The Big Sig
No Chicken Served on Chicken Friday
Where I lived before, finding one’s bearings was simple: to the West was The Zone (well, a place populated by civies, a bunch of countries, an ocean and then hash merchants). To the North was a huge flat smear of machine shops and fields of Tulips ending in Denmark, and to the East, so the rumor went, was Poland under martial law. Overnight by Duty Train due South there was civilization: dancehalls that never closed and, for at least two weeks during the 1980s, the Salad days of American eightball and hardcore punk.
