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Late-70s. Summer vacation boring so far. A DJ acquaintance invites me to a party. Disco sucks, but it's not like I've got anything else going on this night. I accept, and get deputised to help him bring his disques and turntables to the party. After he gets off work (the 9-to-5 variety), a group of us meet at his apartment to get high and start organizing the stuff. He meticulously puts records in various milk crates.

I suppress my punk rock elitist sneer, scanning the covers: generic disco, LPs, 12" singles, George Duke here, Evelyn King there... and Herman Kelly and Life. Who? What a stupid name! "Dance to the Drummer's Beat"? How generic! He plays another copy of it on the stereo. Boring! Then he puts that second copy in the crate too. Why? Some of the records have damaged or taped-over labels; he must work some wild parties!

So I'm at the party. Much time spent outside the house, doing stoner stuff with others, some cheeba, a shared bottle of Malt Duck, stoned bullshittery, good clean fun. We hear the music from where we are. But it gets louder. The DJ's playing "Dance to the Drummer's Beat" and it goes on for about an hour. How? And that break keeps coming back. How? Is this good dope or what?

It wasn't until later that I learned what was up. Two copies of a record, two turntables. Mix yourself silly; turn a cheesy five-minute funk tune into War and Peace. Hip-hop 101. The bomb. Good dope.

It caught on: eventually WKTU-FM used pop-ified "Mastermixes" to regain its ratings footing against WBLS in New York. Meanwhile, in anonymous basements and houses, folks were scratching and rhyming...

In the dim shadows of sunset, two figures scampered furtively up the narrow, bitumen alley behind their favourite cafeteria. Derrin touched his wrist-watch; its electroluminescent face showed 18:12 for a few seconds, slowing fading back into darkness. Exactly where they were going or what they were doing they didn't know. Statikz was on their brains, and they needed to just go for a stroll in the fresh, night air. A security camera glared tauntingly from its darkened dome, but tonight the boys ignored it. A single, red milk crate sat gloomily against the wall, on an angle where it had been thrown. It was Thursday evening, the Farmers Union guy had been that morning. Derrin stooped as they passed it, without pausing in his stride, and swung it gently as he continued walking. Jeremy took occasional sips from a carton in his hand. The two emerged from the end of the alley, and were suddenly immersed in the blinding rays of the far Western sun. They paused, and Derrin looked expectantly at Jeremy for some sign of which way they would go.

"Bridge" he announced in his familiar, breathless whisper. A small, wooden packing crate lay beside the chem building, directly in their path. Its lid was propped against it, and packaging materials fluttered gently in the slight Southerly breeze. Jeremy glanced down to inspect the box's contents as his long stride ignored the obstruction. They consisted of only one item other than the sheets of green bubble wrap: a one litre, brown, glass bottle with a red, "Flammable liquid" sticker on it. Turning back around, Jeremy lifted the bottle, and, hearing a sloshing sound as he tilted it, held it out to Derrin, who readily relieved him of it. Setting his milk crate down beside him, Derrin carefully opened the bottle.

"Alcohol" He raised his eyebrows, "Oh man. There's about two hundred mil left in here."

"Oh well" smiled Jeremy, "Clearly no one wants it". The bottle was placed in Derrin's crate, and the pair continued on their way.

Now on the bridge, Jeremy leaned against the side, gazing out across the water as he finished the last of his iced coffee. Derrin sat beside him on the crate, drumming his fingers on the bottle balanced on his knee. He broke the silence, "I wonder how well this burns." Derrin un-slung his shoulder satchel to the ground, stood up, and proceeded to throw a leg over the railing. Disappearing into the superstructure below, he called back up, "Hey, chuck that crate down, will ya?" Jeremy handed it down unquestioningly. Producing a roll of tape from his pocket, Derrin secured the crate to the bottom of the bridge, hanging it down over the water. Climbing back up, he retrieved the bottle and his bag.

"Oh dear" By this time Jeremy could clearly tell what was about to happen, slipped a hi-res camera-phone from his pocket, and began filming from above. Delving into his satchel, Derrin produced a notebook, and tore of a sheet, which he then rolled up and shoved into the neck of the bottle, effectively forming a Molotov Cocktail. Reaching down from the beams of the bridge, carefully he placed the glass bottle in the milk crate, tilting it such that his fuse was partly immersed in the contents. He then tossed his bag, save a box of matches, back up to Jeremy.

"Ok, you ready?" he grinned up.

Jeremy nodded, "Just please get back up here as soon as that thing's lit!" Derrin struck a match, trying a few times before one would stay lit, and applied it to his improvised fuse, jerking his arm back as it caught. Clambering back up onto the bridge, he stood by Jeremy, watching intently. For a few seconds nothing happened. A shattering of glass, and a powerful whoosh came from below them. A bright orange ball illuminated the river below that had half an hour earlier been lit similarly by the last fading fingers of the sun. They continued to stare at the spot for several minutes as the milk crate disintegrated before their eyes.

"Awesome," Derrin smiled as darkness returned.

"Ok, we should probably go now," decided Jeremy, and they walked silently into the shadows of the bank.

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