Up ahead a pink marquee with green letters proclaimed The Crew. As Peter and Eddy entered the club in the mid-afternoon,
they saw orks on their hands and knees, scrubbing up spilled liquor from the 
previous night’s revelries. Their broad, round faces reminded Peter of something...
a Flemish painting gone awry. He almost connected with them, with their pain
and frustration; with their lack of hope of being anything more than near-slaves
scrubbing floors and living in roach-infested city housing projects. But he 
killed the impulse immediately.