You hop out of your car, machine gun in hand, shooting the medics and wasting the cops as your vehicle explodes behind you. An ambulance arrives, followed by a couple of police cruisers.
You’ve got sex appeal and street respect and the points to prove it. You remember your date last night, starting with an innocent invitation to hot coffee and ending in bed with an impossibly proportioned woman who tells you, “You’re the man.” You are the man. You look down at your muscular brown forearm, tattoos peeking out from under your shirt. Stopping at a store, you buy new clothes in a casino you lay down a bet you go dancing at a club and then you’re back on the street, cruising. This is your world, you know it inside out, and everything and every place can be open to you.
You’ve got a job to do, but that can wait. Slouched down in a vintage low-rider, you cruise the city.
