I woke to smoke and the sour smell of alcohol. Last night came back like a punch to the face - just like every other night before it. But that's what life's like in Brack, the city so rotten not even the Nazi's wanted a piece of it. You bust your neck looking for some John who ran off with Crying Jane's jewels, or her best friend, and all the thanks you get is a slap on the wrist from cops so crooked they're practically walking sideways. Come home half dead, kill the other half with a bottle in hand - ah, the daily grind.

Lady Luck must really be smiling on this town - what with its envious living standards. The booze really brings out the tough in a man; and makes all pains go away. There must be folk with the stuff for blood, because wouldn't you know it? They can't die. Immortal to the core. A guy has to wonder who they sold their soul to, to get a trick like that up their sleeve - and more than one poor bastard's lost his trying to find out. An undead gang - just what this city needs. As if we aren't walking on sunflowers as it is!