That guy lay in his bed that night, cringing, fitful, elated, filled with new ideas, new anger, new joy - as new as baby blood - and the roiling turbulence in his gut was fear wrestling promise. It gave him the nerve to bellow and boom, “That's it! Fuck you! I'm coming up there!"
And he meant it too, standing there on the bed, bouncing, trembling with hatred, hiking himself up in the air on invisible steps, inches from the ceiling as it shuddered and boomed back heavy with railroad ties and anvils threatening the beams. Up sweaty close, through the hammering, nailing, smashing about, that guy could hear Creepy cursing and Crawly shouting, pounding, fighting like maniacs thrashing at death through the darkness.
And that guy there. That little guy. Snapping his teeth at their heels.
"Shut it! Shut up! I'll kill both of you!"
Then, across the ceiling, heavy dragging, and again, the same sound without the anvils, with a bit of a pause followed by an explosion of shouting.
That guy followed the action as it slid across the ceiling, thrust through the living room, across the hall, before it tumbled over the kitchen to the front door.
Really, how much hubbub can fit into this, just to get it right? You have to crush all that crooked thinking into a singularity that will cleanse the whole lot of them, one way or the other, and then you have to ditch the bodies and walk away. But not before we drag some coffins up and down the stairs!