The City's night was alive with the sounds of violence. As
Harry Cash walked the rain-slick streets, he was soaked in the noise of society as it
revelled in the unbridled optimism birthed by the end of the war. The door had
been opened for reckless hedonism, and it covered everything like a dirty blanket.
Quiffs and drugstore cowboys littered the streets; human detritus caught in the
wind of change, free to roam the night. Drunks spilled out of clubs and bars,
the signs above the doors buzzing and popping with coloured electricity. This
was his New York, drenched in neon, with red like blood and the green of
disease. The sick thing was, Hope was a cancer eating The City alive, but no
one realised it. A steady drizzle couldn't dampen people's spirits; instead, it
only served to give the pavement the appearance of having bled black blood. The
roar of traffic became the growl of a gargantuan shadow moving behind the
nearby buildings. Always on the periphery. Usually always.
[More on the way]
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