The debacle began when the first street signs for the town were being set about.  One sign, entitled “Pike Street,” was put on a lowly eastern street, whose southern counterpart was lost in bureaucratic red tape and, soon, green envy.  The townsfolk of Untitled sure as hell weren’t going to stand for that!  They were all “Hey, dammit...c’mon....hm?”  So eloquent was the argumentative prose put before the city board that a street sign was awarded to the dwellers of Untitled.  An out-of-date dirt road map that couldn’t be removed from a specific compartment in a hastily built government building due to ancient Indian burial rituals proclaimed Untitled as a continuation of Pike Street.  The guy given the task of  - Wait, hold on, something smells like freshly mowed grass and fermenting turds outside my window.  Several eerie, compelling notes float about as the turd/grass smell is investigated.  Okay, so the – Then a giggle.  – so the guy whose completely fulfilling job it was to affix the street sign to the pole wasn’t heavy into politics and didn’t really mind that the sign he had fixed to Untitled also read “Pike Street”. 
                This sparked a short-lived turf war.  Perhaps because of the confluence of fate and humor surrounding Pike Street, the only two people who could possibly care enough about street signs to get angry about them were staking out their livelihoods a mere ninety degrees apart.  One a them guys punched another guy, and then the other guy hit him back.  It was pretty intense, and they were both flying gang colors.  Thus ended the epic battle; the two not-so-vanquished warriors retired to their respective abodes, drinking themselves to death at approximately the same time that night.  It was kinda romantic, except they were both ugly fat dudes whose corpses(discovered on the same day two months later) smelled like rotten bananas and flesh and vodka. 
                Pike Street never has inclement weather except during the day and sometimes at night.
                Sometimes houses are on Pike Street.  Some say all the time.  The warehouse on the corner of Pike and Pike is the strangest warehouse mansion batting cage anyone has never bought but has squatted in. The only windows are on the back wall of the house, and a couple out front.  The moment is seldom anyone is seen entering that house, but going-ons can be heard regularly.  Usually after someone has been seen entering the house.