The parking lot looks like a small, concrete wasteland. Trash and empty liquor bottles litter the area. In one corner an old pair of jeans and the remnants of someone’s hair weave lay discarded in a heap, apparently abandoned after a parking lot brawl. The prevailing odor is the pungent smell of marijuana wafting through the air and the ground shakes to the pounding bass lines of the unintelligible music being blasted from the cars. A barely clothed woman offers .99 cent cans of malt liquor on a tattered sign hanging in the window. The desperation in the air is oppressive.