Challenge the bastards on their own turf. Come screeching up to the crosswalk bucking and skidding with a botle of rum in one hand and jamming the horn to drown out the music . . . Reving the engine up to a terrible high pitched chattering whine, waiting for the light to change. To jangle the bastards right down to the core of their spleens. Thus I answered those who asked me 'the way', for The way does not exist.
Volume is everything.
If the volume won't kill songbirds in the yard and make the dog wet, it's not going to be a real party.