Nighttime, a run down section of Lake street. Low income housing dominates one side of the street, and is faced by cracked asphalt basketball courts and a boarded up laundromat. One fire damaged building has been demolished, the plot it stood on now covered with a hung plastic tarp. Heady smells hang thick in the air, green and potent and foreign.
Thump, thump! Whump, whump! Grobbler's hand pounds against the side of a beat-up plastic cooler, no doubt fished or filched from a yard sale or thrift shop. The huge eggs inside make muffled bumping noises through packed towels against the sides and each other. He heads towards the lot, and begins to hum.