Update 3

Soon Valentine was coming into my flat every day, and finally sent me an SMS telling me that before "you leave my room, clean the floors and windows, and bring everything into order. I want it to look like your soul was never in my room." He announced he would be moving in the next Wednesday. I consulted with Ivan, my friend the real estate agent, who assured me that he could have Valentine roughed up by the agency's security service, which was supposed to bring him into line.
Me and Ivan agreed that the best course of action was to install new locks, then inform Valentine of the decision afterwards.
That Saturday, I removed my lock from the door and left the apartment in a driving rain and walked to the nearby open-air market, where I was unfortunately unable to source a proper lock. So I went to another nearby open-air market several subway stops away from my home, and after much searching in vain for an exact match, I settled on buying a close match, and drilling holes in the mounting plates so that the holes in the lock and the holes in the door lined up right.
I hurried home soaking wet, unsure whether Valentine had dropped by in my absence. I got home, and much to my relief the modified lock fit. I put on dry clothes, put the key in the lock and turned halfway back so he could not come in even in the impossible event he had the right key- a decision with consequences, as we'll see later.
While I was dozing, Valentine called, waking me up; I of course did not asnwer. You never gain a fucking thing from talking to a drunk. I in any case had to leave because there was a possibility that Valentine would come and begin banging on the door, something he had done more than once.
I tried calling friends, but no one was around. So I went out and began making discretionary purchases in the form of expensive pizzas, which I ate slowly, and Martinis, which I drank very slowly in order to ease the contradiction of drinking to reduce stress. I decided to live in that very same moment, and concentrate intensely on the taste of the pizza, and the taste of the martini.
I tried calling Ivan, the real estate agent, but his phone was off; presumably he had been out partying and was sleeping. I sent him an SMS with Valentine's number and let him know the mission had been accomplished.
A day passed. The weather got better. No answer from Ivan. Another day passed, and Ivan was not answering his phone, and soon it was Tuesday. I had not slept well in over three weeks.
It was Tuesday evening, the day before I was to leave, and all my other options for permanent living arrangements had fallen through. I was laying in bed that evening at around 8 trying to catch a wink when I heard a scraping noise originating from across the room; I immediately understood it originated from the lock, and that Valentine was trying to enter. A number of fantasies about murdering the old mraz entered my head. It was never him I was afraid of, it was always about me being unable to hold back as soon as I started punishing him, and thus ending up in prison. I felt that this inability to control my fantasies was a weakness of mine, and that I should be able to master myself, and simply deliver one teaching blow to an area of his body not prone to bruising, or that he was not prone to showing if it had suffered a bruise.
As I was entering these reflections, he called me on the telephone from the other side of the door; I immediately switched off the phone. Thirty seconds later I heard him walking outside on the roof. He had exited the building through the bathroom window, and since I lived on the top floor, he was able to walk around on the roof and peer through the windows. I found myself in the ridiculous and humiliating position of hiding in my own room from an old man I knew I could easily defeat with one blow.
more later.