CRACK ATTACK!

You head on down to the local park in search of junkies to buy your smack. The local 'park' is nothing more than an overgrown patch of undeveloped land (slated for the construction of a new Wal-Mart in the near future) that serves as a haven for homeless heroin addicts (your target consumers), rapists, illegal immigrants, stray packs of dogs and wild hamsters, Satanic baby-killers, excommunicated Southern Baptists, and the occasional misdirected jogger foolish enough to venture into that God-forsaken wilderness within the ghetto.

It doesn't take you very long to find a small gathering of homeless junkies, hunched over a dead jogger's corpse. "I got smack!" you announce rapaciously. "And I'm sellin' it cheap!" And just like that, the junkies are swarming around you like those flies over there, swarming around that doomed jogger's corpse. You back away and make an attempt to calm the freakish masses. "Look," you tell them, "I got a couple ounces of some of that good Afghani shit. All I'm askin' for in return is some crack-cocaine of equal or even slightly lesser value. And don't try to stab me neither, cause I'm strapped." You indicate the assault rifles slung over your shoulder.

That doesn't seem to dissuade them, and they all charge you in unison. Damn. Guess you got but one choice..