Deadtown

Deadtown in the '50s. It's one helluva place. You know the kind. If ever there was a slimy misty wet cesspool of a dive on the dark side of forever, the far wrong dark side of the wrong dark side of the tracks, yeah, that's Deadtown. The seediest slimiest sleaziest hellhole slime pit this side of Purgatory. It's a greasy place, dark and dank, with a misty fog that alternates with a misty rain. It never stops. Never. Buildings teeter on the verge of collapse, catering to the dark slimy seedy sleazy side of life with restaurants and bars and nightclubs and whore houses and drug dens. Beyond lay the hinterlands where misshapen horrors chew on the unsuspecting and spit out flesh and bone. Deadtown isn't a town actually, it's a city. Not much of a city, but it's a city. Occasionally you'll find a special nutcase lurking in the side streets and misty wet alleys. The Sleeper was one such special nutcase. Some would say that he was in a class all by himself. They would probably be right ...