Natural Selection

I say it all the time. I mutter it under my breath as I sweep their discarded takeaway boxes off the front step and follow their trail of spit to the overflowing dustbins.

I say it as I turn the volume up of the television to mask the techno beat throbbing through the thin wooden walls. It’s never enough to fully blot out their voices spouting monotone bullshit over the top of it. They think one hour in a recording studio would make them famous but I bet they can’t even spell their own names.

I’ll kill ‘em, I say, as I clamber over the dozens of bikes that block my door and are now locked in a grimy battle of spokes and handlebars.