A fight broke out and you were quickly called to break it up. Your police car screeches to a halt as you pull up to the scene. You blow your whistle and the boys cease their fighting, temporarily, and line up as you walk closer.

"Youse're drivin' me to my grave, ya pack of jackals." You walk between the lines of Puerto Ricans and whites, the Sharks and the Jets, rival gangs.

"Watch it, Sargent. You're gonna inflame your asthma, shoutin' like that." The leader of the Jets, Riff, says. A white boy. There's paint on him and his gang.

The Sharks just glare, their tan skin complimenting the red they wore.