Bald Men and Bikinis Do Not Mix

Sunnydale now sits in a large Californian valley, with grass spanning the distance to the hills behind it, and a small sort of hicktown/trailer park across the street. I run down the hill in the loping manner that one must on inclines and make my way towards the school.
I am in a panic. I have recently received word that one of my family members is in the Emergency Room, and I am trying to locate the rest of my family so that we can go to the hospital. Running pas the windows, I see my sister in her old Nationals outfit, dancing for a large crowd. I round the building and enter, passing through a dim, grimy linoleum corridor to one of the classrooms. I find my mother, applauding while my sister takes her bow. I tell her that we have to leave, it's urgent, Dad's in the hospital, but she says, no, we can wait till Kyra's finished. It'll take about twenty minutes.

Resigned to waiting, I leave the classroom to explore the school grounds. Wandering through the dim hallway, I find myself in a courtyard on the other side of the school. It is cloudy now, and the gray light turns everything, except the towering evergreens, a similar shade. There are scores of people here, and the air is filled with smoke and strange smells. I conclude that this must be the Addicts Anonymous meeting. Feeling disgusted, I try to hurry through the corwded picnic tables, but I am fascinated by these lowlifes. I wonder aloud, "why would you do something like this to yourself?"
A homeless woman and a dirty-looking man catch me by the elbow and they begin to explain their reasoning. They motion forward a thirty-something bald rocker (much like Chris Daughtry, or the guy who recommended Blades of Glory to us at the Metro) He pulls from his jacket something made of clear blue plastic - it looks like a combination between a flashight and a stick of deodorant. Holding it up to his face, he pushes a small black button on the side. Frightened that he is about to burn his face off, I try to knock the thing out of his hand. Before I can get to him, though, writhing threads of yellow plastic emerge and make contact with the stubbly chin. It seems he is addicted to the feel of synthetic tubes on his skin. I begin to understand.

Tired of waiting for my sister, Jenny and I journey forth into the valley on a quest. We are trying to locate something, a treasure, perhaps, or a famous artifact like the Ark of the Covenant or something. We run along the one road in the valley, surveying the area for anything that looks like it might provide a clue. As we reach the top of a hill above Sunnydale, we spy to large rocks standing alone amid the brown grass. We clamber up towards them. Reading the far side, they tell us something important, they tell us where to go. My vision blurs slightly and they mesh together to form an image or text. Something magical occurrs, and we know the next step in our quest.

My father drives a moped while I sit behind. His blue helmet matches the dated bike, and I'm sure we look quite the pair as we weave through traffic in a country suburb. We are looking for a place that is likely to give us our next clue to the treasure. We pass all types of ruins and run-down places. I see the Parthenon, and other Greek constructions. The roof has caved in on the dinosaur museum, and ivy has twined artfully up a fake T-rex's legs. A large warehouse has been turned into some sort of store. The garage door is open, and something about the upturned boat in the driveway seems familiar. Written on the side are the words "the rocks in the valley," jarring my memory.
"Dad! There it is!"
"What? Where?"
"There! That boat said, 'the rocks in the valley,' that's got to be it!"
Typical of my father he saw nothing, but he believes me and we shoot off onto a side street to turn around. It is getting dark, but I recognize where we are. An elementary school is nearby. Two boys on bikes obstruct our way, and I curse because for some reason we are in a hurry.
Entering the main stream of traffic again, night has fallen and it is rush hour. By the time we get back to the boat, it has been dragged inside and the shop has closed. We park the moped in the dirt by the shop and leave our helmets on the handlebars. We enter the shop occupying the rest of the warehouse.
The room is warmly lit by many lamps, and is some sort of tourist trap, selling useless keychains and with wall-to-wall racks of women's bathing suits.
"Why is this all they sell here?"
"Because that's all we wear."
A balding man similar to the first, except older and slighter, pushes his way through the bead curtain at the back of the shop. He is barely covered by a spangled turquoise string bikini. His daughter, behind him, is slightly more modest in a red halter top and boy shorts. The man I find slightly lecherous, but the daughter seems very normal to me. I barely manage to keep my father from buying a bikini for himself from the charming young lady at the counter. I tell him that we are here on an expedition, and not a shopping one. We manage to leave the shop with just a keychain as a souvenir of Bikinitown.