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The struts squeaked in pain underneath the van as it ambled up the grass and over the roots of a sprawling oak tree. Shakey drove in between the long line of about two hundred vendor tents that sliced through the middle of the festival. Off in the distance in each direction, Shakey could see four stages with bands playing on each; throngs of people crowded around. He eased to a stop in what appeared to be the dead center of the festival, cut the engine, and looked at his watch. He was ahead of schedule. To his left, there was a food vendor selling typical American hot dogs, hamburgers, and fries. What a land of pigs, he thought.
To his right, a vendor stood behind tables that displayed some very unusual art objects. They were completely unidentifiable, and Shakey squinted to read the
