15. Crackheads shitting in the hallway.
“I lived in an apartment building with a ‘cursed apartment’ at the end of the hall. The first guy that lived there got robbed in the alley on his first night. The people snatched his wallet and slashed his face with a razor for no reason. The next people were smoking something that wasn’t weed most of the time. One night one of them had a major breakdown or bad trip or something started smashing furniture and generally freaking out. I had to call the cops and he was taken away ranting and raving on a stretcher completely naked. The people that moved in after were crack dealers. People pounding on the door at all hours. One dude outside asked me if I knew the people in Apartment 10 because he had been ringing their doorbell for 3 hours. Okay, crack fiend. Having a crack dealer living in your apartment building leads to something wretched known as Hallway Shitters. In my case, it was Stairwell Shitters. Apparently, crack makes you shit yourself uncontrollably sometimes. And they would void their bowels in the stairwell on occasion. Just lovely. Those people got evicted.”
16. He would moan loudly while masturbating.
“Our downstairs neighbor has been dubbed ‘Moany.’ At least once a week, he unleashes a series of anguished, banshee-esque wails, always after midnight. Eventually, my next door neighbor (Drunky, different story) called the cops. He though Moany was in some manner of trouble.
The cops were pounding on the door. Moany keeps a-moaning. One cop is interviewing people in the building. Moany keeps a-moaning. Finally, the officer gives an ultimatum: open the door or we bust it down.
Turns out Moany is fine. Just INCREDIBLY vocal when engaging in self-pleasure.
17. He shot our cats.
“As kids, we had a neighbor that we called Mr. Paul. Mr. Paul seemed like a generic older man…he was Southern, had a garden, and actually helped build most of the houses in our neighborhood. The first week that we moved in, he brought over fresh cucumbers and tomatoes from his garden! So sweet!
Mr. Paul was also…eccentric. In the summer he would sit in a lawn chair on his front porch to sun himself. By the end of the summer, his flabby skin and beer gut would be a leathery golden brown. He also once got in a fist fight with his son, who pummeled him mercilessly until we got involved.
But Mr. Paul would also shoot squirrels on his property… they ate the bird seed he put out for birdwatching. He would shoot them and apparently other animals, and we learned later that he was a pretty good shot. While he was our neighbor, three of our cats got mysterious gunshot wounds, all three had direct shots to the chest. Two cats miraculously survived – one had the bullet lodged in her sternum, and the other’s bullet came to rest in his arm fat. But the third cat, Ava, I found clinging to life next to our house. She was shot in the chest, and it turns out the bullet ripped through her body, destroying everything in its path. At 7yrs old I watched as they put her down, and held her body as it stiffened on the way home from the vet. He died several years later…I hated him, and I definitely don’t miss him.