It started with Mrs. Thompson streaking down the hall at 3 a.m., wearing nothing but orthopedic socks and a stolen wig. "I’m Beyoncé, baby!" she hollered, hips shaking like rusty hinges. The night shift nurse just blinked, clutching her coffee. It was only Friday.

By Saturday morning, nobody had taken their meds. Harold, 92, got it in his head that the nurses were Soviet spies. He spent the entire morning smuggling pudding cups under his shirt, muttering, “The revolution will need snacks.” Mildred tied her bedsheets into a rope, climbed out the window, and spent an hour hiding in the garden shed, insisting she was undercover for MI6.

Mr. Jenkins rolled by in his wheelchair, which he’d “pimped out” with tinsel and a couple of bike horns. “I’m the Fast and the Furious now, baby!” he screamed, tearing down the halls, honking at anything that moved—including a therapy cat, which promptly keeled over from the shock.

The dining hall devolved into pure anarchy by lunch. Residents were sword-fighting with canes, stabbing Jell-O cubes mid-air, and gambling their dentures over Bingo disputes. “Double or nothing on those uppers, Harold!” someone shouted. Mrs. O’Malley was running an underground racket, handing out prunes like they were high-stakes chips. "Eat these, sonny, and you'll live forever."

By dinner, the situation had escalated to warfare. Teams formed—Harold’s squad barricaded the hallway with walkers, while Mildred’s faction armed themselves with insulin pens and pill bottles filled with raisins. "THIS IS OUR HOME NOW!" someone yelled, just as Mrs. Thompson flew by again, naked, this time riding an office chair like a rodeo queen.

The nurse on duty made the grave mistake of suggesting everyone “calm down.” Mr. Jenkins responded by pulling the fire alarm, screaming, “I’LL NEVER SURRENDER!” as water gushed from the sprinklers. Harold tried to lead a conga line through the mess, but it dissolved into a wet, chaotic shuffle of slippers and shouts of, “MY HIP! MY HIP!”

Then came karaoke night. Jenkins grabbed the microphone, swaying like Mick Jagger, and belted out “Livin' on a Prayer” at full volume, except he forgot the words halfway through and improvised with chicken recipes. Mildred, halfway into a bottle of cough syrup, howled along, waving a rubber chicken she’d stolen from physical therapy.

Sunday brought ghost sightings. Mrs. O’Malley swore the janitor’s closet was possessed, so naturally, they all held a seance—with nothing but flashlights and a Ouija board made from Domino’s pizza boxes. The lights flickered, Harold farted, and half the residents screamed, convinced the spirits had arrived. Mrs. O’Malley fainted dramatically—then woke up demanding ice cream. “If I’m gonna meet Jesus,” she slurred, “I want Rocky Road.”

By the time Monday rolled around, the staff looked traumatized beyond repair. The head nurse emerged from her office with a clipboard and 1,000-yard stare, ready to make sweeping policy changes. Harold saluted her, still wearing a toilet seat around his neck like a medal of honor. “We’ve seen things, Nurse Rita,” he whispered. “Things you wouldn’t understand.”

As the pharmacy truck finally rolled in, Mrs. Thompson gave it a little tap dance, flashing the delivery driver. “Full moon’s over, boys,” she winked. “Back to boring ol’ prune juice.”

They all took their meds begrudgingly that afternoon, except for Harold, who stood by the window, watching the skies with a glint in his eye. “Two more weeks 'til the next full moon,” he whispered.

The nurse caught him scribbling something in his notebook:
“Operation Mayhem: Phase Two.”

And so, the countdown began.