In the dim, candlelit corner of a swanky Capitol Hill bar, a clandestine meeting is taking place. Three shady characters, faces masked by darkness, huddle over a sheet of paper, upon which is printed the very morals by which they exist. It reads:

1. Mind the dates. If there is an expired poster, that's the one to cover.

2. If there ain't no expired ones, cover the one that's sponsored by a large corporation or features a band that sucks.

3. Get up every day—rain, snow, or shine. Nobody said it would be easy, bitches.

4. If you can't design worth a shit, hire a fucking designer. The poles are works of art, not garbage cans. Speaking of which, put the goddamn posters up artistically, too.

5. Recycle. Be green. If you don't, the almighty Durrbuc the Destroyer AKA Bvencenth Dubic will hunt you down like the little piece of meat that you are, dammit!!!

Durrbuc the Destroyer?

"He's our silent partner," says Two Toes, flanked by his cohorts Jizo-One and, um, Tweaker Rage.

These are the soldiers of Poster Midget, the little guy in Seattle's increasingly violent poster wars. Under the cover of darkness, usually seven nights a week, they tape and staple hundreds of concert posters—many of which they design—to any and every cylindrical surface in the city. They take pride in the "ninja" aspect of what they do and the fact that it comes at a reasonable cost. They won't divulge their full numbers and only a few of their methods—such as postering sidewalk side versus street side, on federal holidays, in bad weather, as high on the pole as possible—but their client list includes almost every promoter and music venue in Seattle. To them, postering is more than advertising, it's a way of life.

"The poles are the last free ad space in the city and we just want to take it back for the little guy," says Jizo. Which is why they adhere to a code of conduct that they developed in the three years since their founding—one they say their sworn enemy, Poster Giant, refuses to acknowledge. As proof, walk outside to the poles at the corner of Pine Street and Melrose Avenue.

"He tore down all of our work and just left the pole bare," Rage points out, tattered scraps and tape flapping in the breeze. "But we're not whining. Everyone knows we're better. We'll get to those soon enough."