Welcome to New Angel City

 You seem like a good kid. Now, what a nice jasper like yourself is doing here is beyond me. You must have gotten off at the wrong platform, down at the train station. 

The only people who come here are people who are interested in making dough by getting wet. Not like a how a twist gets when when some mug she fancies plays with her snatch, though if being a roundheel is your goal, I’m not one to judge. But I mean wet, as in getting your hands wet with blood. “Wet-work” is what some of the gunsels like to call it.

The rain slicked streets and the shady back alleys provide the perfect nesting ground for the things that go bump in the night. Here you have horned-bastards that look like half-demons, and then there are those angelic sons-of-bitches; believe me when I say they are hardly angel-like.

There is nothing really here, except forgotten dreams of prosperity, a corrupt police force, twisted politicians, more crime and violence then you could ever beg for, and the incessant nearly-perpetual downpour. 

I’ve lived in the city my whole life. I’ve seen what it does to people. It turns the innocent red hearts of people into cold black stones.

Welcome to New Angel City.