Blood. Blood on my hands, blood under my nails, blood in my hair. I haven't had a drink all day and I'm starting to get the shakes. My name is Dave Gorlomi, I own Styx Meats and I'm an alcoholic.
I've owned this little corner shop for years now, since way back when this neighborhood was, well, still a total shithole. I think this part of town exists outside of time; it's always been a shithole and it always will be. Anyways, I'm the butcher around here. People need cheap meat and that's what I'm able to give them. I buy a lot of low grade meat or cuts that sat around too long at the supermarket. Don't worry though, nobody dies from food poisoning around here, you usually get shot.
The place next door to me is an "antique store," haha. That place has been a whorehouse front for so long that it used to just be a furniture store. Next door to that there's a bar; they serve crappy, greasy food, there are some crappy, greasy women, and the beer is warm. That's all that this town really is, dead meat, live meat, and alcohol.
Across the way there's a little Jewish deli that doubles as a synagogue on weekends, and as though this town wasn't already about to blow, there's a mosque right across the street. Anyways, at the corner of Katz and Mercy is where everything usually goes down, at the apartment building. You can find anything you need there; girls, drugs, guns, it all depends on how lonely you really are.
There's some more to this town, but all I really know is the liquor store and the blur that happens after it. People come and people go but it's all the same; they all have the same stories and they all sound the same crying. There isn't a sky over this town, just an airtight dome that somebody decorated with a box of crayons, and every time someone takes a breath, the pressure inside increases; it's all ready to blow. The rain in this town wouldn't pass a piss test; the chimneys here would blow over the legal limit. This is the edge of the world and I am Dave the butcher.
