When driving through the desert at night, you can't miss it. You're coasting, the chill desert air wafting through your hair, smelling of salt and baked sand. You're watching the road only half-heartedly; after all, no one's gonna be along here this late. You begin to scan the countryside, enjoying the naked view of the stars one gets when they're miles from civilization, when suddenly you're knee-deep in Basin City.
The neon lights drown out the stars so suddenly, it looks like Heaven just slammed its eyes shut. Which makes sense, I guess. The people here ain't exactly kindhearted. Matter of fact, a kid I knew way back when would've killed you for insinuating otherwise. Everyone's dirty; the trash man had better get his cut, or you burn your own garbage. The paperboy has some 'Columbian special editions' for certain well-tipping subscribers. And forget about ordering food to go from anywhere without a fat tip first; everyone from the pizza guy to the drive-up window chick wants their ten percent.
And those are the nice guys.
Below them, you got the dirt, the dregs of society. The gangs, the dealers, and the cops. These fine, upstanding citizens are more likely to beat the hell outta you and take your wallet then to do just about everything else. But even these guys have rules. It's their masters, and the masters of the entire state that you gotta worry about crossing.
The Roarks. One was a cardinal with... unusual predilections (he's dead), and the other's a United States Senator obsessed with continuing the family name ever since a maverick ex-cop ripped the balls off his only son.
Which brings me to the heart of the matter; why I'm sitting here telling you my story while all of Sin City burns down around me.