Lines into the convention are short to nothing. Unless you're in the morning throng baying at the doors before they open. Then you're in the crowded snake that worms its way around the food court and chokes the tables with the stench of ATMs sweating at the capacity, hoping to not fail or squander the bank too quick. They hold up. None showing signs saying they were tapped or broken. At least, not for long if they were.
Countrysat, hereness declared. Rows of houses sat on rotted ground. Transpose that sumna -> dodgy foundations for periodontal disease. What pass them slicks lodge in the duodenum to be iron-leached and kerosene swabbed.