You pull up to your building in your gleaming Mercedes. It’s a half falling down brick fire trap with a black mould problem, dry rot and lead plumbing. But you don’t care, you don’t have to live here and the trash that does should work harder if they don’t like it. Seeing no regular parking spots, you park in the handicap zone and put up your counterfeit handicap placard before stepping out into the street and taking a big, satisfied, whiff. It smells like poverty, desperation and despair; bywords for profitable in your business. You stroll into your building, whistling as you walk up to Unit 1, master key at the ready if the scum doesn’t open up.