When our obnoxious new neighbor hijacked our shared garden for his wild parties, peace seemed impossible. Desperate for quiet, I discovered his unprotected sound system. My plan? Take over his speakers and make him regret ignoring our pleas for calm.
Hey, I’m Elton, and I’m finally spilling the beans on a sly bit of revenge I pulled off a few years back. If you’ve ever had a loud neighbor, you’ll love this.
My then-girlfriend, Pippa, and I lived in a cozy building with a shared garden—a little oasis of calm. Pippa and I had made it our home. That is, until Rupert moved in, shattering our tranquility like a wrecking ball.
Rupert arrived on a Friday, which should’ve been a warning sign. Friday move-ins scream, “I’m here to party all weekend.” And he did not disappoint.
By Saturday night, the walls were throbbing with bass from his speakers.
Our peaceful building turned into a frat house nightmare. The music was so loud, it rattled your bones, even with earplugs.
I remember that first night clearly. Pippa, buried in her nursing textbooks, had set up in the living room to escape the noise, but it was no use. Her frustration was plain, her eyes narrowing as she tried to focus.
“This is absurd,” she snapped, slamming her book shut. “How am I supposed to study with this racket?”
“We’ll talk to him tomorrow,” I promised, though I wasn’t optimistic. Rupert didn’t strike me as the reasonable type.
The next morning, I knocked on Rupert’s door, joined by half the building, all looking as exhausted and irritated as I felt.
Rupert answered with a smirk, his messy hair and wrinkled clothes suggesting he’d barely slept. The stench of alcohol hit me, making my nose scrunch.
“Can I help you?” he asked, clearly knowing why we were there.
“Hey, Rupert, we’re your neighbors,” I started, aiming for friendly. “We wanted to talk about the noise last night. It’s really disruptive, and some of us have work or school.”
Rupert leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Look, mate, I have a right to enjoy my place. If you don’t like it, maybe you should move.”
I glanced at the others, all stunned by his arrogance. “We’re not asking you to stop having fun, just to keep it down a bit.”
His smirk grew. “I’ll think about it.” Then he shut the door in our faces.
Over the next few weeks, things worsened. Rupert’s parties got louder, wilder, and more frequent. The garden, once a cherished communal space, was littered with beer cans and cigarette butts.
Pippa’s frustration hit a peak when she found partygoers sprawled in the garden the morning of her big exam.
“I can’t take this anymore, Elton!” she cried, her eyes red from sleeplessness. “I need quiet to study. This is ruining everything.”
My anger matched hers. We tried earplugs, white noise machines, even crashing at friends’ places, but nothing worked. Seeing Pippa struggle made my blood boil. I had to act.
One evening, watching Rupert’s party from our window, an idea struck. Rupert had the same sound system as us, and I knew it lacked Bluetooth authentication. If I could hijack his speakers…
I spent the next few nights coding a program to take control of Rupert’s sound system. Pippa watched, torn between curiosity and concern.
“Is this a good idea?” she asked, biting her lip.
“It’s the only way,” I said. “Plus, it’ll be hilarious.”
The night came to test my creation. As Rupert’s party raged, I activated the program. Seconds later, piercing baby cries blasted through his speakers. Pippa and I peeked out the window, watching the chaos unfold.
Partygoers looked around, confused and annoyed. Rupert frantically messed with his sound system, but the cries continued.
Within an hour, the party had fizzled out, guests leaving in frustration. Pippa and I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Did you see his face?” she giggled. “Priceless!”
Rupert’s frustration was clear. Over the next week, he took his speakers for repairs multiple times, but the baby cries persisted. We had a front-row seat to his growing confusion.
“I think we broke him,” Pippa said one night, half-amused, half-worried.
“Good,” I replied, though I wondered if we’d gone too far. For now, though, Rupert’s bewilderment felt like sweet justice.
You’d think the baby-crying fiasco would’ve clued Rupert in, but he was stubborn. After his fourth or fifth failed repair attempt, he bought a brand-new, WiFi-enabled sound system. It was like he was daring us. The bass alone could’ve triggered an earthquake.
That weekend, the party was back, louder than ever. But Rupert made a critical mistake.
I was on our balcony, pretending to tolerate the chaos (I wasn’t), when I heard him yell his new WiFi password to a drunk friend.
“Hey, it’s ‘RupertRules123’!” he shouted, laughing like it was comedy gold.
Pippa, sitting nearby with her laptop, looked up. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, eyes wide.
“Oh, I heard it,” I said, my brain already scheming.
With a grin, I grabbed my laptop and headed inside, Pippa following, a mix of curiosity and worry on her face.
“What’s the plan?” she asked, peering over my shoulder as I opened some programs.
“I’m going to make Rupert regret discovering WiFi,” I said, fingers flying across the keyboard.
I spent the next few hours writing a program to wreak havoc on Rupert’s new system.
First, I hacked his router to keep changing the admin password. Then, I set it to stream the most grating sound imaginable—nails on a chalkboard—straight to his TV.
For an extra touch, every time his printer came online, it spat out creepy clown faces. And the speakers? Random volume spikes and drops. It was a digital chaos masterpiece.
Pippa watched, torn between admiration and fear. “Are we sure about this? What if we get caught?”
I smirked. “We won’t. Rupert’s too clueless to figure it out. Besides, he deserves it.”
That night, we watched from our balcony as the chaos unfolded. Rupert’s party started as usual, music blaring, people laughing. Then the nails-on-chalkboard sound screeched through his TV.
Partygoers cringed, covering their ears. Rupert ran around, trying to fix it, only for his printer to churn out creepy clown faces.
And the speakers—one minute deafening, the next a whisper.
“What the hell is going on?!” Rupert screamed, face red with frustration. He unplugged things, plugged them back in, but nothing worked.
Pippa nudged me. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe,” I grinned. “But it’s worth it.”
Over the next week, Rupert’s frustration grew. ISP technicians visited repeatedly, baffled and offering no fixes.
Every time Rupert thought he’d solved it, my program kicked in again, pushing him to the edge. His parties became desperate attempts to reclaim control, but they always ended in chaos.
The final straw came one Saturday night.
Rupert’s apartment was packed, music loud enough to shake windows. Suddenly, everything went haywire.
The TV screeched, the speakers surged then silenced, and the printer went wild. Rupert snapped.
He started yelling, throwing things, smashing dishes. Guests scattered, leaving him alone in his meltdown.
“That’s it!” he screamed. “I’m done! I’m outta here!”
Pippa and I watched, hiding our smiles. “Think he means it?” she asked.
“Definitely,” I said, feeling triumphant.
True to his word, Rupert moved out within a week. The building breathed a collective sigh of relief, our peace restored. The neighbors celebrated, unaware of our role. It was the quietest, happiest gathering we’d had in months.
Pippa and I savored the calm, relishing our small victory.
“Do you think we went too far?” she asked one evening, as we sat on the balcony watching the sunset.
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.”
Just as we settled back into our quiet routine, a moving truck pulled up. A new neighbor stepped out.
He seemed friendly, so we introduced ourselves.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking our hands. “I’m Basil. Just so you know, I love hosting karaoke nights.”
Pippa and I exchanged nervous glances.
