Michael first noticed the pulsing in his ears and an alternating strumming of an amplified guitar that he could feel behind his eyes. Music. Very loud. Music. Woke him up. Groaning, he grabbed the pillow from under his head and clamped it down against his ears. He could still hear the staccato notes. Fuck, he could practically feel the beat in his chest.

Amanda stirred next to him. "What time is it?" she murmured. He growled into the pillow before rolling over onto his stomach and reaching for his phone on the end table.

"It's 2 fucking o'clock," he replied, sticking his head back under the pillow.

"Where the fuck's it coming from?" she asked, her speech becoming clearer, though still muffled by the pillow.

"Fuck if I know," he said from underneath it. He jumped and jolted upright when a pillow collided with his backside. His pillow fell to the floor as he looked around wildly, only to see Amanda snuggling back with hers.

"Go make it stop," she said and he wasn't quite sure how she could both sound so pathetic and so demanding at the same time. Without the pillow over his head, he could hear an emotive male voice singing along with the guitar, but he didn't bother trying to make out the words. Tracey. God damn it. He didn't try to hide his cursing as he got out of bed and stormed out of the room and down the hall. He pounded on his daughter's door.

"Tracey! Turn it the fuck down, what is wrong with you? It's two in the morning," he ordered through the door. He heard a frustrated screech and the door whipped open in front of him.

"It's not me!" she shouted. "I don't even like this song; it is so overplayed!" He only halfheartedly listened to his daughter yelling at him. She did have a point. The music was distinctly quieter on this end of the house. The door to his right opened and Jimmy peered out of his bedroom, his hand covering the microphone on his gaming headset.

"Could you guys shut up, it's hard to hear my team over all this shouting," Jimmy whined. He saw Michael and Tracey's frustrated faces and lifted one headphone to the side. "And I thought that music was coming from your room, Dad."

"M-my room? I was a-fucking-sleep, why the fuck would I play some loud ass pop music at two fucking AM in the morning?" Michael asked, spreading his arms in confusion.

"I don't know! I thought it was like mood music or something," Jimmy replied with a shrug.

"Oh my god, Jimmy!" Tracey cried and covered her ears. Michael looked from one of his children to the other, disbelieving. Though his mouth hung open, he really had no response, so he dropped his hands and went back to his bedroom. The strumming continued. Dumm dumdumdum dumdumdum dumdumdum.

"Michael," Amanda groaned from underneath her pillow. Michael paced around the room.

"I'm working on it, fuck," he replied, lifting up the cushion on the love seat behind the door. Nothing there. He still hadn't lived down that time Jimmy planted a device that beeped at random intervals in the couch downstairs and Michael had mistakenly pulled the landline phone out of the wall. He started opening the drawers in their armoire. And if it was Jimmy… Ohh, he didn't even know what he was going to do yet. Sign him up for a triathlon? No, that'd probably fucking kill him.

"Michael," Amanda said twisting to look at him while still holding the pillow to her ears. "What are you doing?" she asked. He went into the closet and looked around.

"I'm trying to find where the fucking music is coming from, so I can make it fucking stop," he explained hotly.

"Jesus, Michael, it's outside. Are you going deaf already?" she asked, flopping back down onto the bed and curling up. Michael paused and listened for a moment. Only one way to find out. However… He went to his side of the bed and retrieved his pistol. It could be a trap. He strode over to the balcony doors. Taking a steadying breath, he threw open the doors and brought up his pistol.

"But you didn't have to cut me off"

The words flooded the bedroom. "Oh my god…" Amanda moaned, curling up into a tighter ball. Peering out of the balcony, pistol in hand, Michael couldn't see an obvious source.

"Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing"

Suddenly Amanda sat up, wide awake. "Oh. My. God. I'm going to fucking kill him."

Michael turned back towards his wife, lowering his weapon. "What?"

"And I don't even need your love"

"It's Trevor," she stated, practically seething.

"Oh come on, it's not Trevor. This is ridiculous," Michael replied.

"But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough"
"No you didn't have to stoop so low"

Amanda tilted her head pointedly, and arched her eyebrows. Michael sighed and leaned forward onto the balcony railing.

"Have your friends collect your records and then change your number"

"Jesus Christ, seriously?" he breathed.

"I guess that I don't need that though"
"Now you're just somebody that I used to know"

"For God's sake, Michael, make it stop so we can go back to sleep!" Amanda cried. Michael dropped his head on the railing and slowly, repeatedly hit his forehead against it. Maybe if he gave himself a concussion he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.

"Now you're just somebody that I used to know"

"Michael!" Amanda continued.

"I don't know where it's coming from, Amanda!" Michael yelled without lifting his head.

"Now you're just somebody that I used to know"

"Well, call him or something!" she suggested, her voice tight.

"Fuck no. That is exactly what he wants," Michael retorted.

Tracey stomped through their doorway, her slippers muffling the effect. "Dad, what the fuck?" she whined. "How am I supposed to get my beauty sleep with you two shouting and playing Gotye on repeat? It was kind of cute when you like tried to blame it on me, but it's gotten old. Turn it off already."

"Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over"

A woman's voice joined in the song, mournfully replying. The strumming continued, methodical and unwavering.

"Fucking, fuck! It's not me!" Michael cried, lifting his head and staring at the stars from the balcony. Maybe a meteorite, or a plane, or even a fucking flying house from Kansas for fuck's sake, would fall and obliterate them all.

"But had me believing it was always something that I'd done"

"It's coming from your room," Tracey pointed out.

"But I don't wanna live that way"

"It's coming from outside!" both Michael and Amanda replied immediately. Tracey's face quickly transitioned from aggravated to surprised. She held up her hands.

"Reading into every word you say"

"O-kay then," she said, backing out of them room. Amanda sighed loudly from the bed and Michael put his head back against the railing and stared between the posts on the balcony. The strumming of the guitar continued. Dumm dumdumdum dumdumdum dumdumdum.

"You said that you could let it go"

"I'm going to kill him," she muttered and Michael laughed, a breathy, desperate sound escaping from him. "The fuck am I saying?" she continued. "Michael, kill him, please."

"Fuck me," was all Michael said, still resting his head in his arms on the railing.

"He better not," she immediately replied.

"Manda! Jesus," he admonished, immediately standing up straight.

"And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know"

"What?" she replied innocently from the bed. Michael stared for a moment before sighing and turning back to the balcony. He flipped on the flashlight attachment of his pistol and began searching his yard. The spotlight swept over the dark lawn, the carport, and the brick of the driveway, Jimmy's bike, Amanda's car, Michael's car, over some more bushes, wait!

"But you didn't have to cut me off"

"There! There it is! That son of a bitch!" Michael exclaimed. A black boom box straight from the eighties sat on the hood of his car.

"Oh my God, kill it, make it die," Amanda said, even as Michael squared his shoulders.

"Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing"

And he took the shot, the silencer making no more than a brief popping sound. The boom box however, crunched and sparked.

"And I don't even - even - even -"

It skipped terribly now and Amanda wailed behind him, taking both of their pillows and burrowing under them.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Michael said, and fired another round into the boom box.

"ne-e-e-e-ed your love"

"Shut the fuck up," he yelled, unloading a couple more rounds. And it finally went silent.

"Oh, my GOD, YES," Amanda cried out into the quiet.

"Gross, mom, T.M.I.!" Tracey yelled from down the hall. Amanda laughed loudly and Michael sighed, turning off the flashlight attachment and walking around to his side of the bed. Not a moment before he put the gun down, his phone began to ring.

Michael picked it up and started to yell: "T, you mother fu-"

Trevor cut him off. "Did you fucking shoot my damn boom box?! Do you have any idea how hard to find those are these days, you insensitive prick?"

"Wha - I'm the insensitive prick?! You put a fucking CD player outside my house in the middle of the night blasting loud enough to wake the dead and I'm the insensitive prick? Fuck you!"

"It was symbolic!" Trevor's crazed shout erupted from the speakers of the phone.

Michael held the phone away from his ear and yelled back, "It was fuckin annoying!"

"Screw you; you owe me a new boom box, and not one of those shitty MP3 players; the real thing, brother!"

"Add it to the list of shit I don't actually owe you."

Amanda hit him with a pillow again, "Michael," she said desperately. She was curled up on her side limply, clutching one pillow under her head and the other, the one she'd hit him with, in her hand. "Would you hang up already?"

Trevor's voice perked up as he continued shouting through the speakers. "Was that Amanda? Tell her she should be in bed at this hour. A woman her age can't stay up all night like she used to," Trevor asked, shouting across the line.

"Fuck you!" Amanda yelled scrambling up and moving to the phone, suddenly energized.

"When and where, sugar? When and where?" Trevor catcalled through the phone.

"Oh, you son of a-" Amanda seethed as she got up to her hands and knees on the bed, ready to pounce on the phone.

"Okay, that's it," Michael said and terminated the call. "Everybody back to bed," he said, shooing Amanda from the edge of the mattress. She retreated back enough to let Michael slide onto the bed next to her. His phone buzzed, and he sighed, reaching for it again. He brought up the text message.

"But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Michael groaned and started to type a response. He didn't get very far though, as Amanda reached around him and plucked the phone out of his hands. "Hey!" he protested as she tossed it across the bedroom and into the closet. The both fell back against the pillows with a huff. Amanda laid her head on his chest and wrapped an arm around his midsection as he stared at the ceiling. He could still hear his phone buzzing in the closet.

"Ignore it," Amanda ordered. He glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed but he could see from the strained arch of her eyebrows and the thinness of her lips she was restraining herself. He leaned back, returning his gaze to the ceiling. "And next time you see him: hit him for me." Michael patted her back with a sigh and a laugh.

"Oh, he'll get what's coming to him. Don't you worry, baby."