A Fire Extinguisher is My Answer to Bad Neighbors
The fire extinguisher felt heavier than it should.
Or maybe it was just the weight of what I was about to do.
The polished steel door of Unit 15A stared back at me, impassive.
Inside, I could hear their laughter.
They thought they could break me.
They didn’t know I was already broken.
And I was about to show them just how many sharp pieces I had.
§01
My new life was supposed to start with the turn of a key.
A clean break, a quiet space.
The kind of peace you pay for with every penny you have, in a high-rise condo that promises serenity in its glossy brochure.
The Meridian.
Even the name sounded like a line drawn between my chaotic past and a tranquil future.
But peace, I was quickly learning, was a fragile thing.
And my new neighbors, the Shepherds in 15A, were experts at breaking things.
It started in the private residents' Facebook group.
Amidst posts about lost packages and noise complaints, a new kind of advertisement appeared.
It was a slick, professionally designed graphic featuring a shirtless, oiled-up man flexing his biceps.
The man was Dax Shepherd, my upstairs neighbor.
The headline read: **UNLOCK YOUR PRIMAL POTENCY.**
“For just $5,000, I can help you get pregnant,” he boasted in the comments. “My seed is top-tier. I guarantee a son. Seven times a night, ladies. Time is limited, so act fast!”
He followed it up with a bizarre declaration: “Imagine it! A whole building of little brothers. What a beautiful community we could build.”
The group chat, usually a placid stream of suburban pleasantries, erupted.
People were disgusted, furious.
But Dax and his wife, Kendra, were relentless, batting away every complaint with a bizarre mix of new-age jargon and outright aggression.
I’d just bought this place.
Just unpacked my first box, my black cat Poe circling my ankles and my dog Kodiak sniffing every corner.
And now this.
I scrolled through the chaos, a familiar cold dread icing my veins.
I called the HOA.
“Ah, the Shepherds,” the building manager sighed, his voice thick with resignation. “We’ve sent them notices. They don’t care. Honestly, we’ve lost good residents because of them. You’ve already moved in, so… just try to bear with it.”
The line went dead.
*Bear with it.* The story of my life.
§02
Back in the Facebook group, Kendra was on a roll.
“We are providing a service to humanity! I’ve done the research. Out of 500 residents in this building, 272 of you are single women. You all claim you don’t want to get married or have kids. What happens when the human race dies out, huh? For five thousand dollars, we’re offering you a chance at legacy.”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
This was a new level of insanity.
And in that moment, something inside me, something I usually kept heavily medicated and locked away, stirred.
A manic little spark.
*Fine,* it whispered. *You want crazy? I’ll show you crazy.*
I changed my profile picture.
Found the most ridiculously over-the-top photo of a muscle-bound man posing coyly I could find.
Then, I typed.
“Wow, that body is incredible. I’m into it. How about me? No need for a baby boy, just you. It’s so hard to find a good top these days.”
The group went silent.
A profound, beautiful, digital silence.
Five minutes later, Kendra unleashed a series of sixty-second voice memos, her shrieking voice polluting the chat.
I didn’t listen.
Instead, I posted a few more pictures—leather harnesses, complicated-looking restraints.
“So, are you S or M, big boy?” I typed. “You’re in 15A, right? I’m coming up.”
And then, fueled by a reckless energy I hadn't felt in months, I grabbed a baseball cap and bolted for the elevator.
Kendra’s posts became frantic.
“GAY MEN, DO NOT ENGAGE! MY HUSBAND IS STRAIGHT! DON’T YOU COME NEAR HIM!”
I reached their door.
15A.
And I started knocking.
Pounding.
Kicking the door for good measure.
A man’s voice roared from inside. “Get the hell away from here! I’m not into guys!”
A woman screamed.
“I’ll report you for sexual harassment!” he bellowed.
Get away?
Oh, no.
The game had just started.
I leaned in close to the peephole, making sure my eye was the only thing visible, and waited.
I heard a muffled curse, then the sound of his heavy footsteps approaching the door.
He was going to look.
A sudden, sharp gasp from inside, followed by a much louder, more satisfying string of profanities.
“You sick freak! Get away from my door!”
I let out a low, gravelly chuckle for effect, then calmly took out a piece of gum and stuck it over his peephole.
Back in my apartment, I saw a new flurry of activity in the group.
The Shepherds were gone.
In their place were a half-dozen private message requests from other residents.
“OMG, that was epic.”
“You are my new hero.”
“Finally, someone who knows how to shut them up.”
A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time since I moved in.
§03
The next morning, the Shepherds’ business cards were slipped under every door on my floor.
I tore mine into tiny pieces, but the calls started an hour later.
“Hey there, heard you’re looking for a good time. I’ve got all the gear ready at the hotel…”
I sighed. “Listen, man. You’ve been played by a homophobe. I’m a woman. Probably not your type.”
The cutesy voice on the other end dropped several octaves.
“That son of a bitch. He gave out your number?”
“Looks like it.”
“He thinks he can mess with us? He thinks we’re just a joke?” The man was furious.
An idea sparked.
“He lives in 15A,” I said sweetly, and gave him the address to a very exclusive, very private gay men’s social club I’d found online. “I’m sure he’d love for you and your friends to pay him a personal visit.”
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