There was a BBQ joint downstairs that stayed open until dawn every single day. Drunken shouting, blaring music, and obnoxious noise kept the entire neighborhood awake. When the residents went to the owner to demand an explanation, the guy acted like an absolute thug, totally unreasonable. So, I printed a notice and stuck it right on his storefront: "If you're afraid of noise, move to a mansion. Otherwise, poor people just need to learn how to endure." That single piece of paper made the entire apartment complex explode. 1 A passing homeowner quickly snapped a photo of the notice and dropped it into the HOA group chat. Everyone was already exhausted and agitated from the noise. Nobody expected the owner to be so shamelessly arrogant. Furious, the men from over a dozen households gathered together and blocked the entrance of the BBQ joint, demanding answers. The angriest was the guy living on the second floor. He kicked over a folding table in a fit of rage, pointing right at the owner's nose. "You dare say that to us? You think we're pushovers? Believe me, I'll smash this place to pieces! I can afford to pay for the damages!" The owner, Frank, looked completely bewildered, having no idea what was going on. It wasn't until his wife—who lived in the apartment complex—sent him a picture of the notice that he understood. Seeing that he had thoroughly provoked the wrath of the crowd, Frank immediately swore he didn't post the notice. He also promised to cut his hours and close by midnight. Only then did the angry mob disperse. I had been watching the whole spectacle from my upstairs window. Seeing Frank bowing and scraping like a coward was incredibly satisfying. 2 This wasn't my first clash with their family. They were the typical "Happy Family" type, with matching cartoon family avatars for their group chat profiles. They were the absolute tyrants of the HOA group chat and the ultimate troublemakers in the school parent groups. Their life motto was to make themselves happy by inconveniencing everyone else. The only reason they could open a BBQ joint in a residential complex was because they threw such massive tantrums. They were so loud and obnoxious that the HOA didn't dare cross them, resorting to giving them perks just to shut them up. Otherwise, who could stand them picking fights every other day? I happened to live right above them, in apartment 602. And because of that, I got a front-row seat to their unhinged audacity. The day I moved in, they saw me packing with the door open. Frank's wife, Brenda, swaggered right into my apartment, bold as brass. Without a single word, she handed me a printed piece of paper and walked out, her nose stuck in the air. I looked closely at the contents. Holy crap: "Building Rules: My kid has to do homework at night. No cooking in the building from 6 PM to 10 PM. Anyone who turns on a range hood and makes noise, I'll smash your door in! My wife has a weak nervous system. All renovations are strictly banned. Not even on weekends. If a contractor comes, I'll break their legs! No cats or dogs allowed in the building. Get rid of them within a week, or I'll throw them out myself! No using the elevator after 10 PM. My family sleeps light, and the doors opening and closing is too loud!" And that was just the first few rules. The entire page was packed with over seventy ridiculous demands. It was practically the Code of Hammurabi for psychopaths. 3 A lot of people couldn't handle this family and simply sold their condos and moved away. When I was buying the place, I noticed how cheap it was and asked the previous owner what happened. After some prodding, he told me about the nightmare tenants downstairs. Instead of worrying, I was thrilled. Because honestly? I'm a bit of a menace myself. I’ve never been the well-behaved type. I fought guys who started rumors about me and went scorched-earth on teachers who blindly protected their favorite students. When I grew up, my parents couldn't stand my chaotic energy anymore, so they gave me a lump sum of cash to move out. I figured if my neighbors were nice people, I'd have to suppress my crazy side. Who knew I'd struck gold! Before I could even finish reading all the absurd rules on the paper, Frank posted a massive paragraph in the HOA group chat: "Listen up, everyone! Just got back from the doctor, and my wife is pregnant! To ensure the baby is born healthy, I'm announcing some new rules. Anyone who disobeys, don't blame me for getting ugly! All WiFi in the building must be turned off at 9 PM. Radiation causes birth defects! No voice chat while playing video games at home. No keyboard or mouse clicking sounds either. If you wake my wife, I'll cut all your internet cables! The use of any perfume, makeup, or skincare products is banned. These rules take effect today. Disobey at your own risk!" Wow. Just blatant dictator demands. Like hell I was going to indulge him. I immediately went online and ordered a heavy-duty mobile hotspot. Same-day delivery was fast. I plugged it in and changed the network name to: "Nuclear-Grade Ultra Radiation Fetus-Destroying Signal." That very night, Frank went absolutely feral with voice memos in the group chat. Message after message, completely hysterical: "Which sick bastard is doing this?!" "Step out if you have the guts! Watch me kill you!" "Turn it off! Turn it off right now! If the radiation hurts my wife and kid, I'll take down this whole building!" The group chat was dead silent. Nobody made a peep. But I knew plenty of people were secretly enjoying the show. I ordered some takeout, and just as I started eating, I heard violent pounding on doors downstairs. "Open up! I need to inspect your apartment!" Frank's roar echoed viciously through the hallway. He was actually going door to door. I immediately pressed myself against my door, holding my breath and watching the show. Frank was like a headless fly, running up and down the halls. But he couldn't find the culprit. He finally stopped at my door and pounded on it relentlessly. I casually pulled it open. "Can I help you?" His eyes were bloodshot. He practically shoved his phone into my face. "Is this WiFi network yours?" I shook my head, feigning complete innocence. "No, Frank. My WiFi is named 'Mess With Me And You Die', see?" Frank looked at my phone, cursed under his breath, and stormed off. Of course he couldn't find it. My mobile hotspot was battery-powered. I had just tossed it behind a utility box in the stairwell. He was never going to locate it. After Frank went back home, he fired off another barrage of voice messages in the chat. "Fine! Real nice! You want to play dirty?!" "I dare you to never turn it off! Don't let me catch you!" "When I find out who's doing this, I'm going to slaughter your whole family!" "Still not admitting it? Then listen up! For every day that trash network stays on, my BBQ joint is staying open until dawn! You're all going to suffer!" "Nobody is getting any sleep!" The group chat remained silent. But I knew the number of people secretly cheering had skyrocketed. Unfortunately, a single person rebelling wasn't enough. Frank's retaliation hit everyone right where it hurt. From that day on, the BBQ joint stayed open until 2 or 3 AM. This was a paradise for all the local bachelors and drunks. Every night, they ate, drank, and sang loudly right below our building, making it impossible to sleep. A group of fed-up residents created a private side-chat to vent about the family's tyranny. It turned out those 70+ rules weren't just bluffs. One family upstairs was just fixing their balcony drain, and Frank's family splashed red paint all over their door! The sidewalk and fire lanes in front of the shop were treated as their private property. Nobody else was allowed to use them. Brenda was like a walking nuclear weapon. They never paid HOA fees, yet she forced the complex's janitorial staff to clean the greasy mess inside and outside their restaurant. If anyone dared complain, she would block their door and curse out their ancestors for hours. Not to mention their bratty kid. He threw rocks at cars, wiped boogers on the elevator buttons, and spat on people walking by. His parents always defended him, their favorite catchphrase being, "Why are you arguing with a child?" It was a history of blood and tears for the older residents. But in the end, nobody dared to actually confront them. After all, everyone had elderly parents and young kids to worry about. Fighting with psychopaths would only end badly for them. Well, well, well. Looks like it was time for me to take the stage. 4 After that printed notice incident, the BBQ family kept their heads down for a while. One day, I was curled up on the couch watching a show when someone started smashing my door. "Open the door! You bastard! Get the hell out here!" I didn't open it. I looked through the peephole and saw Frank's face, twisted and deformed with rage. "Who is it?" "Keep playing dumb! Keep playing fcking dumb!" He slammed his fist hard against the door panel. "I checked the security footage! The one who posted that notice the other day was you, you piece of trash!" Oh, he finally figured it out. Slower than I expected. I let out a scoff, kept the security chain fastened, and cracked the door open. "Wow, it took you this long to find out, Frank? With that kind of efficiency, no wonder you're stuck running a trashy BBQ joint." Frank tried to force the door open, but the chain held tight. He could only slam his shoulder uselessly against the metal. "I'll fcking kill you! You have a death wish!" I taunted him. "Just to let you know, I posted the notice, and I was the one who changed the WiFi name to the Fetus Deleter. You mad? Are your lungs about to explode?" Frank completely lost his mind. Like an enraged wild animal, he kicked and smashed my security door. Bang! Bang! Bang! The deafening noise echoed through the hallway, making the entire floor vibrate. "You just wait!" He finally got tired of hitting the door. "If I don't drive you out of this neighborhood, my name isn't Frank!" With that, he stomped down the stairs. I casually shut the door and locked it. Wait? Alright. I'll be waiting. 5 3:00 AM the next morning. A massive, muffled booming sound erupted. It shook the floorboards so hard they vibrated. I jolted upright in bed, completely disoriented. The noise was continuous, a deep, heavy bass that pierced right through the walls and floors. Even the window panes were rattling. This wasn't just a standard floor-thumper. This was a professional-grade subwoofer, pressed flush against the ceiling. That was a genuinely dirty move. And calling the cops wouldn't work. Frank and his family had definitely checked into a hotel for the night. When the police arrived, he could just use an app to remotely turn it off. They wouldn't catch him in the act. Besides, I despised relying on the cops for things like this. But I had to admit, the effect was devastating. Covering my head with a pillow did nothing. The bass drilled into my ears from every direction. In less than ten minutes, my temples were throbbing, and I felt so nauseous I wanted to throw up. The neighborhood group chat exploded: "Holy crap! Is it an earthquake?" "What the hell is going on?! Who's blasting bass in the middle of the night? My kid is terrified!" Frank quickly admitted it in the chat: "Just testing out some new audio equipment. There might be a little vibration. Everyone just endure it for a few days." Then he sent another message: "I can't help it if it's keeping you awake. If you want to blame someone, blame that troublemaker in 602! She brought this on herself, now she can suffer the consequences!" He pointed the spear right at me. People started tagging me in the chat: "@602, what's going on? Can you fix this?" "@602, we can't take this anymore. Did you provoke Frank? Just apologize to him and ask him to turn it off! Don't make us suffer because of you!" It seemed Frank wanted to use the collective resentment of the entire complex to crush me. A bunch of cowards acting like lapdogs for a BBQ owner. I sneered and typed rapidly: "@ExtremeBBQ, if you want to test your equipment, take your time." "Also, you better not turn it off. I was just looking for a good lullaby." 6 Was I going to fight him with sonic warfare? Too low-level, and too noisy for me. If I actually did that and things escalated, he would just push the blame onto me, playing right into his hands. If I was going to play, I was going to do something much more disgusting, much more lingering, and specifically targeted at him. Early the next morning, I drove straight to the largest farmer's market on the outskirts of the city. I stopped at a stall selling fermented goods. "Boss, give me a bottle of your most pungent stinky tofu brine, and a jar of fermented fish juice." When I got the goods, I popped the lid slightly. The smell was ungodly. I paid and left without hesitation. When I got home, the subwoofer bombardment had already stopped. Taking advantage of the fact that Frank's family was catching up on sleep, I tipped the two jars of biochemical warfare sideways and placed them right under my window—directly above their bedroom and living room windows. I cracked the lids open just a fraction. The juices dripped down, drop by agonizing drop. Instantly, the stench acted like an invisible poison gas, seeping right down through their window cracks. After setting the trap, I locked my balcony door and went back to sleep. The results were immediate. Brenda bombarded the group chat with voice memos, gagging between words: "Which sick psycho dumped garbage juice down our windows?! It smells like death! We can't even open the doors! My kid is throwing up!" She targeted me directly: "@602, is it you, you bitch?! Clean up that smell right now! Or I swear I'll kill you!" I casually typed back: "@HappyFamily, Brenda, you need proof before you speak. I was sleeping perfectly fine in my apartment. What does your smelly window have to do with me? Maybe your sewer pipe exploded?" "Call the cops? Sure, go ahead. When the officers get here, they can check out how well your new 'audio equipment' is testing. Boom, boom, boom—the whole building heard it." The group chat went quiet. The stench was unbearable, but they had no proof I did it, and it only affected their unit. Meanwhile, that infuriating subwoofer had demonstrably tortured the entire building! Frank went completely radio silent, but I wasn't about to let it go. That was just the appetizer. His restaurant was his lifeblood. Around 4 or 5 AM, shortly after the BBQ joint closed. I put on a disguise, hopped on a rented bike, and casually rolled past his storefront. From my backpack, I grabbed several huge handfuls of a mixed birdseed blend—millet and cracked corn—and scattered it evenly across the sidewalk, the front steps, the shop's awning, and even tossed some into the bed of his supply truck. I rode away, a silent phantom in the night. For the first two days, nothing much happened. Starting on the third day, people passing by in the morning started posting photos in the chat: "Oh my god! Why is there so much bird poop in front of Extreme BBQ? It's a blanket of white!" "Disgusting! You can't even step anywhere!" "Is Frank going to clean this up? Does he even want to do business?" Frank assumed it was a freak accident and replied that he'd clean it up. That afternoon, right before opening, he spent hours with a power hose, exhausting himself to get it clean. However, the fourth day. The fifth day. Every single morning, a dense, targeted layer of bird droppings precisely carpet-bombed the ground and sign of his shop. It looked like the place had been hit by an airstrike. Frank's cleaning speed couldn't keep up with the frequency and volume of the avian air drops. Photos flooded the neighborhood chat. "Holy crap! Frank, your shop is getting carpet-bombed by birds!" "That is so vile!" "Frank, did you commit some terrible sin? Even the birds can't stand you!" Frank finally caught on. He frantically tagged me in the chat: "@602! Was it you scattering birdseed in front of my shop, you shady rat?! Playing these dirty tricks!" I instantly replied with an innocent-sounding voice memo: "@ExtremeBBQ, Frank, your imagination is running wild! Why would I do that?" "Who says it's birdseed? Maybe your BBQ is just so delicious it perfectly suits the birds' tastes?" Then I twisted the knife: "Besides, birds pooping is an Act of God. The police can't exactly arrest a pigeon. You better hire a professional cleaning crew, otherwise you're going to go out of business." Frank didn't say another word. The subwoofer downstairs never played again. Standing on my balcony, gazing at the absolute mess of a BBQ joint in the distance, I felt incredibly refreshed.
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