Fatso wakes up to his PSW-appointment alarm at 7:45 AM and is immediately detecting cigarettes smoke even through the filters of his CPAP machine. He scrambles out of the mask and is welcomed by a mouthful of tasty cigaretty air. He pulls himself up out of bed panting with the effort and with fury.
"Fuckers!" he cries, loud enough to be heard by the Mexican embassy next door. He pulls on jeans and warm shirt. "THOSE FUCKERS!" he shouts, loud as he pretty much possibly can. He storms into the kitchen where Krisastor and Yougenius look up in alarm. Their bedroom doors are open and the kitchen is a muthirfucking cigarette smoke cesspool. Fatso bumbles into the bathroom, shuts the door HARD and pisses in the ash-rimmed toilet where butts and ashes have recently been flushed with monkey-grade precision.
He storms back through the kitchen where those fuckers have departed. He wrestles his coat off the hook, leans into his walker and stumbles outside, closing the kitchen door behind him with a BANG, notifying the Baron that a meltdown may be afoot.
It's Friday; a very cold one, and snowy and being forced out of his own room into this discomfort bumps the fatso-fury quotient into defcon 1.
He fumbles with his cell-o-phone and gets the manager on the line. "I cannot take this anymore! The whole unit reeks of smoke! I'm outside freezing because of those lunatics! They are smoking in their rooms every day and every night and I am not paying another dime of rent until they are EVICTED! They're doing illegal drugs every day! They don't wash their dishes! They steal things! I cannot take this shit ANYMORE!" Fatso's brain is positively on fire and he is winding himself into uncontrollable hysterics. He continues spitting threats and obscenities until he is too hysterical to form words.
"I'm on my way over!" says the manager.
To be continued.
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