The patter hits a renegade cadence through the alleys of Tundratown. His silhouette larger than his fortitude would allow him, the porcupine scatters for whatever exit he could find. Anyone with an ear for trouble could see he's in dire straights for an escape. At three in the morning though, no one would care for the squabble. Just another somebody pounding a few too many drinks on a Sunday night. Enough drinks to tip over a few garbage cans and send the night mammals laughing. No cacophony of jeers this time though, but the sounds should go over soon. Zootopia needs to rise in a few hours. The work week demands a good night's rest, which leaves the porcupine alone, cornered, in a dead end. Even if he could climb, the slabs of glacier brick is too smooth for claws to grab at, too thick to make your own, and the fence behind him? Frozen over since the machines first started ticking away, keeping ol' Tundratown at a cool thirty or lower.

So when the hooves of whatever cloven mystery came his way you can know for certain that no one would think more than twice of the rhythm that was about to follow.