Revenge War With My Psycho Neighbors / Chapter 1: Code of Conduct
Revenge War With My Psycho Neighbors

Revenge War With My Psycho Neighbors

Author: Noah Keller

Chapter 1: Code of Conduct

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My neighbor across the hall dropped a bomb in the building’s Facebook group:

"Attention, everyone: my wife is pregnant. To ensure she gets plenty of peace and quiet, I’ve written up a ‘Building Residents’ Code of Conduct.’"

He wasted no time posting ten of the most ridiculous rules I’d ever seen:

"No renovations, no dogs, no cooking at home, no using the elevator at night, no looking at your phone when you see my wife..."

The list stretched across the group chat like some HOA memo gone rogue, each new rule topping the last for sheer absurdity. I could practically see him hunched over his laptop, pounding out his demands like he was the sheriff of our building.

[First: My wife could fall asleep at any moment, so day or night, all residents are forbidden from making any noise.]

[Second: While my wife is pregnant, no one is allowed to do any renovations.]

[Third: My wife is afraid of dogs, so keeping dogs is banned. Anyone with a dog must get rid of it within three days.]

[Fourth: Considering radiation, if you run into my wife in the elevator, you’re not allowed to look at your phone.]

……

[Ninth: My wife can’t stand the smell of cooking, so residents on the 16th floor are forbidden from cooking at home.]

[Tenth: The elevator door is too loud when it opens, so after 9 p.m., residents on the 16th floor are forbidden from using the elevator.]

I stared at my phone, eyebrows climbing so high they practically hit my hairline. My mouth twitched in disbelief:

Is his wife pregnant with Superman or something? What gives him the right to boss the rest of us around like this?

The sheer nerve was almost impressive. I half-expected the next rule to be, "No breathing in the hallway."

And with only two apartments per floor, those last two rules? Obviously aimed straight at me.

The guy kept barking out orders: "From now on, all residents must follow this code. Admin, please tag everyone."

Weirdly, nobody called him out in the chat.

Maybe they could bite their tongues, but I couldn’t.

I fired back instantly: "What’s your wife’s pregnancy got to do with us? Are we all raising this kid together or something?"

My thumb hovered over send, and I grinned. Somebody had to say it, and it might as well be me. If you let one guy play building dictator, what’s next—mandatory bedtime?

Mr. 1601 went nuclear:

"What the hell are you talking about? Looking for trouble, huh?"

His replies came rapid-fire, like he was pounding the table between each line.

"I’m telling you, my wife’s pregnancy comes first. If anyone dares disturb her, I’ll make sure they regret it!"

"You jerk, which unit are you from? Why don’t you have your name on here? Admin, is this guy even from our building? If not, kick him out!"

Man, the ego on this guy.

But I’d tangled with plenty of loudmouths before.

I said, "Why do you care which unit I’m in? Your wife’s pregnancy has nothing to do with the rest of us, so you don’t get to dictate our lives."

I hit send, let out a low whistle, and stretched my legs across the battered coffee table. Not my first rodeo with a self-appointed neighborhood king.

The hallway tyrant sent a voice message, cussing me out like I’d insulted his whole bloodline back to the Revolutionary War.

His voice had this weird, nasal Jersey twang, like every disgruntled uncle at Thanksgiving. He even tried to add me as a friend, but I left him hanging.

The lady downstairs—the one who’d added me to the group—sent me a private message:

"Jake, don’t mess with the folks in 1601. Everyone knows—if you cross them, you’ll never get a moment’s peace. The last tenants in 1602 moved out because they couldn’t take it anymore."

She even threw in a nervous emoji, like she was warning me about the haunted house on the block. No wonder nobody else dared speak up—everyone was scared of drama.

Honestly? That just made me more curious.

I might not be good at much, but when it comes to dealing with jerks, I’m a seasoned pro.

1601 kept ranting in the group, repeating the same curses over and over.

I’d built up immunity to that kind of trash talk ages ago. Besides, this was just the opening act—I wasn’t about to waste energy arguing. I shut off my phone and got ready for bed.

A Yankees cap hung from my doorknob as I flipped off the kitchen light, the city’s hum sliding through the window like a lullaby. I was out cold before the next group ping could even light up my phone.

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