My life in a pocket of hell started in a ditch on a hot morning in June. No pants, no money, and a hangover big enough I could have charged room and board for. Three years homeless and on the move, and the trail ended in this town. The police officer that found me was kind enough to grant my request that I sleep the hangover off in a cell and a pair of pants. The thank you I gave him afterwards was the last kind thing I ever said to the Imperium who run this town.

Things change fast in this town, like a dime bag passed amongst delinquents wasting away outside the dispensary. I went from bum, to bodyguard, to having to wear a convenient noose around my neck for my gig at the Civil Services office. Could have been a male dancer down at the Twister, but my morals got the better of me. Nothing against Blue, sweetheart of a girl, and I thanked her for the offer, but I would rather choke out the two wastes of life that co-run the joint.
Val, a man-whore content to run the place like it's a brothel with lax rules of decorum, and usually more than a little too per-occupied with test driving the talent.
The other albatross was Mathias. A brick outhouse of Viking descent. They say he used to be a pretty swell guy, upstanding and generous. Then somewhere along the line he cut his own heart out and became a Golem, a part of the brick and mortar of the city. Cold, unfeeling, unsympathetic.
You could say me and them had some falling outs that would have made working for them more than a little difficult.

Three years of living the Hobo life taught me a thing or two about cities like Hathian, and you see them all over this country of ours. First, they're alive. Second, they will eat you alive and spit you out onto the pavement if you let it. Hathian is a league in and of it's own. It's like a post-nuclear apocalyptic wasteland. You always have to watch your back, and if you're not armed, get armed, because you can set your watch to the headlines about who's been killed, who's been abducted, and who's been left bleeding in the street.

To be a good man in this town, means to watch out for your own. To take care of the ones you care about. And to do that, you have to be just as vicious as the wild animals that prowl the streets looking for easy prey. The trick is to not cross that threshold that separates the man from the monster. Nietzsche wasn't fucking around when he talked about staring the abyss, because that shit stares back.

Nowadays, I got people to take care of. People I care about. People I'm willing to kill for to ensure they remain unharmed. Every morning as I'm lathering up for a shave I ask myself if I got what it takes to be a man and protect his own. As I strop my straight razor and put metal to skin, I think to myself...

[center:9lvydmzn]God help the poor son of a bitch who tries to prove to me I can't.[/center:9lvydmzn]