The noise and the life are up in the Reds, Seattle North, or "Everett." This is where the boulevards teem, where the party-girls line the corners, where the skagmen do their biz in full view of the other citizens, where the wireheads and the pervos and the gutterpunks in black mingle with the suits and the execs, the chippies in gleaming day-glo plastic, the freaks in their wet-weave body stockings, the metas, the Amerinds, the skinheads, the screw and razor crowd, the polis and the skats. There are hawkers pushing everything from tempting young boys to designer dorphs to fully functional biosynthetic limbs and organs, all at the most reasonable of prices, guaranteed. It is a glinting-glistening-flashing-studded-neon-chrome-mirror-rhinestone-circo conglomeration of humanity—sweating, shoving, swearing, shouting, and laughing down every side street and along every alley. The clubs, the meat racks, the body shops and porno parlors, the punk food dives, the roach hotels, the cabarets and cafes and simsense theaters, all blazing with neon and clawing the sidewalks in search of extra dinero.