Its Saturday evening, I've scored some raw materials from a local hardware store to close up my carb air leaks and am putting them to good use while some hillbilly dog breeders mess with their victims in a couple of white windowless vans. Mopeds are chained to the poles holding up the second story walkway outside of virtually every room on the first floor. As I'm squatted down the yapping of the poor creatures tugs at the edges of my empathy, but I've got bigger fish to fry. I need my machine to make it to "The Party" rumored to be in a warehouse out in the industrial park. I've got a rough aproximation of where to go but details are sketchy and hard to come by. My plan is to wait for a group to leave and fall in. The darkness will be my friend. In the rolling kennel next door, I hear a lady complain about all the bikes blocking the sidewalk and how the smell of gasoline is making it hard to breath, in between deep drags on her cowboy killers. I glance at the four foot corridor of space between peds and the wall. Then I chance a glance at her vast expanse of stretch pants in stress and realize she's got a point there, turning sideways wasn't going to work either. I moved the OCC to the outside of my pole and cleaned up my mess.