With A Fuse That's So Thoroughly Shot

Burn down the disco, hang the blessed DJ.
Because the music that they constantly play,
It says nothing to me about my life.
- The Smiths

Part One:
When they set the tone for the evening, it was clear that subtlety had no place in the proceedings. The bass line thudded into our building unannounced, leaching through every door jamb in our floor and drumming away at the glass panes in our windows. The music hammered its beat up to my temples, where I felt my temper gather into swollen, livid clots stoppering my vessels.

AH AIN'T NO HOLLABACK GIRRRL AH AIN'T NO HOLLABACK GIIIIIRRRRL!!!!

Where in god's name is that shit coming from?? I flung open our windows and poked my head out into the cool evening, squinting at nearby houses and buildings, but the view only looked back at me innocently before their own shadows reclaimed them. Gwen Stefani was still belting away somewhere, and I decided that it was probably from the construction outfit next door; occasionally, music blasted out from some radio in the site, but it often petered out in less than fifteen minutes.

No harm in letting the workers have their portion of fun, I thought, as I stepped out to the stairwell with a book and a glass of soda. Even then, I thought it was curious for the construction crew to choose Gwen Stefani, or even the hip-hop track that came right after Hollaback Girl. In previous nights when the crew turned up the volume, it was almost always because Air Supply or Michael Learns to Rock came on, and I would later hear a couple of discordant male voices straining to hit the right notes.


Part Two:
But this time around, track after track of fecal hip-hop music shot out into the night, and our building – our floor, particularly – seemed to be right in their path. Well, fucking shit, I said to myself, taking a long draught from my glass. How in god's name were we supposed to get any rest with all this revolting music catapulting at us? The window panes hadn't stopped quaking, and I began to suspect that the construction site had nothing to do with it all. The worst part about it was that the music disclosed no signs of letting up; it kept on thrumming at every available surface until I was fit to be tied myself.

I drew up to the nearest window, and in no time, had picked out the locus from which the racket was booming out. At the top floor of FBR Building, a stone's throw away from ours, I could trace out the revolution of disco lights and their exaggerated sweep, could make out a line of heads bobbing to Nelly and his yammering henchmen.

I think I was relatively calm until I found the source of the music, most likely a sem-ender party thrown by a bunch of pompous rats flush with Daddy's easy money. Something kicked in me, kicked strong enough to punt my heart out from its warren and pitch a grenade in to replace it.

Before I even thought of it, I scooped up my book and my glass of soda and flew down the four flights of stairs with steam blowing out from my ears in hot white opaque funnels. I need hooves and horns, boys! I need a crimson sheet and a nervous matador! Give me a dusty stadium and a matador to kill fucking fucking fucking shit who do those brats think they are fucking shit it's nearly midnight and now I can't even sleep and my sister can't sleep and Gwen Stefani's voice is still careening about in my head give me that fucking squiggly-nerved matador I want his blooooood —


Part Three:
"Whoa, where are you going?"

I paused mid-step, huffing. It was Joel – he had been working his way up the stairwell, and I'd nearly bowled into him in my rush. "There," I pointed to FBR, clearing my throat. "Their music's blaring right into our fucking floor. I swear to god it's fucking noisy."

He turned his head and cocked his ear. Sure enough, a fresh round of beats was starting, and Joel winced. "Ugh, it's that hip-hop shit," he said, disgust plain on his face. "Wait, are you going to tell them off?"

"You bet I am," I said, hurrying off once again, instantly regretting the fact that I'd brought my book and glass with me, both of which were becoming a little cumbersome. It also hit me that my anger had begun to spike at the level of hysterics, hardly anything new.

Striding into the first floor of FBR Building, I halted briefly in front of a mirror and realized that I hadn't even run a comb through my hair, which was now in a hopeless wild tangle. Plus, I was wearing only boxers and a large shirt – I scarcely cut a commanding figure. But then I turned to the elevators and saw a sign taped near the doors: PRESS D TO BREAK YO SELF. I hopped into the first elevator that came, pressed D, and broke mah self. These morons ought to be shot.


Part Four:
A faint ding announced that I was finally in D. D for Deck. D for Dolts Weighted With Bling. D for Dickheads Who Impose Their Bad Music Upon The Neighborhood. As I stepped out, the music roared at me, louder than I had first imagined it to be. At least 80 kids stood around on the dance floor, all of them looking powdered and coiffed and giggly – even the guys, who were all probably fairies anyway. Their brains, alas, were jellied over on the floor in a quivering mess. A few heads turned towards me, confused. Oh my god ha, who's that girl in the pambahay shirt? What's she doing here making tambay? Oh my god is she actually joining this par-tay? Maybe she's somebody's yaya!

I tossed my head and surveyed the scene. Okay, plan of attack. Wait, there is no plan, all you wanted was blood. Wait, I don't want to end up in jail, but yes I want blood. Focus! I can't, it's too loud!! Focus! Okay! There's the bartender. Okay! There's the bartender, go for the jugular.

I cut through the crowd and made a beeline for the bar, a makeshift wooden structure that seemed ready to spring free of its own shape. A smooth-faced boy, too young to seriously be a bartender, bent into an Igloo to retrieve beers, and I took a hold of his shoulder as he straightened up.

"Hey, man." I said, pinning him with a look so malevolent I was hoping he would crumple up and pee in his own pants. "Who's managing this party?"

He stared at me in undisguised surprise, his jaw slackening. "What? Wh-what?"

"I said, WHO'S MANAGING THIS PARTY???"

"Um, ah, the girl, that girl, in white, um, ah, the girl in front of her, not the girl in white—"

"WHAT?" I said, crossing my arms. "What girl in white? Who the fuck is managing this party?"

"Ah, the girl, in white, see her? Um, there's a girl in front of her, that girl, she's the one in charge—"

He bolted with the rest of his sentence trailing behind him, and I shrugged and made my way to the Barbie Doll he pointed out. She had her arms looped around a guy, and she bounced to the music so much I expected her limbs to snap clean off her torso. "Excuse me," I said when I was close enough, feeling a little pacified now. Must exterminate Queen Ant. "Are you handling this party here?"

She turned to face me and gave a cloying smile. "Oh, yeeeaah," she trilled. "Yeah, hi, what's the—" The Barbie Doll looked me over, studied my boxers and my book and my glass of Coke, suddenly baffled. She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind one ear and said, "Um, did you just arrive?"

"Yeah, I did. Are you in charge of the party?"

She brightened up, and led me away from her group. "Yah! Hey, have you paid yet? Do you want to stay? You need to pay a hundr—"

"I'M NOT HERE FOR THE PARTY!" I said, exploding again. "I need to talk to you for a sec." I motioned at her to follow me, and when we found a spot that wasn't as noisy, I faced her, putting my hands on my hips. "I'm not sure if you realize this, kid, but you're holding this party right in the middle of a residential area, where people are trying to sleep—"

"What?" She looked completely bewildered. A flush of irritation crept into her expression. Oh my god, who's this girl in the pambahay outfit ba? Why is she making sigaw to me?


Part Five:
The beats continued to pound away, and a few kids brushed past to pay for the entrance fee. I sighed. "Orright, let me explain. Your music is blasting the living hell out of our building. We live on the fourth floor of that structure," I said, pointing to my own building standing mute. "I'm sorry to be so goddamn blunt, but it's difficult to get any rest when you—" I peered at her and felt like giving up. The Barbie Doll swayed a little on her heels, still looking a little stunned, and seemed to wait for me to say some more. "Oh, goddammit. Look, where are you from anyway?"

In a split second, her face rearranged itself, and she gave me a smug half-smile. "I'm from Ateneo," she said.

Well, fucking shit, that explains it, I thought to myself. I'd always hated that university and the way the students cheapened any damn language, all those prrang's and those now na's and those make tusok tusok the motherfucking fishballs. Shit, it was also my school, but I was never one for school spirit, anyway.

I shook my head at her. "Look, kid. I'm from Ateneo, too. What I'm trying to say is that your music is too loud."

The Barbie Doll turned to look at the DJ, who was sweating over the vinyl. Her shoulders were slumped now, and she turned to me with a beaten look in her eyes. "Do you want us to tone it down?"

'YES!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up. "Yes, please!"

"Okay!" She nodded her head, looked at me for a moment, and began to walk to where the DJ and his turntable were stationed.

"Thanks, much appreciated," I called out, sliding into an elevator when it creaked open. On my way out of the building, I was surprised to see Joel standing over a bunch of inert guards seated by the entrance.

"There you are!" He gestured at the guards impatiently. "I was trying to tell them what a noise that party was making. You were right! It all goes right into our floor!"

"Oh, yeah," I nodded, feeling a touch depleted. All that excitement took a bit of puff out of me. "Don't worry, though, I told them off."

"Hah, good for them. What if they bring the volume back up?"

"Punyeta, if they try it, I'm charging right up again to that dumb little soiree of theirs." When we got up to the fourth floor, though, the improvement was encouragingly palpable; the window panes were still, and the music was fainter now and less affronting. I was, however, taken aback at how I was actually imperious and rude at both the young bartender and the Barbie Doll. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't have stood for such behavior from myself.

But there's just no excuse for braying out music in the middle of the night, at exactly those hours when folks are trying to get some shut-eye. It's flat-out inconsiderate and ill-mannered. So goddammit, I say fight fire with fire. And if you happen to have a flamethrower, why, all the better. It'll only make for a rather fine barbecue.