These guys are the worst. Named after the super-softy sorta-folk duo from the sixties, they prefer to be known as C-Kill and J-Gunz, and they are anything but sweet. They live to torture me. They hang out near Con Ed in Long Island City, where the dumping grounds give way to really low-level swap meets on the week-ends. Weirdos trade old mustard napkins for flecks of tire rubber and plastic bottlecaps (I'm there for the bottlecaps). These guys prepare for the worst, always in rainboots and slickers, just in case the fire department comes and turns the hoses on the riff-raff of this sector. The day I shot this picture I was lucky they had their six-shooters cuz usually they're packing Super-Soakers and water-grenades filled with ketchup.