It was a perfectly lovely day on the intersection. The pigeons were singing, the litter was colorful and crinkly, and hardly anybody was honking their horns. There was a lone man walking down the cracked, empty, pitted sidewalk. His name was Herbert, and on this fine day his cracked lips were spread in a smile. Today was a slightly above average day for him, and nothing was going to change his tone.

Pursing his lips he moved to spit into the dank canal, which adjoined the street and was a convenient location to dispose of bodily fluids. However, instead of the sweet release of spittony joy, his lips were instead seized by a black, rubbery feeling thing. His nostrils confirmed what his lips felt, and his eyes traveled up to meet his tormentor.