It started at exactly 11:42 p.m. on a Tuesday.

A sudden, bone-rattling thud shook the bedroom wall. Then came the unmistakable sound of furniture being dragged, something metal clanging against tile, and a woman yelling:

Harley: “NO, BUD, SPIT THAT OUT! THAT’S NOT YOURS, THAT’S A FLAMETHROWER!”

followed by a deep, animalistic giggle. From the apartment next door, 3B, came the chaotic soundtrack of what could only be described as an unlicensed circus, Loud punk music playing through what had to be industrial-grade speakers, Heavy stomps and roller skates scraping across the floor.

It didn’t stop.

The next morning? More noise. Pots clanging. Singing, loud and off-key:

Harley: “Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an- HEY BUDDY! DROP THE STOCKING OR YOU’RE GOIN’ IN TIMEOUT!”

Then one evening, here was a knock on their door. And there she was. Blonde pigtails, red and black hoodie, one roller skate on, the other being chewed on by what was very clearly a small, grinning hyena. She held up a pie.

Harley: “Heya, neighbor!” she chirped. “Sorry about the racket lately, been teachin’ my babies how to line dance and uh…Long story!”