The cigarette smoking writer sniffs his fingers. Fuck, they're gonna smell that. Better wash my hands.
The cigarette smoking writer takes a look at what he's written, hand written - the neighbor below taps on the roof, a cue to muffle the bass-laden music pumping directly towards the floor; the cigarette smoking writer cranks it up - eight and a half pages on blank white paper. All shit. Scribble it out. Why the fuck am I scribbling out eight and a half pages of hand-written - the neighbor below bangs louder this time; the cigarette smoking writer has had enough and starts to kick right back atcha - prose?
The cigarette smoking writer looks around his room. He sees the posters of all his idols, all dead. Dead faces staring back at him - the neighbor below seems to have had enough of the give and take, he goes for his shotgun, but first a gentle rapping on the roof with the barrel - all gone in their prime. But, what if they'd lived? They'd turn out to be washed up, just like the Stones, the Dead, and all the rest. Jerry Garcia didn't bite it at 27 like he should have. Jerry Garcia fought through geriatric life, chasing his youth on the road 365 days a year.
The cigarette smoking writer stares down the barrel of the blank page. He can't think of anything to say, so he lights up again. And the words start to come - the neighbor below aims and cocks his shotgun; feeling with his hand for the main source of the insufferable pounding, then aiming a foot to the left; he lays his finger on the trigger one final time, pushing the end of the gun into the ceiling one more time, hoping it won't have to come to this - slowly at first, and then with a frenzy so hand-cramping he has to stop. Why don't I just type this out, it'd save years on my carpal tunnel.
The cigarette smoking writer stares at what he's written. Seems to satisfy him more than the others - the neighbor below, finally at his breaking point, pulls the trigger; but he should've squeezed, squeezed like his papa taught him to; the shot pulls back, shooting out the chandelier, causing it to fall upon his head, knocking him to the floor - but he knows he just narrowly averted death ... this time. I can't get too complacent. Next time, it'll be my ass.