When I served in the army, here in Germany, we had one funny case. In our room we "lived" four. Two double-layered, iron, rather narrow beds. One of them is right on the left of the entrance door, somewhere in a half-meter. On the upper floor always slept one boy, never stood out, was calm. Then one of the men decided to make a joke about him.
The case was tonight. The boy, after the fight, fell to himself on a loaf and slept peacefully. Everything continued as planned.

A knock on the door. One of us approaches the door, opens it, gets a kick in the stomach and flies almost two meters back. Pašnishka on the upper layer opens her eyes and sees that in the door there is a man in Russian camouflage of the special forces, with a mask on his head, in his hands a calash with a hook. Two dry clicks and my co-worker and I fall from the chairs. Instead of shrinking from fear, the boy grabs one hand and one leg behind the bed frame, and the other sharply pushes away from the wall, throwing the bed on the "special forces". The result is a week of hospital and three cracked ribs. We didn’t joke about him anymore.