10 Minute Tales

May 30 - Racket

He stared at the wall in silent desperation. That damned kid was playing the same inane song at maximum volume, and it was keeping him awake. He couldn't take this. Grunting quietly as he got up from his hard, bug-riddled bed, he reluctantly grabbed his slippers and threw them on, before marching - or, at least, lurching - to his neighbour's door. He hammered on the door as loud as his aching bones would allow, timing it with a lull in the cacophony they called music. The door swung open; a lanky, greasy-haired, spotty excuse for a young man leaned against the door.
"Sah, dude?" He asked. The smell of cheap liquor and nasty fumes the old man couldn't place wafted through the air, nearly making him cough.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" He was able to grumble. The teenager frowned, rolling his eyes a little.
"Sure do. What, you goin' senile already?" His voice developed a cruel, mocking tone. "Need someone to help find you some matchin' slippers?" This threw the old man off-guard for a moment; a quick glance revealed his matched. The teen burst out into obnoxious laughter at the sight, making the old man growl in anger.
"If you don't turn that racket down, I'm calling the police!" He decided to cut to the chase.
"Ooh, so scary." The teenager continued to mock. "I've been with the police before, they couldn't pin nothin' on me then, they won't next time. Just calm your tits and go back to the old folk's home, grandpa."
"Hey, Ethan!" Another voice called from within the flat. The old man grit his teeth slightly; he had doubted he could take this Ethan in a fight, he didn't want to risk the odds of including his friends. "You gonna be out there much longer? Next round's starting."
"Gimme a second!" Ethan yelled back, glowering at the old man. "If you want me to turn it down, tough luck. Only way this party's stopping is when everyone's gone home, a'ight?" He turned and walked into the room, slamming it shut again. The old man relaxed a little, but his face betrayed his mounting anger. At least he had a name to go by. Ethan. The old man turned around and shuffled back to his room. He didn't know the last name, but he knew the first and he knew the address.
"You're gonna regret messing with an ex-cop, kid." He muttered, fishing a piece of paper out of his pocket. Folded in its confines was a telephone number and a simple message. The number connected directly to the division he had retired from three months ago. "You and your music are done."