It's like you rent the top floor of your house, and you live in a goddamn awesome house.
Your great-great grandparents built it, it's got a ton of room and there's this great view overlooking the ocean, all worth a lot of money, which is nice, but you don't much give a shit about that. It's a kick-ass place, been in the family forever. You have a lot of good parties and on nice days it seems like everybody you know is hanging out on the front lawn.
It's like you rent the top floor of your house, and the 43rd tenant seems nice enough, not that smart but pretty harmless. The kind of guy you'd like to have a beer with.
Right away you notice sketch people coming home with him -- hookers mostly, with the occasional crackhead thrown in. His upstairs toilet starts overflowing and brown water drips through the ceiling into your bedroom below.
"Weird," you think, "this has never happened before," but it's probably no big deal, so you call in a plumber and figure it was a one-time thing. Weird people have lived upstairs before.
And then one day you come home and find out that the 43rd tenant raped your wife and ran over your kid with a dune buggie and that one of his whore daughters shot the family dog because she was bored. Bullet holes pierce the front window and there's this nasty smell coming from the upstairs apartment, which, upon coming home that day, you realize is a meth lab.
You go out to the front yard and call the police and fire department on your cell phone. The cops show up and all of a sudden a pack of hookers and whores and methed-up trannies are dragged kicking over the front lawn, infected snatches bulbing out of their crotchless pants, screaming and cursing and biting themselves. The scene would be embarrassing, but fuck, you've got a dead kid in the driveway and the corpse of your German Shepherd and a wife raped by a meth-cooking tenant. Just end the shitshow and get them out of your sight.
You don't spot your 43rd tenant, which makes sense. I mean, after raping your wife and running over your kid with a dune buggy and packing the upstairs apartment with whores and crackheads and meth equipment, you assume that naturally he's going to run from the cops, because even psychotics have instincts for self-preservation.
Only when you smell the smoke and look back to the house do you realize that the moron's meth lab just blew up and your house is now on fire. And in true David Koresh fashion, there's your fucking 43rd tenant, leaning out the window of the top-floor apartment, giving you the middle finger and staring you down, willing to burn alive and not really caring so long as it's all reduced to ashes and he doesn't get hauled in.