The Wolf Street Fiacre

Some types of golden bitter liquid require more metal circles than others. It is not all the same, you can tell by the different coloured containers. For some it is infinitely preferable to drink golden bitter liquid that has required a lot of metal circles to obtain. However, for a certain fraction of this town’s population the designer lager is the cheapest and comes in a green and red metal container. If you clutch it to your chest and your chin rests on bare knees poking through damaged fabric, you are automatically permitted to engage with another who’s doing exactly the same.
Numerous members of this very demographic could currently be seen lining both sides of the cobbled street as the temporary destination of Whitetrash and Jimmy Tennis drew near. Like the charge of the light brigade into the valley of death, it seemed their approach had been tinged with a vaguely threatening quality. For some reason, perhaps something to do with the colour of the containers they held or the possible thoughts running through their heads or the way they behaved every day or the cuts of cloth covering their natural form which may or may not have looked better than his or simply because there were so many, Whitetrash felt a growing sense of unease by the very presence of these others and was just grateful that there was enough alien molecules helping to numb his mind to the point where all of this mattered slightly less. 
Apparently the name given to this particular gap in the vast geometric structure making up the town was that of a wild animal. Throughout history this animal had been much maligned and feared to the point where it was said, but never actually believed, that at the same point in the orbit of our only satellite, when one complete half of its surface can be seen to reflect the rays of the Great Source, certain others would adopt some of the features and exaggerated characteristics of this particularly ferocious beast.
The special kind of party Jimmy had promised was happening right here at the convex angle of two intersecting gaps where a door could be opened into another familiar world of various sonic vibrations, dried burning leaves and others making noises with their mouths.

A dense and humid jungle of dead leather and living skin, a constantly shifting self-consuming shapeless organic generator of divergent nervous systems and plus and minus signs. Whitetrash and Jimmy Tennis stood out like sore thumbs. A band was getting ready and if they wanted to stand in front of them they would first have to step through a door and if they wanted to step through the door they would first have to give three metal circles to someone else in exchange for a small piece of paper. They decided instead to position themselves at the end of a bar where absolute strangers, bored to death, crushed the lives out of one another for at least ten minutes before hugging plastic containers of golden bitter liquid close to their chests and walking away. At the end of the bar stood yet another of Jimmy’s many distant friends, like the Aging Thespian’s identical nephew, he too was large and effeminate and even more unusual. With thick lips curled between full jowls and lazy intoxicated eyes resting on prominent cheeks he appeared to resemble an overweight reclining Buddha, perching himself on one dimpled elbow, surveying the goings on. Apparently this was all his doing.