We could ride right onto the concrete pad of one site, so we fanned out and started looping around in freewheeling circles. It was a big pad, and there were only about seven of us, but Dirty somehow managed to collide head-on with Big B. I saw him describe a graceful parabola through the air and land on his face. B. was laughing, then stopped laughing when he saw Dirty's face, then started again after we figured out that he was OK. I tried to give him a concussion quiz and got a stream of abuse from his bloody mouth-hole, so we figured that he was in good enough shape to get dragged to the bar and cleaned up.
Some guy was there, walking his dog. He joined our little first-aid party and told us that we were rich now, that we should call the city and say that he had crashed on a pothole and that we were gonna sue. We thanked him for his advice. He continued to give it to us, the same deal, over and over, getting somewhat angry that we weren't on the phone right then talking to our lawyers or something. He didn't stop giving us his counsel until Spidey took his chain off of his shoulder and started casually clinking it on the ground. That didn't shut him up, but at least it started him talking about how he could take all of us on, a subject which he was able to discuss with some more variety. Welcome to Brooklyn.