When it comes to living in close quarters, even a little noise can lead to a lot of frustration.

One resident faced the chaos of rowdy neighbors throwing loud parties. From polite requests to complaints to the police, nothing seemed to help.

Finally, the resident was forced to take matters into their own hands in the most dramatic way possible.

Read on for the full story!

Noisy neighbour gets silenced

Back in the Eighties, I lived in a flat in South-East London. The flat was located in a small tower block ten stories high with four flats per floor, one per corner as it were.

The flat overlooked a local park and afforded very nice views of the area.

The neighbours were generally very amenable, but everybody tended to keep to themselves, so no one had any problems with anyone.

One day, their luck with good neighbors ran out.

That all changed when a new family moved into a flat down on the second floor on the same corner of the building where we lived (we lived on the eighth).

They were not the most gracious of individuals, frequently leaving rubbish bags strewn around their floor’s lobby for days rather than depositing them in the communal bins.

They also parked their cars in other residents’ allocated parking spots—in other words, the epitome of the appellation “chav.”

They tried to complain, but with no luck.

Complaints to the local council invariably fell on deaf ears.

They soon developed a reputation for hosting loud drunken parties at the weekends, which tended to go past midnight.

This was pretty annoying for us and the other residents, but we were somewhat less affected due to the distance between our respective flats.

One night, everything came to a head.

One particular Friday evening, however, proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

At around 10:00 pm, we heard the music start up, but it now appeared that the hosts had recently purchased a new sound system because the bass was now intolerably loud.

I can only surmise that a peculiarity of the building’s design, coupled with what sounded like much larger bass speakers, appeared to magnify the effect in our bedroom to the point where it made it quite impossible to sleep.

It was time to put a stop to this.

At about 11:30 pm, I trotted downstairs and knocked on their door.

It was flung open by what I could only assume to have been the male resident, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

I politely asked him if he’d mind turning the music down as it was very loud, rattling the furniture in my flat and making it difficult to sleep.

They, predictably, didn’t listen.

“**** off!”

Charming, I thought.

So time to get the police involved.

So I go back upstairs and call the non-emergency police number and explained the situation.

They assured me that someone would be around in due course—being a Friday night, I reckoned it might take an hour or two.

So, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, we sat there waiting for the cops to rock up.

Finally, they arrive, but it doesn’t have quite the effect the annoyed residents are hoping for.

Sure enough, about an hour later, I saw a patrol car pull up and a couple of London’s finest enter our building.

A few moments later, the music gets turned down and the police leave.

No sooner had the car disappeared up the street than the music went back up to its previous level.

Regardless, they try their luck again with the cops.

We endure it for another half hour—no change, so once again I call the cops.

This time it takes closer to two hours for them to turn up—yep, definitely a busy Friday night.

They finally arrive around 3 am and once again the music is reduced to a sensible level.

Unfortunately, shortly after they depart, back up goes the volume to its previous furniture-shaking intensity.

The noise was getting harder and harder to endure.

As you might imagine, by now I was royally ticked off.

‘Er indoors too (someone not normally prone to displays of anger) was positively foaming at the mouth and looked like she was single-handedly going to re-enact the Battle of Austerlitz in glorious Technicolor, together with full orchestral accompaniment.

It was high time to take matters into their own hands.

It was then that I had a Dazzling Idea: one so fiendishly cunning and yet devilishly simple—a guaranteed cast-iron, 100% pure, 24-carat stonker of an idea so brilliant that I felt certain that within a few minutes, I could stop this once and for all, and execute my plan in such a way as to make it impossible to trace back to me.

They begin their preparations, taking one last trek up to the offender’s floor.

Grabbing my toolkit, I crept down the stairwell to the second floor, just to double-check the actual flat number.

Having confirmed the number, I went back up to the fourth floor.

Now for phase two of the plan.

In the stairwell, just next to the exit door to the fourth-floor lobby, was a wooden access door that concealed one of the two electrical distribution panels for the entire building.

The door was only secured by dint of a simple square-key fitting, and the application of a large flat-blade screwdriver would pop the latch no problem.

Thus I opened the door to reveal the distro itself.

The motherload.

Pulling the cover open, I was presented with a large panel containing twenty large 80 amp fuses, one each for the lower set of flats.

Each one was neatly labelled with the flat’s number and t’was but a moment to locate the appropriate one.

Luck is finally starting to turn to their side.

Now by one of those happy coincidences that usually only occur in the more egregious examples of the Hollywood B-movie, I just happened to have in my toolkit a dead fuse of exactly the same type and capacity.

A few weeks previously, I’d had to replace a similar fuse in the theatre where I worked, and I’d absent-mindedly tossed the dead fuse in my toolbox where I’d promptly forgotten about it—until now.

Now, the moment they’ve been waiting for all night…

Now, with all my ducks in a neat row, I pulled the fuse carrier for the miscreant’s flat out…

Instant. Blessed. Silence.

I rapidly swapped the live fuse for the dead one and reinserted the carrier.

Securing everything back up again, I casually strolled back upstairs to enjoy a few hours in the hallowed arms of Morpheus.

Bet the neighbors wish they’d listened now.

What did Reddit have to say?

This redditor is already looking for ways to elevate this Pro Revenge.

Sometimes you just have to give someone a taste of their own medicine.

This commenter compliments the author on their delightfully descriptive writing.

Everything about this post screams British.

While the neighbors cranked up the music, they couldn’t have anticipated the power of quiet vengeance.

If you thought that was an interesting story, check this one out about a man who created a points system for his inheritance, and a family friend ends up getting almost all of it.