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"Hahahahahaha - BANG - You're listening to - BANG - Spooked - BANG -" a loud thumping from the door intruded on Mike's podcast. He growled under his breath and paused it, taking the headphones out.
"Who's there?" He called out as he approached the door. BANG - BANG - BANG - BANG - BANG the thuds responded. Mike hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't want to answer it to just anybody. And something didn't feel quite right about this.
BANG - BANG - scrrrrratch came the noises at the door. That was even stranger. What on earth were they scratching for? "Hello?" he called out again from right in front of it. The other side of the door immediately exploded in a frenzy of scratching and thuds. Faster and more insistent than before. Mike backed away hastily.
Fucking junkies, got themselves so messed up last night they can't even fucking talk. Probably think this is their place. "Go away, this isn't your flat!" he shouted at the door and whatever cracked out fuckhead was behind it. The scratches and thuds got louder and more insistent, shaking the door against its hinges. Whoever was behind it wasn’t listening, maybe was too messed up to even hear and understand him right now. Fuck's sake. How the fuck am I even meant to help them if they're too messed up to talk? It's not like I can just see who it is and lead them back to their place.
With an annoyed sigh and a "let me know when you can fucking talk", Mike abandoned the door and made his way back over to his chair and his headphones on autopilot. He knew the layout of his own place so well that he didn't even need to use his cane inside anymore, instead feeling his way from one landmark piece of furniture to another.
Settling down into his chair, he put his headphones back on, pressed play, and turned them all the way up until he could no longer hear the thudding and scratching at the door. Then he grabbed a fresh beer out of the minifridge by his side, cracked it open, and leaned back to enjoy some peaceful time to himself without any further distractions.
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