They wear black. They're illuminated by city street lights. Their pupils shrink, focused on the mesmerizing flame at their fingertips. They do not speak, but suddenly crack fuel-covered burning whips, swing blazing canes and fire balls on chains. Tracers of firelight linger in the smoky air. Sparks fly and bounce on the asphalt. Orange-blue stripes of ignited fuel on the ground stroke their dancing feet. Among the battery of fuel cans, extinguishers and heat a member of the clan stands intensely watching and holding an outstretched blanket like an unmanned cape, ready to smother any flame that might catch hold....