The central street of the east district was slick like a runny nose on a toddler.

"I'm not high," Tris heard someone think, as he glided down the sidewalk, through the crowds streaming out of the clubs. "You're not high. Dammit, focus," he heard the same voice think. It was the desperate thoughts of clubber out too long. The clubs of the east district were for professional clubbers; these kids could go a week without sleep, days without food.

Sumo was tending his hotdog stand on the corner, thinking nothing, which is why Tris loved him. He saw Tris and smiled, his bloodshot eyes a map of the district's unplanned streets, twisting into the mountains above. There were two people in line already, a young Asian clubber and a suit around a businessman, whose eyes were as empty as the sand plains. Tris got in line behind them, acknowledging Sumo with a nod. "Bill was looking for you," Sumo said as he handed a dog to Tris, bypassing the other two customers. "He said he had something for you, you know what that might be?"

Tris shrugged. The clubber at the head of the line shot him a dirty look. 

The vendor's eyes widened. Those bright red veins nearly pulsing with the sound of the bass spilling out of the clubs. All these kids, all these businessmen, skin clear, eyes glazed; there was something about Sumo's flabby arms and greasy face that had immediately endeared him to Tris. He plunged his tongs into the tepid water and pulled out another dog, shoving it into a bun and handing it to the impatient clubber. Sumo's entire stand was an anachronism. "You and Bill, you're always up to something." Sumo coughed. The businessman flinched. He scratched his stomach with the tongs. "You're the always-up-to-something gang." 

"That's right," Tris said and took a bite of his hotdog. "Somebody needs to be up to something around here besides drugs and hotdogs."

The clubber laughed a demeaning laugh.

"Get the fuck outta here," Sumo said to her, "This is none of your business."

She looked at Tris and thought, "Jesus Christ, what an asshole," and walked away.

"It's come to the point where a man can't enjoy a dog on the streets of the district, Sumo," Tris said.

"Ha," Sumo said, wiping down the top of his stand with a bar rag. "At least she paid for her dog."

Tris took his last bite and suddenly the music from every club synced up for a split second, and the pause between bass notes rang a deathly silence through the street. He waited to hear a thousand thoughts, but they didn't come.

Sumo grunted. "That was weird."

"One day to make quota," Tris heard the businessman think while he scarfed down his hotdog nearby, "I'll call twice as many leads tomorrow."

"Wow," Tris thought to himself, "that is depressing."

That businessman had spent more on thread than Tris had on his faulty embed. He probably bought and sold crypto tokens of embeds. Tris had barely scraped together enough for this back-alley hack job.