“And what are we here for tonight?” Bomb Bumboclaat shouts into the mic. “Billy’s!” the crowd shouts. “Who has held down the corner of Church and Bedford for forty-five years?” “Billy’s!” “Who’s gon’ do it for forty-five more?” “Billy’s!” “And what do we say to landlords?” The crowd inhales as one, through smoke and dry ice and paint fumes, and they bellow out in one resounding voice, middle fingers raised up to the lights, “Fuck you!”
