Two or three guys enter the hall to the upstairs apartment. I, the innocent little downstairs-dweller, am sitting here. This is what I hear through the thin wall.
“That smells like poop.”
Mumble, mumble, mumble.
Keys unlock the upstairs door.
Sniff, grunt, mumble.
(What, are they drunk or something? It’s too early.)
“Yeah, that’s what Brian’s like…” and some strange groaning.
Dragging some sort of tarp-sounding thing upstairs.
A chime or something.
Singing. Yes, singing.
More speech I can’t make out.
A large burp.
Whistling. And it’s not me.
“What? Where’d he go? There it is.”
“Yep, it’s still there.”
More tarp rustling.
“No they’re not.”
More mumbling. These guys have communication problems.
I think I hear a TV or something.
“Whoa, juice!” (Well, that’s what it sounded like.)
No joke. I really did hear that in the last three minutes. I’m not making any of it up. (And yes, these are the same guys who watch Friends a lot.)
Not only that, one of them started singing “Dust in the Wind.”