Tale of a Tyre Slasher

It was pretty warm as I crossed the road and walked down the cobbled hill into the car park opposite the flat. All the windows, except mine and Phil's, looked out the back and Phil was asleep. That bastard Ben didn't have a window. He would practice his guitar playing until 2am. I had to sleep with not only earbud headphones but also a pair of ear defenders, as worn by builders when they used pneumatic drills to dig up roads. I used mine when I shot .22 target pistols. And when Ben practiced his guitar late at night.

His van, the band van, was there. In plain view of the flat windows that no one was looking out of. The car park used to be the site of a disco that had burned down, now it was what they called a hole-in-the-ground site. Flattened and made into a car park until they build something else, like a row of replica Edwardian tenements.

I took out the potato peeler from my hooded sweatshirt pocket and on the side of the van which was hidden from view I plunged it into the hard rubber of each tyre, several times. It was noisy and I was paranoid as I re-entered the flat, trying to be as quiet as possible. Ben was still snoring very gently as I went to my room and back to bed. That will teach him to drive me nuts by keeping me awake night after night. The band will surely miss their gig now. Bastards. He wouldn't notice until it was too late as he was off tomorrow and would sleep all day.

The next night Ben arrived home late.
"How was the gig?"
"Fine, pretty good."
"No problems, then?"
"Not really, two of the van tyres were flat this morning but I got them fixed on the way to college, only a tenner each."

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.