Griffin City is a tampon-stuffed toilet flushing itself into the ocean, a viper’s nest of desperation, a decaying den of thieves, pimps, pushers, and cum-grubby whores. But, it hasn’t always been like that. Signs of better times linger in faded postcards of cherry-cheeked families playing on Wankers Beach, laughing teenagers riding the roller coasters at Horny Island, and lovers entangled over luxurious meals at Prissy’s downtown.
Now, the restaurants are owned by crime lords. Horny Island has been castrated and left to rot on the edge of town. Barbed wire seals off quarantined beaches, caged with bashed-in signs warning of industrial waste, flesh-eating bacteria, and raw sewage.
Nobody needs a sign. You can smell that shit.
From the spoiled waters of the poisoned sea, across the crumbling reach of the downtown skyscrapers, to the nasty-ass labyrinth of Old Towne and the shady “businesses” on Fuck Street, the whole city bleeds from a rectal cancer that will kill everything you ever loved before it stuffs you cock-first into the grave.
On I-69, coming into town, you can hear the gunfire. You can see the carnage. The acidic flicker of fluorescent lights going bad buzz and flash across a welcome sign spray-painted into layers of art for the damned, tagged into chaos by meth boyz, booze bitches, and the criminally insane.
Griffin City is dead, motherfuckers.
Long live Graffiti City.