High water on a river trapped several thousand smelt (small fish sort of like sardines) in a bunch of natural rock pools outside my buddy's house. The water receded and the fish were left in pools that then dried up. The smell of several thousand oily, rank, rotting fish wafted across the landscape, and was almost unbearable. I was holding it together until his dog ran over and ate some. The smell was like a solid thing, hitting me in the brain. Just nasty.
“A riot,” said Martin Luther King, “is the language of the unheard.”