Penguins

Prompt:  The story must be influenced by music in some way
Genre:  Open
Word Count:  750 words
Deadline: Wednesday, 14 September 2011 – 8 PM EST

The bastards upstairs were at it again, another goddamn party, Some metal-grunge-rap crap I didn't care to hear at 10:30pm blasting through the ceiling rattling everything in my tiny apartment. I had another Miller, turned my stereo up as loud as I could, however Pete Fountain couldn't compete with the metal pounding through my skull. I grabbed a broom, began hammering on the ceiling to no no avail. They didn't hear my screaming or the broom through their no doubt alcohol soaked brains. 

  I suppose I should have called the cops as I had done before. Gloria would have me do that, she didn't want me to be facing these punks on my own. The cops would come by, say a few words an and ten minutes later, inevitably the little shits would start back up. Gloria wasn't here anymore though, the cancer you know,  just last week. She passed quickly. Lost in the memories of my wife I opened the Johnny Walker. I like a good Scotch. During my reverie I had forgotten the racket upstairs but a loud crash jerked me out of my reminiscences. I had had enough. I grabbed my Louisville Slugger signed by Ron Cey that had been hanging over the mantle since the 70's. Upstairs I hammered on the door with the bat. The music quieted and the door opened to 3 faces; none of whom I recognized.

“Hey, whats up old man”

“It's getting late could you turn the music off please”

The one in front snatched the bat so fast I barely registered it was gone before it was in my face.

“What you gon' do with this old man, hit somebody?” “How “bout I stick it up your skinny ass?”...whyn't you get the fuck out of here before you get hurt Pops” Then he poked me in the belly with my own bat.

Hunched over my aching stomach and humiliated I went back down to my place. Pulled on the Scotch 'til I sucked that bottle dry. Meanwhile the noise from upstairs increased. Every time someone laughed I got angrier, imagining I was the cause of that laughter. I knew that my anger while justified was not completely the fault of those kids. Hell, If I'd been their age I may have joined them. But I wasn't their age anymore, I was 3 times that; 65 years old, a Vietnam Vet, I didn't need this shit from some two-bit punks I would've mopped the floor with back in my prime. But knowing that didn't quell my anger, and the booze made it worse. I finally staggered into my closet and pulled my old G.I. Issue .45 off the shelf where I kept it cleaned and ready for use. What's the point in having a gun that's not ready to do it's job. I stepped out of my door and bumped my way up the stairwell. I banged on the door with the butt of the pistol. It flew open. I immediately fired one shot...

“No man he was crazy, he came up here with the bat, then a few minutes later he comes back with the pistol. I just got the door open , he put the gun under his chin, then pulled the trigger. He was just a crazy old man, that's all. Just crazy...