-emergency number and tried to explain the situation without laughing—or screaming.

The cops arrived quickly. We all listened to the chorus of duck sounds together. The officer rubbed his nose, fought a smile, and agreed: this definitely counted as disturbing the peace.

The officer was young, maybe just out of the academy, clearly trying not to crack up. He nodded along to the recording, then promised to "take care of it." For a moment, I actually felt hopeful.

So, I brought the police to their door for round two.

We marched down the hallway, my phone still playing the audio. I felt like a detective in a bad cop show—badge-less, sleep-deprived. The cop looked serious, but I could tell he was barely holding back a grin.

The guy opened the door and immediately yelled, "Are you freaking done yet?"

He didn’t even wait to see who was knocking, just exploded right out the gate. The officer stepped forward, holding up his hands in a calm-the-hell-down gesture.

I didn’t say a word. The officer flashed his badge: "Hello, you’re disturbing your neighbors. Please keep it down—other people need to sleep."

His voice was practiced, the kind you hear on bodycam footage. He looked past me at the couple, then at the cluttered apartment behind them. The air was tense, brittle.

Only then did the man realize the police were there. His eyes bugged out: "You actually called the cops over this?"

He was genuinely shocked, like the idea that anyone would dare challenge him had never occurred to him before. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.

I’d had enough. "Watch your damn mouth. Can’t you show some manners? Didn’t you hear the officer? You’re disturbing the neighbors, got it?"

My voice was sharper than I intended, but I was too tired to care. The officer shot me a warning glance, but didn’t say anything. I could tell he’d dealt with worse.

He was totally unreasonable: "This is my house. I can do whatever I want. Our sex life has nothing to do with you."

He spat the words out like bullets. I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to fire back. The cop looked between us, sighing like he’d seen this a thousand times before.

Actually, he didn’t say "sex life," but those two blunt words. Gotta clean it up for the censors.

The real words were a lot cruder, but I figured the officer had heard it all before. Still, I wasn’t about to let him win on a technicality.

I said, "I don’t care how blissful you are, but can you keep it down? Enough with the quacking—is your wife a duck or what?"

I knew it was petty, but I couldn’t help myself. The cop stifled a laugh, then cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Say that again if you dare!"

He stepped forward, chest puffed out, face red with anger. I braced myself, but didn’t back down.

I pinched my throat and did my best impression: "Quack quack quack quack, honey you’re amazing, quack quack quack quack."

I laid it on thick, even throwing in an exaggerated wiggle for effect. The hallway echoed with my quacking, and for a moment, even the officer couldn’t hide his smile.

The guy turned beet red and charged at me, ready to throw down.

I saw his fists coming, but the cop was faster, stepping between us and pushing him back. My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline surging.

The cops held him back.

One of the officers grabbed his arm, the other held me by the shoulder. It felt like a high school fight, except with a lot more paperwork and way less dignity.

The officer pulled him aside and tried to reason with him for a long time.

Their voices dropped to a murmur. I caught snippets—"disturbing the peace," "community standards," "possible citation." The man just shook his head, stubborn as a mule.

But he was stubborn as a rusty pickup in a junkyard, insisting it was his privacy and nobody else’s business.

No matter what the officer said, he wouldn’t budge. I could see the frustration building in the cop’s face, and I knew—nothing was going to change tonight.

I got it—the police could only mediate. With people like this, I didn’t expect a sudden change of heart.

It was just another line in the long, sad story of neighbor disputes. I signed the officer’s clipboard, accepted my fate, and went back inside, more tired than ever.

So, I signed the paperwork and sent the cops on their way.

The officer gave me a sympathetic look, shrugged, and left. The hallway was quiet again, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

Sure enough, he was back to his old tricks soon after.

Not even twenty-four hours passed before the quacking started up again. If anything, it was louder, more obnoxious. I ground my teeth and stared at the wall, plotting my next move.

I sneered. If you want to play hardball, I’ll be even more shameless than you.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. I sat down, started brainstorming. If he wanted a war, I was ready to go nuclear—at least by apartment standards.