The perfect opportunity presents itself the following spring. It’s an abnormally warm night and I’ve left my bedroom window open. The neighbours in the next building are having a party. They’ve been partying for the last three days. They’ve invited a bunch of friends over to camp out on their couch during a rock fest. I know that’s what’s going on because the bands playing non-stop are the festival headliners, who’ve been all over the radio and the TV and the papers. Since last Thursday afternoon they’ve been sharing their favourite albums and scintillating conversation with the whole neighbourhood. They kick off around three in the afternoon then go out to enjoy the festival. Once they get home, the party keeps rolling until four or five in the morning. The neighbours have tried asking them to turn down the volume, with varying degrees of politeness and no success. Even when the police came, nothing changed.

Now it’s early Sunday morning. Very, very early.

The music is blaring, the druggy, drunken voices loud and incoherent. A dozen people are gathered on the balcony, and at least as many in the apartment. They’re barely any younger than me.

Why not?

I get dressed, grab my case, and pack my gun. Just a little air rifle, not the full-size hunting rifle. I’m just out for a little fun. I also bring the binoculars. The air is heavy; a storm is brewing. Perfect July weather, though it’s only May. The buzzing of the neon lights follows me through the deserted hallways up to the door to the roof. I climb up a few steps in silence, careful not to bang my guitar case.

The roof is as black as the sky; the wet wind is warm. You can see heat lightning dancing in the distance, above the downtown skyscrapers. I stand admiring it for a couple minutes, more sensing its reverberations than actually hearing the thunder, a sort of muffled vibration that makes all the hair on my body stand on end.

I take up my position and observe my victims for half an hour. My building is nothing but a shadow: I’m certain the streetlamps can’t light up my position. I pump my rifle and take aim at a hand holding a bottle of beer, leaning on the railing. The thunder rumbles, louder this time. The wind buffets up.