PROLOGUE
KING SCUMBAG
I feel like shit. Actually, no, shit has a reason to exist. It helps the ecosystem, feeds the creatures that would someday grow and feed others, which would somehow be eaten by a much larger creature. That's right, the purpose of life is to eat shit and die. I, however, have no sort of purpose like that. My job as a mechanic should help our community by putting back working cars out onto the streets, or bikes, or whatever the hell people bring into the shop. At least, it should be my job, but my boss taught me this one weird trick that could get me rich quick. It's called "lying". Basically the concept of lying involves a good face, a good tone, and the right words to use on anyone who just wants to make a decent living.
You see often times people drive in here with their busted cars, fuming mad that they can't get to work, or that they can't make it to their kid's soccer game, or whatever. Point is, nobody comes into a body shop with a smile. It's gonna cost them money, time, and they're going to hear a ton of words they'd never want to or never heard of before. This makes them fragile and careless. They'll take any bit of advice they can get if it'll just fix their stupid car. After all they wouldn't be coming to scumbags like us if they could fix this car themselves, no no, they need "expert opinions". Now yes, I am an expert. I can tell anyone what's wrong with their car, whether it be loose wires or a faulty spark plug, but why stop there? We could also include the "dead alternator", the "busted up brakes", throw in a "leaky radiator", convince them to "replace their ignition coil", a side of a well deserved "oil change", and top it all off by replacing the intake manifold gaskets. I bet half of you don't even know what that is. It's okay, I know what that is, I'm an expert. That'll be $5,000 please.
I know what you're thinking, and yes of course I know I'm a scumbag. I think about it every day, in fact it tears me up inside that I can't seem to find any real purpose in my life other than to be a scoundrel, a con artist. Really it does but, the dollar bills speak louder than my festering thoughts of depression. It's really my only drug that's keeping me alive. This green wad of dough we call money is my personal antidepressants. A prescription made by Dr. Rey Camino; that's me. No, I'm not really a doctor. Yes it's "Rey", not "Ray". Son of a single mother who's always fooling around, trying to find the right man. Never knew my dad, but he's probably some scumbag living in the middle of the Nevada Desert, or Arizona or whatever. Mom said she was high when she fucked him, so she's not a reliable source. It doesn't matter now. Dear old dad was probably just as scummy as me. That sort of thing is hereditary, I think.
When I'm not drying out people's money in the day, I come back to a place I call home. The Red Devil's Prodigy, a bar within the confines of a rickety old building somewhere in Queens. This is where I take a seat and think about my life. When you have a bottle full of booze and a mind full of trouble, interesting things occur. Especially in a place like this where the common customer is scummier than me. Those sort of people show up as the night goes on. The later it is, the more notorious the customer is. Even so, I'm not scared being here. I belong here. Just like how a prisoner shouldn't be afraid of being in prison. I know what I'm doing is wrong. I belong here. If you really feel like this isn't the place for you, then get out. Still, that's not to say that because we're all criminals here, there wouldn't be any fun times. Like that one time I got drunk and copped a field with the most beautiful lady I've ever seen, only for me to realize that the beautiful lady was a 55 year old pudgy, hairy man. Turns out I didn't even grab a tit, I just mistook his bald head for a boob. A really shiny, round boob. With no nipple.
Yes it is within this lovely tavern I harbor my sorrows, but not before I get shitfaced. Honestly though, I do sometimes wonder if what I do is worth anything. Is it worth my time? Am I really worth something? I don't believe I'm meant for this, I never did. I'd like to get out, really I would, but I'm on top now, and I don't think I can get out without killing myself. That is until that one fateful night I met a man named Tyrell who was going to turn my life around. I really wish he didn't.