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How We Live, How We Die

Living in South Tacoma wasn't all that bad. Really, it wasn't. Sure, you had to dodge the occasional Yakuza/Mafia crossfire, and keeping out of the way of the Ragers was always good for your health. And yes, you had to deal with the Tacoma aroma - that mouth-drying caustic tang, lacing every breath - but everyone just learned to live with that. You had the ever-present chipheads, the joyboys and puppetgirls with their systems spiked to block their memory, the dealers, the addicts, and the posergangs. But that didn't matter to those of us trying to make it.

Here in Tacoma, there were jobs enough for those that needed work, which got you a roof over your head and food in your gut. Keep your hoop out of trouble, do your work and collect your pay, that's all you really need to do to get by - do that long enough, and you can carve out a decent enough life.

And at the end of the day, at least it wasn't the Barrens.