They were burning some stuff in their incinerator. Some people drove by and thought it was a building fire, but it wasn't.

That little corner area has always been an issue to get a fire truck in the area. That could be called a three-corner area...in the corner of existing districts.

It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

Brave people are the firemen who run into the burning building. That's brave.

If you drove up there now, you would never know there was a building besides the mess.

Who gave fire permission to burn?