“Hey, look peeps—there’s a hobo in the trash can!” The shout echoed through the alley as Mark stirred from uneasy sleep. Instead of the soft, warm embrace of his bed, he woke to the cold caress of hard boxes and crinkled bags—the lonely remnants of a trashcan’s embrace. Bleary-eyed, he scanned his surroundings. He noticed that he was wearing nothing but his worn boxers and a faded t-shirt that molded to his smooth chestnut skin. His closely shaven beard and military-style haircut remained unaltered, as though to mock the absurdity of his predicament. At 6’1 and 28 years old, he still carried the robust aura of a bck mailman from Queens, yet his mind raced with incredulity. Had he been sex trafficked? Why was he dumped in a trashcan?
As he cautiously hoisted himself out of the container, he found himself face-to-face with a ragtag group: four women and one man, each dressed in archetypal 90s street thug attire reminiscent of a gritty comic book scene. One Latina woman, standing barely 5’2, approached with a determined stride that belied her stature. Her heavy boots, reminiscent of Timbs, and baggy pants paired with a jersey boldly decring “Sin City Allstars” transformed the dim alleyway into her personal stage. She stopped just two feet before him, her eyes glinting with a mischievous challenge.
“Hey baby. You don’t look like a hobo? I could use tall, dark, and handsome for the night. How much for an hour?” Her voice oozed seduction, yet underneath y a palpable menace. Mark’s thoughts swirled—did she really believe he was nothing more than a discarded soul scavenged from a trashcan? In a tremulous attempt to reason, he stammered, “Hey, people, I think I somehow got kidnapped or whatever and ended up here. I’m from Queens. Could you perhaps point me to the nearest police station?”
Before the situation could escate into further absurdity, another voice interjected. A bck woman with impeccably braided hair and rich mocha-toned skin stepped forward, her tone equally ced with lewd insistence: “We will help you if you can lick some kitty for a bit.” More voices joined in as the other women provocatively toyed with their belt loops and pants, each gesture saturating the air with crude suggestions. Mark’s pulse pounded in his ears. He was from New York—tough, unyielding, and not about to be reduced to some degrading caricature.
The moment turned critical as the Latina drew nearer and Mark caught sight of her hand sleeking into her pocket. It wasn’t long before his eyes caught the metallic glint of a pistol. In that split second, memories of his father’s insistence on boxing for self-defense surged through him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he unleashed a ferocious punch into her face—a blow delivered with a raw power that belied his disbelief. The force was astonishing; she sailed backward, crashing into her cohorts and scattering them more than ten feet away, as though some superhero had emerged in the alley.
Adrenaline surged as he continued his frantic assault. He moved like a man possessed, throwing punch after punch, his fists shattering noses and defting their bravado. Amid the chaos, Mark frantically rummaged through their pockets. In the process, he not only secured the pistol from the Latina but also snatched up two other firearms and three glinting switchbdes. “You tried to rape me in a dark fucking alley. You sick fucks,” he growled, the roar of his words mingling with the sounds of scuffling panic. One pale woman, her short blonde hair damp with blood from a self-inflicted attempt at stanching a nosebleed, pleaded, “Please, spare us. We did know you were a sup. Please take our money and stuff; just let us go.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed as he examined the gear on the remaining man, gesturing to his shoes, pants, and jacket. “That’ll do. I want his shoes, pants, and jacket too,” he decred. Without much resistance, the man quickly stripped off his baggy attire and handed it over as his cohorts scattered into the dim maze of the alley. Mark inspected the newly acquired boots, jeans, and a rugged leather jacket. Though the man was shorter, his baggy clothes now fit Mark surprisingly well—a small stroke of serendipity amid the mayhem.
Yet, even in the haze of violence and confusion, one detail sparked further curiosity: the money they had carried looked like American dolrs but bore a massive, enigmatic “S” at their center. Despite its odd markings, the denominations remained familiar, and soon Mark tallied approximately four grand in his possession. With a pragmatic air overriding his turbulent emotions, he meticulously wiped his fingerprints from the confiscated weapons before discarding them into a nearby trashcan. Gritting his teeth, he mused, “I don’t like guns.”
Stepping out of the dark alleyway, Mark’s eyes widened as the urban ndscape unfolded before him. The metropolis was a vibrant colge of cultures—people of various races intermingled with beings whose features were oddly superhuman or distinctly otherworldly. To his astonishment, the streets brimmed with women, their numbers outstripping men almost three or four to one. This disturbing gender imbance stirred a mix of perplexity and dark humor within him as he wondered if some one-child policy had gone terribly awry.
He watched in awe as ordinary citizens performed feats straight out of a fantasy: some breathed fire from their mouths, others soared on unseen currents through the sky, and a few hefted burdens that defied the natural limits of human strength. Despite these spectacur abilities, the city’s technology gged conspicuously behind—cellphones were nonexistent, and the vehicles lumbered along like relics from the mid-90s. Without the convenience of instant digital communication, he surmised that internet access would be scarce, limited perhaps to an internet cafe or an old-fashioned library.
In search of orientation, Mark’s gaze nded on a small, slightly worn newsstand. The newspapers, sold at a modest dolr apiece, were his only connection to understanding this strange world. He purchased a paper and pored over it, the print and headlines offering scant clues that he was in a sprawling metropolis known as Sin City—a city divided into five distinct districts. According to the report, he had nded in Lowbridge, a section that reeked of urban decay and raw street energy—the unmistakable mark of a ‘hood.
As the gnawing hunger in his stomach became impossible to ignore, the newsstand seller, his voice rough with local wisdom, called out, “I see you are hungry, son. Check out the Rust Market—that’s where the locals eat. You look like a tourist with a thumb in your ass. I’d try to blend in more. Lowbridge isn’t a good pce for marks.” Mark offered a small, resigned smile and a nod of acknowledgment. Tossing the discarded paper into a nearby trash can, he set off toward the Rust Market, each step drawing him deeper into the vivid, unpredictable concrete jungle of this new world.
