In four hours the sun will be up and Acetylene Avenue will be empty. But now, at 2AM, the beer doors call for sailors on shore leave and the crate-filled scotch pits crowd with Walkers and Fliers looking to make a little money besting the other at Mahjong or Cribbage. Shallow hulled party boats and make-shift taxi scows hang a body length above the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd looking for gaps. When the cannot find any they make them by crushing low and pushing off the empty-pockets to board paying customers.
Every other corner or so an armed constable stands watch in the roadway. They’ve got standing orders to thump or shoot and to not give a shit which works best.
The dragon-hiss of welding torches building, mending, and parting out skiffs and cruisers plays bassline from the boat houses and open-air docks to the melody of drunken revelry of the avenue.
159 words on day 619