The fished couch story

A long time ago (2001) and in a galaxy far, far away (Normal, IL), I was but the picture of youth (drugs and sex). I lived in the upstairs apartment of a four unit building, and everyone came and went freely. Living below me, in apartment 1, were a bunch of dirty, dirty bastards. They spent all their money on booze and weed, ruling out mere indulgences such as toilet paper, a phone, and food. They had thrown a whiskey bottle through the window of their oven, and loaded up the dishwasher with laundry detergent more than twice. Needless to say they were the main proponents of the "we came and went freely" philosophy, using my oven with a regularity only surpassed by the use of my toilet for shitting.

So, after trying and failing to settle the matter in a diplomatic fashion, I took it upon myself to right what had been wronged.

I let myself into apartment 1 on a sunny day in the very early spring, when it was just starting to get warm during the day, the kind where you never quite remember to open your windows.
I lifted up the cushions of their couch, and removed the staples that keep the cloth under the cushions in place. Inside this virginal couch opening I put one frozen tilapia fish, whole. With a heavy grade stapler I re-stapled the couch, reset the cushions and went on my merry way.

The first week it went unnoticed, as The denizens of apartment one were truly dirty fuckers.
The second week it became apparent that something smelled, but not so much as to raise a general alarm.
The third week it had gotten considerably hotter during the days, and the door was kept open all during this week, as the unmistakable smell of wharf became rather overpowering.
The fourth week left apartment 1 a relatively barren place, devoid of human life during the waking hours. The smell of rotting sea-life had made it firmly into each bedroom, and could be smelled easily from the street. At the end of this week the smell became so strong that the apartment was turned ass over tea-kettle, and the furniture was dismantled piece by piece. The fish was found one month to the day after I had hid it. I was confronted, and I denied any involvement with said tilapia. The matter was never spoken of again.

This has earned me the reputation of "never ever get on his bad side, as he will wreak vengeance upon you in a gruesome fashion" to the people I know. And this is useful, because even though most people trust I wouldn't ass their toothbrush, or fish their couch - they tread lightly near me just to be safe.