Punchy beholds a city block lined with mausoleums of marble, limestone, and brick that have been carved into aesthetically ordained configurations. Beneath them, legions of bright, multi- colored flags hang from poles and flap in the wind with ignorant bliss. Halfway down the block, a small mass of people swallow up the sidewalk in front of one building. Punchy recognizes the Whatsit Embassy, the one that couldn't afford to rent land on Embassy Row. A line of cops stand at attention between the demonstrators and the embassy gates.
Somebody shouts through a bullhorn, and the people cheer, scream, wave placards, etc.
As he gets closer, Punchy tries to read the larger placards, but all he can see are curlicues and upside- down exclamation points. He licks his lips, rubs his hands in the best Snidely Whiplash fashion, then skirts around an old Plymouth and darts across the street. At least that's what it sounds like to Punchy as he maneuvers his way into the crowd. The people hop up and down and chant and shake their fists at the curtained embassy windows. He breaks through to the gates and finds himself next to the man with the bullhorn, who smiles at him before screaming something else to the crowd.