In Creekwell City, twenty-odd miles away from all the wealth, all the glamour of the high and godly suburbs, the old neon signs buzzed like hundreds of electric mosquitoes. A kid of ten or twelve, looking more like an underfed rat than an adolescent child poked a dead man’s body with a stick, making sure he was dead because in Creekwell City, one had to check twice even though the blood was all over the place along with some bits of brain. The Kid moved closer, and took out the dead man’s wallet, which was, of course, empty. He took the wallet anyway, along with the man’s clothes, and bolted towards 62nd street where he passed the Meat Market, and tonight (like all the nights before and after), everything was on sale. All the ladies stood or leaned or slouched showing off their meat products.
Tonight’s special, madames et monsieurs: Saggy breasts with a side of scrawny thighs.
They were all there, the more appealing ones itched, like always, looking around for that long white limousine to announce the arrival of their lord and saviour, the Old Man. The Old Man passed by every few weeks to pick a few girls, fix them up, and sell them to the highest bidder. But the Old Man didn’t visit, so most of the girls called it a night. One girl by the name of Angel Eyes walked on clicking heels towards her room a few blocks away. A truck slowed down next to her.
The Driver: “Wanna fuck, baby-doll?”
Angel Eyes: “You’re gonna do it anyway, I might as well get paid for it.”
And she hopped into the truck, and they rolled away, making a sharp left turn at the corner of 42nd and Saint Martin’s where there’s this crummy old dive-bar with a broken sign called ‘The Cave’, which was populated by hobos, and odd individuals, quite like Creekwell itself. Most barflies drank till dawn, the ones who blacked-out got thrown out, and the ones who didn’t; they picked themselves up and staggered to the chicken-shacks they called home. On that night at The Cave, Marv McMaster, all droopy eyed and sad found his legs and headed home, which was on the fifth floor of the Cave’s red brick building. He climbed the stairs step by wooden step, each one creaking louder than the other. Marv reached the fifth floor landing and walked past room 506 where poor old Ian D. Kenneth currently lived after he lost everything he owned, but at that moment, room 506 was empty because poor old Ian D. Kenneth was lying face down, butt naked in an alleyway not so far away without his wallet, and with his brain blown to bits. And so on.
And so on.