Like every Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of that lice-ridden bastard Szabolcs revving his motorbike under my window. That piece of crap does it every weekend, rattling away like he owns the street. God, how I hate that noise! As usual, it ruined my entire weekend. One day I’ll catch him. And when I do, he’ll remember it on his deathbed.
My neighbor’s vile son has definitely figured out my habits by now. Every single Saturday, just as I’m about to back out of the driveway, they stop right in front of the house with his precious mother. “Just for a second,” he always says, parking square in the middle of the street with all four doors open. He shoves the old bat into the back seat while his horse-faced wife lounges like some sort of throne-bound duchess in the front. And today, again, he flashed me that smug grin: “Just a moment, I’m putting Mom in.” As if that’s not exactly what he does every cursed Saturday when I try to leave. Well, I sure as hell won’t be smiling back at that sleazeball. Let him stew in it. I pulled out extra close to his tin-can deathtrap today. And I threw one of my best scowls at his dimwit wife. Let her feel how much I loathe her. They’re always there. Always. Just when I’m about to head to the store. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence. I’d bet anything they planned it: “That miserable neighbor always leaves at ten on Saturdays—let’s screw with him.”
And as if that wasn’t enough, that spotty-faced brat at the bakery grabbed the last cocoa roll—just to spite me. I saw the hesitation in her grimy little face. Waited till the last second, then snatched it the moment I reached for it. If I knew which school she went to, I’d have her expelled. Deservedly so. She’s a punk already, a full-blown delinquent in training. What kind of upbringing is that? Probably gets her ass kissed all day. Spoiled rotten, clearly. Two cocoa rolls, seriously? No way she eats both. Either she stuffed herself until she puked, or chucked one in the trash just so no one else could have it. Probably threw up all over a bench on the way home. Enjoy that surprise, whoever sits there next.
At least I managed to teach that idiotic mom a lesson. She was hogging two parking spaces just to wrangle her kid out of the car. And she had the audacity to get upset when I parked beside her. Please. I was well within the lines. It’s not my fault she’s knocked up again. Don’t come whining to me about how hard it is managing a toddler while pregnant. Should’ve kept those crooked legs shut—baggy pants won’t hide them. Everyone knows what kind of antlers she’s sprouting out back. Then she has the gall to complain she can’t unbuckle her snot-nosed kid thanks to her giant belly. If the brat can’t unclip himself, then tough luck—he’s well on his way to becoming a screw-up like his dad. That blockhead thinks he’s some big shot. But anyone can amass wealth by cheating the system. Two cars—wow. A Jeep and some dainty “ladies’ car” for his nympho wife. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s pimping her out. Some client probably knocked her up, now he’s footing the child support. What a racket. Wouldn’t put it past them—turn her into a luxury hooker, cash flowing in like clockwork.
By the time I got home, I already knew how I’d deal with Szabolcs and his damn motorbike. I’ll get my hands on some manure and spread it right over the sidewalk. So what if I can’t open the windows for a few days? I’ll get a bucketful from the slaughterhouse. If my clothes stink, who cares? That’s what washing machines are for. But that little punk is going to learn a lesson. His hag of a mother too. Let them learn once and for all that my window is not the racetrack for their snot-nosed kid and his plastic noise machine.