Like other "food" animals, disaffected young pigs of the stifled suburbs long for death-by-barbecue. In their hoodies and sweats, they lurk on street corners, waiting for their big chance.
Affecting the attitudes and rhythms of the streets they barely know, the gang aims for a sort of lawless cool, but hits instead a kind of clueless desperation. They've brought their own barbecue and they've stoked it up and parked it at the curb. And there they wait, the sweat trickling down their backs.
Hang back, fellas. Give it time. You're young yet. There's still plenty of time to die.