It was a warm night late this past summer, the kind of night that leaves you panting between yawns like a horny-dull lover. A familiar craving drove an unsuspecting Seattle man from his condo: He needed a cigarette. He stepped outside. A few clouds hung in the breezeless sky, partially obscuring the waxed gleam of a fat gibbous moon, but not enough to dispel its brightness.
The 35-year-old man rolled a cigarette, alone. He'd lived in the small, L-shaped condominium building long enough to know the rules—if you wanted a smoke, you had to take it outside, either in the condo's gated parking lot or on the sidewalk. He was a computer programmer, not a rule breaker.
Laughter and muted conversation spilled out from a nearby bar. More horny-dull people struggling to make a connection in this crazy, horny-dull world. But that wasn't what captured his attention as he took a drag off his cigarette. It was the empty, nice car he says he saw parked illegally, partially blocking his condo's driveway. As he walked toward the rear of the car, he says, he saw an elegant woman shitting right where the driveway and the street meet.