The fable of the toilet paper that wiped the dirt out of the neighborhood.

Stone and stucco buildings lined the cobblestone streets, the sidewalks were narrow and lined with stone steps and brick lined mini courtyards in front of three and four story town homes; city homes made in an age when homes were built to last forever. The windows looked out on the street like unblinking eyes, eyes that, with a glance, told the story of the home; this one tired and neglected; that one renovated and fresh. Houses that were all about the same age and style, but some were healthier than others. The streets covered ancient horse and foot paths and at every curve and turn lay an alley, fountain or other architectural surprise.  This was no planned community. These streets grew slowly and bore the signs of age well. The neighborhood had withstood generations of childhood memories and mischief, and threats from religious persecution to political strife.   

Around one corner two local kids stood on the seats of their bicycles leaned up against two opposing buildings. They tossed a roll of toilet paper back and forth from a height of about three meters. Weaving the delicate tissue around a light post on one side of the narrow street and a metal utility pole and the other, they slowly made a visual white barrier as the tissue got closer to the ground. The wall appeared as a stark contrast to the granite and stone surrounding it.  As the tissue was tied off near the ground completing the illusory barrier, one teen pulled out his iPhone and texted one word:  Ready.  He then slipped between the narrow space between one wall and the building.

Two blocks way, the texted signal received, and cadre of young men ran into their local pub that until recently had been their sacred neighborhood haunt but had been taken over by a raucous and nasty biker club from the valley.  The young men shouted inside from the doorway and appropriately taunted the now resident bikers with insults and innuendo, encouraging a chase, and then jumped onto their bicycles a sped down the street, followed closely by the leather clad bikers on their choppers.

The bicycle riders quickly took the turn toward their hastily built tissue wall 50 feet from the corner and slipped adeptly between the poles and the buildings and disappeared quickly out of sight. As the Hogs turned the corner they were greeted by the bright white wall of white.  The first biker, straddling a low riding chopper quickly turned and slammed up against the curb and as one bike after another skidded and crashed into each other as they avoided the dust thin wall.  A large pile of bikes and bikers now lay in front of the untouched tissue.

The windows of the overlooking buildings the buildings opened up and rocks and bottles and various missiles of household goods rained down around the biker intruders.  They began to right their bikes to make a hasty retreat back to the valley just as the local bikers burst through from the other side of the sanitary barrier. A chase ensued until the valley bikers were banished to the edge of the village. Embarrassed by toilet paper, they never returned.

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