This story was originally written in German. My English isn't quite good enough to translate all the madness properly, so I once again had to ask the internet for help. Hopefully, most of the jokes survived the journey — although a few may have suffered permanent hearing damage along the way. _______________________________________________________________________________________________ Vacation. I thought: Finally. Time to chill. Sunshine. Put my feet up. Let my soul drift away. Yeah. Instead, I ended up in hell. With a VIP ticket. And complimentary ear bleeding. It starts first thing in the morning. Not with birds singing. Not with sunshine. But with the soundtrack of the apocalypse—Dolby Surround, bass turned all the way up. There’s a child living above me. I have no idea what its name is. I’ve never seen it. But I hear it. Every. Single. Goddamned. Day. Every. Single. Minute. And I’m telling you exactly how it is: That kid is riding something. Not metaphorically. Not just “running around.” Not “jumping on the couch.” No. It rides. An invisible pony. Directly above my head. Invisible, yes. Because otherwise the damn thing might eventually have to stop for grooming or something—and not spend all day making the walls shake. It has to be a pony. No child can tear through a 48-square-meter apartment at that speed, with that hoofbeat frequency and that level of reckless determination, without having a living creature with at least four legs underneath its ass. I actually Googled whether Shetland ponies are allowed as indoor pets. The answer: no. But honestly? Still more realistic than whatever the hell is happening upstairs. Maybe it isn't a pony. Maybe it's a galloping tank with a turbocharger. Or Godzilla riding a rodeo bull on speed. Either way, we're not talking clip-clop, clip-clop. We're talking: BOOM! BOOM! BANG! Like someone is filming an action movie directly inside my skull without bothering to ask for permission. Sometimes I wish the thing would at least have to pee or take a dump. Just so there'd be a few seconds of peace. But no. Invisible means full throttle. No stable smell. Just terror. It's like The Lone Ranger is up there riding patrol. On a rabid, overweight rhinoceros. Last week, I thought: I'm going to say something. I'll go upstairs. Ring the doorbell. And politely say: “Hey, could you maybe... uh... gallop a little more quietly? Or at least take the horseshoes off?” I made it as far as the stairs. Then a Playmobil monk came flying at me. With glue on its face. And I turned around. Because I'm not a martyr. I'm on vacation, not competing in the Olympic discipline of Dodging Flying Projectiles. And every time I think, Now it'll finally be quiet... Something else starts. Outside, in the street, another child is screaming. And no, this isn't some random noise. It's a ritual. An invocation. “MICHAELAAAAAA!!!” He screams “Michaela” like a maniac with a megaphone. And he even pronounces it with a hard K. So it's more like: “Mikaela!” Not once. Not briefly. No. The kid sounds like a deranged German crooner has been playing on an endless loop for ten years—on ecstasy, on a carousel, at 140 BPM. “MICHAELA! MICHAELAAAAAA!! MICHAAAAEEEELAAAAAAAAAA!!!” I've never heard him say anything else. Not “Hello.” Not “I'm tired.” Not “Mom, I want an apple.” Just Michaela. Again. And again. As if “MICHAELA” were the password to some secret treasure chamber. Or a mantra that only works if you scream it 500 times. Without taking a breath. Like someone who's already lost the battle but keeps fighting anyway. Except he's five years old. He screams that name with a passion as if he could prevent the end of the world. Sometimes desperate. Sometimes hysterical. Sometimes like a death wail—but always the same name. And Michaela? She's probably been gone for months. Or voluntarily removed herself from the gene pool just to escape that screaming. I don't know who Michaela is. I don't know what she did. But I know she deserved it. And I'm pretty sure that kid is never going to say anything else again. His future job interview will probably go something like this: “What are your greatest strengths?” “MICHAELAAAAAAA!!!” And as if that weren't enough for an entire book's worth of nervous breakdowns... The construction work. For three weeks now, our elevator has been undergoing a complete renovation. Apparently by demons straight from hell. Because it sounds like Satan decided to open a dental practice—right next to my apartment. Metal screams. Drills shriek. Jackhammers hammer away as if someone were trying to tear down the Berlin Wall all over again—this time in my hallway. I don't know if they're actually doing any work. Or if they're just taking out their frustration on the wall because the third cordless drill fell out of the window again. Maybe it's more like: “Team-building with tools banned from horror movies.” And all of it. At the same time. The pony is stomping. The Michaela Exorcist is screaming. The drill is shrieking. And me? I'm the unwilling witness to this horror trio. My head feels like a boulder and a vise invited it to a wrestling match. Except the match never ends—and the audience is making popcorn with air cannons. With every drill sound, I become a little more of a zombie. I'm learning to love the pain. Or at least tolerate it. Because moving out isn't an option. I have hope. That the construction-worker demons will soon be called back to hell. And that, with the new elevator, the invisible monster pony will ride down—straight into battle with the Michaela Screamer. With the Drill of Doom in its hand. Then there'll be peace. Or my vacation will be over— and I can go back to my “peaceful” job.