Broken old men told me about the glory of the shipyards when I was a boy. But all that remained was rust and rubble. These same old men, once strong like the cranes they worked, suffered the indignity of age. Their minds would succumb to doddery. One day, they’d return to the earth just like the ore that was purified, then corrupted by time.
Oh, to be a spectator! But the world I was born into was too small. I gazed at something bigger and it took me across the sea.
New York: The capital city of decay. The ancient cities of Europe are beloved and treasured, but in the New World, things that were once beautiful are left to rot.
And the people! My, the people. Like eight million lone wolves penned in the same cage. They gnaw at each other and themselves. They’re skittish yet vicious. Angry but afraid. Helpless because they’re all fighting for the same scraps from too small a table. This was my kind of place.
I hung a shingle. Investigations. The only way to see the rot from the inside. And they let me right in. This is my story.