In the fictional city of Durban, the number one rule is: don’t talk about racism. Just kidding, Durban was a real place in South Africa.
“The fog moved in quickly,” she gesticulated wildly with rigid intense jazz hands. This was not the only indication that she was insane, for her eyes were as rabid as her overly unkempt hair full of incidental dreadlocks and foreign nits, as well as the miscellaneous fur of at least seventeen cats, eighteen if you count Boris The Hairless Cat. More revealing were her words, miscalculated gibberish or a random rant, it mattered not. She had the floor now, and she was about to abuse her powers as a seldom-tax-paying citizen.
The Home Of DJ Sung Mo Koo 