I mean to kill the bastards upstairs

I've just gotten home from an irritating band-practice only to hear the wretched, drug-addled bastards upstairs spewing forth more horrible noise. This must come to an end. It's after 11:00 p.m. by-god, and I'd at least like my evenings devoid of that accursed butchery of music! It's bad enough that one has to listen to them thrash away on their blasted electric-guitars and the deep, tooth-rattling thump of their drum-machine during the day-time. But to have to hear it when one is trying to relax is simply too much. Even worse, it's always accompanied by some baleful moaning, or spine-tingling screech which I can only assume is meant to be some pitiful attempt at singing. Because I'm so tired, hungry, and over-whelmed with tasks this evening, I'll try to ignore it, which is well-nigh impossible. But as soon as it's convenient for me, I intend to march up-stairs and kill each and every last one of them with my bare hands! Or even better, I'll hire a gang of marauding high-way-men to do it for me. Yes, I like the idea of that much more. So those opium-stupored, mutton-headed wastrels had better enjoy their noxious, foul racket while they can, since I'll personally see to it that they're dead by sun-rise!