THUM -THUM-THUMPA-THUMP-THUM

Bradley pounded on the wall with both fists, his drumming almost matching the rhythym of the thumping bass emanating from next door. He banged on the wall until he couldn’t stand anymore, then he slid to the floor, tears of frustration rolling down his face.

He hadn’t slept in two days.

He pulled himself together, a little embarrassed. He’d had it. He hadn’t gone next door because he hadn’t wanted to be a jerk, but etiquette could only take him so far. It was time to have a chat with these little bastards.

He stormed out of his apartment and down the hall, the crappy bright green wallpaper piercing his already exhausted eyes like red-hot needles.

To Bradley’s surprise, the door opened after one knock.

There was no one in front of him. Just that beat, that rhythym.

He could actually feel his eyes glaze over as he stepped forward. He smelled something like a fog machine, and sure enough, artificial fog spilled out the door.

Bradley had to dance. No choice.