Summer, 1962.
Summer rain falls thick on The City. Los Diablos. The City of Demons. Through the busy city streets people rush, escaping the rain or revelling as it washes away their sins. The gutters gurgle while the alleys sigh. Somewhere a woman screams. Elsewhere, a man laughs as his friends choke on their own blood. All lost in the noise, and rain.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiMqZmNHU1IThe city lights blur as the rain pours down your window. The sound of cars is enough to drive you mad. Perhaps you are, a little. You’re beginning to think it’s part of your job.
You are a detective. One of many in this city, but even so, there’s always enough cases to go around. Too many to count. Missing objects. Missing persons. Sleazy husbands. Drunks, criminals, and thieves. All call this city home. And it’s your job to solve them, when they come your way.
You pour yourself a drink, whiskey, straight. Your third. It’s always the dead hours like these where you don’t have a case and nothing to do that are always the worst. Cases are what you live for. You wouldn’t be in this profession otherwise. Or this city. The pulps and less reputable papers say that Los Diablos is a city of the underworld, it just has the façade of civilisation on top. You can’t say they’re wrong. All the darkest traits of mankind, its vices, its weaknesses, its two-bit pettiness come out in this city. There’s no fixing it. Either a quality of the city or humanity, the philosophers in the universities aren’t sure which.
Still, you fight against it. Solving the cases that can be solved. Struggling against the ones that can’t, despite their bitter endings. You are a detective. You solve cases. You just need a new one.
