One pill makes you smaller

4:33 am. I think it's safe to say that my downstairs neighbors have successfully entered the Fear and Loathing stage of their evening. Slurred speach, plaintive grunts to toss the stereo in on him and his filthy bath water. Only instead of White Rabbit, he wants to die at the precise moment of climax in Chingy's, "Right Thurr." I imagine them all in various stages of undress: black dress socks, boxer shorts, men's leisure robes. I think if I hear the phrase, "dude, I'm so fucked up right now" one more time, I might vomit. I imagine that their apartment is flooded and filthy. Steak knives and half eaten dinners. Moldy bread floating in their bathtub. Ketchup and mustard sprayed all over the walls.
This is the problem with being woken from a deep sleep at three in the morning by bafoons bellowing about the pills they plan on taking, horrid rap music pounding like a not-so dull headache in the background. Your first instinct is: KILL. I must kill them. You find yourself yelling things you might never say in polite company like; "COCKSUCKERS!!," "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU FUCKING FUCKS!!" "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKERRRR!" Things that make no sense. You will go for the hammer in the kitchen to pound the hell out of your own floor, just to make a point. You never think rational things like, "call the police." You just want to murder them. You wish that you knew gangsters who would knock on the door and after being let in, would start punching and not stop until they were all bloody, pulpy little meatwads on the floor...lying in puddles of their own piss of course. These are the thoughts you have while you're trying, but failing to get back to sleep.
Finally you give in. You get out of bed, turn on the computer and start typing just as they're settling in for a long winters nap.
Now is when you plot your revenge.