I ride The Pipe through the worst part of the Rivers, heading east with a gang of pigeon kids sprawled across the priority seats. I lean against the doors at the other end of the car and watch them closely. They’re conspiring to rob me; I can see it in their faces. Even the oldest kid in the group is still in single digits. They must be the children of The Pied Piper, an old homeless cat with a little lair in the last car. He employs the littluns to run errands and carry out pocket jobs for him while he sits in silence buried beneath stained blankets. Harmless old coot, really. The real gangs could finish him in a heartbeat if he was worth it, but his squabs mostly empty the pockets of unconscious skunks. It’s like gang warfare for pre-schoolers. I eyeball them hard until they get up and m
