Chapter 3: Escalation

The next day, when I stepped out, an even worse stench than before hit me. I almost fainted.

The faded carpet still had stains from last Halloween’s party, and someone had taped up a faded "No Soliciting" sign next to the elevator. But nothing could distract from the new horror show: someone had smeared dog crap all over my door.

No wonder nobody in the building dares mess with the folks in 1601—those two had zero shame.

It was the kind of petty, disgusting move you’d expect from a college prank war, not grown adults in an apartment building.

I paid someone to clean my door, but I didn’t bother arguing with them.

Arguing only works with reasonable people. To beat a scoundrel, you have to out-scoundrel them.

So I bought a bottle of high-concentration stink spray—non-toxic, but absolutely foul.

Had to order it from a novelty shop in Jersey; it arrived in a brown box with a warning label and a smiley face. When the couple went out together, I slipped over and gave their door frame and doormat a thorough soaking. I didn’t spare the dozen or so pairs of shoes scattered around either—they all got a good dose.

When they came home that night, they stopped halfway through unlocking the door.

Then the two of them crouched down like bloodhounds, sniffing the door, then the frame, then the shoes. The wife gagged and nearly puked.

I was clutching my stomach, cracking up behind the peephole.

The next second, my door was pounded with a "BANG BANG" that rattled the ceiling.

I opened the door a crack. The hallway tyrant’s finger was practically poking my eye as he roared, "Was it you, you jerk?"

His breath reeked of cheap coffee and pure rage. I could see a little vein throbbing at his temple.

I put on my best innocent face: "What?"

"Don’t play dumb! That stink at my door—who else could it be but you!"

"Did you see me spraying anything at your door with your own eyes? Someone smeared crap on my door too. For all I know, it was you. Was it?"

"You..."

The bald man suddenly yanked my door open and tried to grab my collar, but I was faster and caught his wrist.

Strength-wise, I’m not exactly a pushover.

At this point, his wife came out to back him up.

She stood behind him, hands on her hips, shrieking like a banshee:

"Don’t pretend you’re innocent! We know exactly what you’re up to. Rotten bastard, karma’s gonna get you, you know that? People like you always get what’s coming."

Her voice echoed down the hall, probably making the folks on 17 cringe. "Jerk, heartless scum—you’ll get what’s coming to you!"

Tsk, losing their cool already? Not so fun now, is it?

When you smeared crap on my door, I didn’t even act like this.

No matter how much they cursed, I stuck to one line: "Don’t know, no idea, wasn’t me."

Just stonewalling them.

The hallway tyrant had no evidence, couldn’t break my grip, so he yanked his hand back, grinding his teeth so hard I thought they’d crack: "Fine, you just wait. I’m telling you, this isn’t over."

The stink spray lasted for days—their place reeked like a sewage explosion.

People upstairs and downstairs started whispering: was 1601 pooping at their own door every day? The couple was so furious they cussed out everyone in the group, forbidding anyone from gossiping.

The lady downstairs heard about my feud and worried for me: "Jake, that couple isn’t just difficult—they’re shameless. If you get into trouble with them, going to the building manager or the cops won’t help."

She texted late at night, anxious, but I shrugged it off. Hey, whether it’s me or them who cracks first and calls the cops, we’ll just have to see.