Between bits of his chocolate-covered glazed at Rolling Pin Donuts, a chaos punk is threatening to kill me. I don't tak it personally: He's too high to do me any real harm, and I know speed-fueled hyperbole when I hear it. Besides, I've accidentally betrayed his trust: He is talking to me on the condition that I not use his name - not even his street one - and has agreed to accompany me later to Polk Street in search of a key witness... More >>>