The Stairs I live in a two-story apartment building. It is located in a part of town rife with whales, providing a thriving tourist industry for cruise-goers interested in catching a glimpse of Moby Dick, as well as serving the local Inuit people who have traditionally used their meat and blubber for sustenance. Yesterday morning, I awoke to the sounds of my neighbors fighting loudly across the hall. This was a common occurrence for the pair: two morbidly obese, middle-aged siblings (weird and will maybe discuss this in another posting) who leave their apartment only to open the door for the Pizza Hut delivery man. I did not know what they were arguing about, but I like to think it involved using the last insulin syringe or only leaving six doughnuts left in the package.  For a long time I had ignored their loud fighting and odor, which could only be described as a cross between stale McChicken sandwiches and a factory farm. But I could no longer stand it. So I went down to speak with my apartment manager, Cindy.  "They fight constantly. In the morning, in the evening. And they leave garbage in the hall. And the smell. Please, would you speak to them?" "That sounds horrific! You are very reasonable. I will set up a conference right away and sort this out." I had every reason to be optimistic: the manager was on my side, and I believed that if there was a god, He would definitely side with me on this one, right? And it actually worked out for a while. The stench diminished, allowing my safe passage through the hall without the aid of a gas mask. Their fights lessened in their frequency and intensity. But unfortunately, their improved, reasonable behavior lasted only a few, short days. When I went to discuss the situation with my apartment manager for a second time, I was greeted by her having a discussion with the siblings from across the hall. I felt my chest tighten, and not from thinking about the many heart attacks my neighbors had probably had that morning. Did the apartment manager tell them about my complaints? What if they were mad? Sure, I could outrun them easily. But once they corner me, all they would have to do is sit on me and my bones would crack, my organs would turn to mush, my life-fire would be extinguished by their sweaty FUPA.  "IT ISN'T FAIR," fat-sister screamed at the apartment managers face. "WE HAVE LIVED HERE FOR YEARS."  "I am extremely sorry, ma'am. There is nothing I can do," said Cindy, clearly uncomfortable. "All of our downstairs units are occupied until next September." "BUT WE HAVE A DISABILITY," said fat-brother. He was wearing sweatpants that were yellow that moment but probably not originally. "WALKING UP AND DOWN THE STAIRS IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR US. IF WE HAD KNOWN IT WOULD BE AN ISSUE, WE WOULDN'T HAVE LIVED HERE."  "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO WALK DOWN THE STAIRS," said fat-sister, spewing rancid saliva across her enormous bosom. "I WOULD BE LATE FOR WORK. WE COULD SUE YOU!" Then it hit me: my fat second floor neighbors were demanding to be moved to the first floor because the elevators were down for maintenance. For the day. A single day of repairs for damage likely caused by fat pieces of shit who exceed the weight limits on the elevator. A single day of repairs that we were notified of an entire month in advance.  "I assure you that the elevators will be fully operational tomorrow around nine," said Cindy. "We really do apologize for the inconvenience."  "THEN WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO TODAY? SLEEP OUTSIDE IN THE STREET?" Cindy eventually gave them a discount off next-months rent and they stomped out of her office. It was then that I decided I should probably just move. But where to? This plague is spreading across our beautiful nation. There is no refuge, expect maybe at the top of a flight of stairs.