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A Springtime Tuesday night. The drone of bizarre music, punctuated by the occasional crashes of Third-World-manufactured easels collapsing. Mr. Mintle's monologue burbling in the background like a stream swollen by melting winter snows. Crazed alcohol-fueled arguments drifting up from downstairs. Come to think of it, I didn't hear any noise from downstairs. They must have heard the easel-drops and thought it was gunfire, and scattered.