I despise tweakers, those methamphetamine infused night crawlers, fidgeting, lurking exuding anticharm. Why are they here? Why must they have friends who visit late at night parking their Mad Max vans on walkways, in service lanes?
One group rents a campsite which is transformed by night into a hellish compound of castoffs. Yes they are quiet, not wanting to bring attention to their apparent illegal bike chop shop. A large nearly all white pit bull is their mascot, menacing in the moonlight.
I could be wrong in my assessment of their activities. Maybe I have become the Clint Eastwood character in Grand Torino who yells, " Get off my lawn." Still, I cannot deny the visceral feeling of foreboding engendered by their presence.
While taking the dog for his early morning droppings deposit, I noticed that a trash can adjacent to the tweaker campsite was filled with bike rims and tires and tubes. Maybe the tweakers are entrepreneurs by night fixing bikes for the poor and needy. Maybe they are flawed altruists. Maybe maybe maybe.........
Get off of my lawn.
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