17-01-2004, 19:21
July 16, 2014, City of St. Sally
St. Sally, a city of illicit pleasures and moral corruption, this tropical Oz just 55 miles outside of the capital icty of Poruga, this place where everything, even the famous miniature wubba worms came from some place else. A city of aspiring supermodels and fashion plates, of sufer beach boys who spend more time on the joint then on the surfboard, a place where all the pretty barbie dolls in tight mini-skirts and roller blades and go-go boys in even tighter lycra short-shorts and the DJ's and party animals, hustlers, and would-be scene-makers have all called home.
St. Sally, the Hollywood, Miami, and New York City all rolled into one and crushed into a two thousand acre area of Taligari just a 55 mile drive from the capital of Poruga. This city where image is everything and is the center of existance. This is the place where one goes to empty your mind (and wallet) and pump up your muscle, a district where the only books allowed are City Tour Guides and where fewer vocations than Swimsuit Model exist.
Despite the shinny facsade of muscle gods and hot-bodied women looking like they all just got out of a yoga session of the gym shady dealings go on beneath the palm trees. For countless years St. Sally has been the home of the Mafia and every crime syndicate in the nation, over 1/3 of all laundered money is believed to go through St. Sally, and over 55% of all illegal weapons come through St. Sally's palm tree lined streets. This is the city where you can make it big, if you know how to exploit the opportunities offered to you.
Jerry Roberto flicked a cigarette stub onto the sidewalk of the infamous Brokeway Drive and stepped on it. He glanced at the neon signs of the many casinos that had made this place famous and glanced at his watch, it was 11:50 AM. Jerry walked the sidewalk towards the largest casino on the Broakway Drive, The Fallen Star, in one of the many reseraunts he would meet his contact for the job he was going to pull in St. Sally.
St. Sally, a city of illicit pleasures and moral corruption, this tropical Oz just 55 miles outside of the capital icty of Poruga, this place where everything, even the famous miniature wubba worms came from some place else. A city of aspiring supermodels and fashion plates, of sufer beach boys who spend more time on the joint then on the surfboard, a place where all the pretty barbie dolls in tight mini-skirts and roller blades and go-go boys in even tighter lycra short-shorts and the DJ's and party animals, hustlers, and would-be scene-makers have all called home.
St. Sally, the Hollywood, Miami, and New York City all rolled into one and crushed into a two thousand acre area of Taligari just a 55 mile drive from the capital of Poruga. This city where image is everything and is the center of existance. This is the place where one goes to empty your mind (and wallet) and pump up your muscle, a district where the only books allowed are City Tour Guides and where fewer vocations than Swimsuit Model exist.
Despite the shinny facsade of muscle gods and hot-bodied women looking like they all just got out of a yoga session of the gym shady dealings go on beneath the palm trees. For countless years St. Sally has been the home of the Mafia and every crime syndicate in the nation, over 1/3 of all laundered money is believed to go through St. Sally, and over 55% of all illegal weapons come through St. Sally's palm tree lined streets. This is the city where you can make it big, if you know how to exploit the opportunities offered to you.
Jerry Roberto flicked a cigarette stub onto the sidewalk of the infamous Brokeway Drive and stepped on it. He glanced at the neon signs of the many casinos that had made this place famous and glanced at his watch, it was 11:50 AM. Jerry walked the sidewalk towards the largest casino on the Broakway Drive, The Fallen Star, in one of the many reseraunts he would meet his contact for the job he was going to pull in St. Sally.