Chinatown at night.

Boston is very crowded on Friday nights. The streets are constricted by construction, people who don't care how to drive, and pedestrians who think the law abiding citizens will stop if the cavalierly wander into the middle of the street. Into this wretched hive of scum and villainy my passengers and I traveled. Destination: a drum and bass club in Chinatown. Our scouting party reported back to us that said club was NOT worth attending. With a large enough group of people, you can make your own fun just about anywhere. It was agreed that this was not one of those occasions. When our host had fully assembled (including a contingent down from the Great White North) we paraded through the streets towards a second drum and bass club in the vicinity. We turned more than a few heads, looking decidedly out of place, but reached our destination without incident. Downstairs the music was passable, but lacking in the necessary groove most of the time. Upstairs the drum and bass was a little better, but more repetitive. And when the cracker started busting out weak Jamaican rhymes over the music, it killed any desire to dance. But the evening was a success to me. A slice of life that was new and different, a chance to socialize with new people. And not the last chance either.

The fights of fantasy

Kent hung on for his life through the chilling descent. The ground lurched up to meet him all too quickly... he was staggering to his feet, but he didn't remember his landing. His steed Sirocco let out a final gasping wheeze, shuddered, and went silent. Cruel black barbs pierce the pegasus' wings and ribs. Another dart ricocheted off Kent's shoulder, two more pierced the ground at his feet. He cursed and turned to survey the field of battle.
( the battle continues )