ONE NIGHT IT WAS A RED FLARE. The week before it had been an enormous noise followed by sirens. Something large, heavy, and moving crashed into something else. Before that it was a distant roar of hundreds of voices rumbling together.
You always had the sense that some interruption was coming. First the appearance of the shirts—red shirts, white patches on the right shoulder, some with numbers some with names. After the shirts came the scarves and the hats. The songs and the murmurs, the frenetic tempo of the region’s techno-metal pop blaring from car stereos, the cryptic signals made with spray paint and stencils.
Individually they were not so bad—a redshirt here or there, really, was a fine antidote ...