It's nearly midnight on a pleasantly cool night. The next tram is due in about ten minutes. There's not much traffic on Sydney Road and the pub on the corner is closed.
A tarted up late model Holden Commodore comes up Sydney Road from the south and someone yells something like "Gerragonigaggle". An empty Foster's long-neck smashes in the gutter at your feet then the car races through the nearby intersection in an orgasmic, seat-wetting roar of over-revving, narrowly beating the red light. There's a hand-written "4 Sale" sign taped to the inside of the back window but you can't read the telephone number.
Hoons. You'd notice them more if they weren't there.