Chapter 6: The Garbage Gambit

I slept till noon the next day. Ordered takeout, sat down at my computer, ready to update a new chapter.

Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the dust in the air. I stretched, cracked my knuckles, and started typing. The peace was glorious—no quacking, no drama, just me and my laptop.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed.

I glanced at the screen, expecting a text from my mom or maybe a spam call. Instead, it was the delivery driver. Weird. I always told them to just drop the food at my door.

I was confused. I always leave a note for deliveries to just drop it at my door—nobody ever calls.

This had never happened before. My stomach twisted, a sense of dread creeping in.

"Hey, can you come out and get your food, or should I leave it downstairs?"

The driver’s voice was apologetic, almost nervous. Something was off.

I asked, "Why can’t you leave it at the door?"

My voice was sharp, suspicion creeping in. I could hear background noise—the hum of the hallway, a distant TV.

"Maybe... you should come take a look?"

His hesitation told me everything I needed to know. I got up, pulled on some flip-flops, and braced myself for the worst.

I opened the door and got smacked in the face by a wave of stench.

It was like stepping into a landfill in July—thick, sour, unforgettable. My eyes watered, my nose burned, and I gagged, struggling to breathe.

There were several big bags of garbage at my feet, yellow-green liquid oozing all over the floor.

It looked like someone had emptied every kitchen trash can in the building, then dumped the contents right outside my door. The liquid pooled, sticky and foul, threatening to seep under the threshold.

There was nowhere to step.

I stared at the mess, anger simmering just below the surface. My appetite vanished. All I could think about was revenge.

Didn’t even need to think—I knew who did it.

No doubt. It had their signature written all over it. Only one family would stoop this low—and make it personal.

So, I marched straight to the neighbor’s door, unbuckled my belt.

My hands trembled with rage, but I didn’t care. I walked past the scattered garbage, past the confused delivery guy, and stood tall outside their door.

And performed a spectacular water magic show right on their door.

It was juvenile, reckless, and probably illegal—but I didn’t care. I let loose, the stream splattering across the wood, sending rivulets running down to the welcome mat. The sound echoed down the hallway, a wild, defiant challenge.

The yellow, murky urine splashed down, making a passionate sound.

It felt like a primal act—one part vengeance, one part ancient ritual. For a moment, I was no longer just a tenant, but a force of nature reclaiming my space.

It felt like my DNA was vibrating in my bones.

There was something deeply satisfying about it, like scratching an itch you’ve had for months. I almost laughed, the adrenaline rush making me lightheaded.

A scene flashed in my mind: twenty thousand years ago, on the plains, our Homo sapiens ancestors dragged huge hunks of meat back to their cave. The stench of blood attracted packs of predators, their red eyes glowing in the dark.

The image was vivid—wild men, fearless, standing at the mouth of their cave. My heartbeat matched theirs, fast and strong.

A few strong young men stepped out, unleashed a mighty stream of piss at the entrance, declaring their territory.

Marking their space, daring anyone to cross the line. It was the most basic, undeniable act of ownership.

The smell of testosterone overpowered the scent of blood. After some hesitation, the beasts slunk away, hungry.

I imagined the predators turning away, beaten not by weapons, but by the sheer audacity of their rivals. For a second, I almost pitied the ancient beasts.

Half awake, half dreaming, I seemed to see my ancestors giving me a thumbs-up. A nod from my genes. What a satisfying release.

I pictured them standing behind me, grinning, arms crossed, pride shining in their eyes. I grinned back, feeling more connected to history than ever before.

As soon as I zipped up, my heart started hammering for a different reason—what if I’d just made everything worse?

The delivery guy stood nearby, stunned. I warmly invited him to join in, to liberate his body and soul—experience a primitive, lawless thrill in civilized modern society.

I held out my hand, gesturing grandly. "Come on, man, when’s the last time you got to mark your territory?" He blushed, eyes wide, then shook his head, laughing nervously.

Unfortunately, he was still shackled by decency, unable to break free.

He glanced down the hallway, then back at me, clearly torn between the rules of polite society and the siren song of anarchy. In the end, civility won out.

I just smiled, then went downstairs to the hardware store to buy a wall scraper.

I needed supplies—something to clean up the mess, maybe a can of air freshener. The sun was shining, birds chirped outside the shop, and for a moment, life felt almost normal again.

On my way back, I was stopped by an old man.

He stood by the stairwell, hands tucked into the pockets of his windbreaker, eyes watchful. He nodded in greeting, then beckoned me closer.

"Son, you argued with 302 last night, didn’t you?"

His voice was low, cautious, like he was sharing a secret. I nodded, curiosity piqued.

I nodded.

He looked relieved, as if he’d finally found someone who understood. We stood in the quiet stairwell, the city noises muffled by the old brick walls.

The old man sighed. "You just moved here, you don’t know the situation. That family’s trouble—avoid them if you can."

His tone was heavy, weighted with experience. I could tell he’d been through it all before, probably more times than he cared to admit.

I laughed. "Why be so scared? It’s not like they’re royalty."

I tried to lighten the mood, but he didn’t smile. He shook his head, lips pressed tight.

"Their whole family are bullies, you can’t mess with them," the old man said. "I live right below them. They keep me up every night. I’ve called the cops, talked to management—nothing works. They even throw cigarette butts onto my balcony."

His voice was resigned, tinged with frustration. I pictured him out there, sweeping up ashes, muttering curses under his breath. It was a scene all too familiar.

Other neighbors gathered around:

One by one, they drifted over—Mrs. Rodriguez from 201, Big Mike from 104, and even old Mrs. Chang from the end of the hall. Word travels fast in a building like ours.

"I live on the first floor. I had a peach tree in my yard—tended it for years, just about to bear fruit. Their kid climbed over, picked them all. The tree wasn’t worth much, but it was my hard work. I went to their parents, and they flipped it, saying their kid got sick from my peaches and wanted me to pay medical bills."

Mrs. Rodriguez’s voice quivered, equal parts anger and sadness. She showed me a picture on her phone—her tree, branches stripped bare, leaves drooping.

"They throw garbage downstairs, too. I got splashed with dirty water on my way to work once."

Big Mike shook his head, rolling his eyes. He gestured at his dress pants, still stained from last week’s incident. "Ruined a brand new pair."

"They took over the community basketball court to dry their blankets, totally unreasonable."

Little Eli from down the hall piped up, arms crossed. "My buddies and I had to play in the parking lot all summer."

"They even stole my parking spot."

Mrs. Chang’s voice was small, but fierce. "Left a nasty note on my windshield, too."

...

One by one, the stories poured out—petty theft, constant noise, even threats. Turns out, they’re just bullies who prey on decent folks.

The more I heard, the more fired up I got.

If they’re that rotten, I have no moral qualms at all.

It was like a spark lit inside me, fueled by righteous anger. I wasn’t alone anymore—none of us were. For the first time, we had a common cause.

For the first time, it felt like we weren’t just a bunch of strangers with shared walls—we were a team, united by sleepless nights and stolen peaches.

I set up a group chat on the spot, told everyone to add all the victims. I’d take revenge for them.

We huddled in the lobby, trading phone numbers, snapping photos of evidence, plotting next steps. The chat pinged with new messages every few seconds, the energy electric.

Humming, I went upstairs and dug through their trash. Most of it was kitchen slop—the stench made my eyes water.

I found a pair of gloves in my closet, pulled them on, and got to work. It was disgusting, but the thought of payback made it bearable.

I grabbed a blender, pureed it into a sludge, and smeared it all over their door. Even packed the keyhole tight.

It was a mess—thick, green, and revolting. I made sure to get every inch, inside the cracks and around the handle. The keyhole got special attention, jammed tight with goo.

The door was now a masterpiece of dark green goo, dripping everywhere. Swarms of flies buzzed over, rubbing their front legs together like they were about to spark a fire. I figured they were asking, “Is this the legendary Happy Planet?”

It was the ugliest thing I’d ever made, and I couldn’t have been prouder. The flies arrived within minutes, their buzzing a fitting soundtrack to my handiwork.

I checked the time—they’d be home in half an hour.

Plenty of time to clean up, grab a snack, and settle in for the show. My phone buzzed with updates from the group chat, everyone eager for a front-row seat.

Snapped a pic, posted it in the group chat.

The photo was glorious—disgusting, but glorious. I captioned it: "Tonight’s special: Slop à la carte."

In no time, the group grew from a dozen to thirty people.

Neighbors I’d never even met chimed in, sharing stories and photos. For once, it felt like the building was on my side.

As soon as the photo dropped, the chat blew up.

Memes, GIFs, and jokes poured in. Someone even created a custom emoji—a little green blob with a frown. The mood was electric.

"What kind of interior design is this? Slop chic?"

"I can smell it through the screen—dude, you’re a legend."

I said, "Neighbors, come over—good show’s about to start."

I could practically hear the laughter echoing up and down the halls. For the first time since moving in, I felt like I belonged.

Right after I sent it, I heard the sound of ducks coming up the stairs.

Quacking, shouting, stomping—the whole menagerie. I leaned against the banister, grinning, as the chaos unfolded.

"Damn, Mom, come see!" Their kid yelled. "Someone smeared crap all over our door!"

His voice rang out, high and indignant. The entire building paused, listening. I watched from the shadows, satisfied, as the drama played out, knowing this was just the beginning.

Down the hall, the first quack echoed, followed by a chorus of curses. Showtime.