Popion's Hizzy
Admist the vast Gaian landscape, amongst the bustling metropolis of Gambino, the small town comfort of Barton, the cobblestone streets of Durem, and the industrial wasteland that is Akea, there is a small market district made defunct by the convenience of the Marketplace that dots its horizon. The district houses the many custom shops, stalls, and kiosks abandoned when free trade was crushed by the oppressive capitalist fist of an official, organized Marketplace. A modern day ghost town, every path is lined with hastily assembled structures that now threaten to fold in on themselves. Once colorful banners advertising the many exotic goods merchants had to offer now flap listlissly in the wind, beaten and threadbare.
In the center of it all, in the once throbbing heart of a thriving market, there is an orange 1976 Ford Pinto parked in a clearly marked 'No Parking' zone. The gravel beneath its tires is cracked and torn, giving way to the growth of dozens of weeds that just barely manage to sustain themselves. Surrounding it there are boxes of various sizes, all unmarked and overpouring with various knicks and knacks. To the left there is a folding set including both tables and chairs. To the right there is a clothes rack stolen from a men's department store, brimming with a wardrobe that simply seems too stylish for such an environment. In the back there is a sofa with a missing cushion situated in front of a coffee table where a six inche portable television sits with its antennas positioned just right. Besides it is a potted plant that serves as a welcome bit of decorum in an otherwise depressing excuse for a household.
The doors of the Ford Pinto are open, as is the trunk, as is the hood. The interior is lined with blankets and pillows that seemed to have been recently used. The windows are lined with pictures, most of which depict scantly clad women in suggestive positions. Above these, however, there is a picture framed and surprisingly tasteful. In it, a scruffily blue-haired man in a pristine white jacket has his arm wrapped tightly, perhaps too tightly, around the neck of a young boy struggling to breathe. Atop the boy's head there are two twitching fox ears, and behind him there fluffs up a fox tail. A crack in the glass that covers the picture seems to capture the duo perfectly.
Admist the vast Gaian landscape, amongst the bustling metropolis of Gambino, the small town comfort of Barton, the cobblestone streets of Durem, and the industrial wasteland that is Akea, there is a small market district made defunct by the convenience of the Marketplace that dots its horizon. The district houses the many custom shops, stalls, and kiosks abandoned when free trade was crushed by the oppressive capitalist fist of an official, organized Marketplace. A modern day ghost town, every path is lined with hastily assembled structures that now threaten to fold in on themselves. Once colorful banners advertising the many exotic goods merchants had to offer now flap listlissly in the wind, beaten and threadbare.
In the center of it all, in the once throbbing heart of a thriving market, there is an orange 1976 Ford Pinto parked in a clearly marked 'No Parking' zone. The gravel beneath its tires is cracked and torn, giving way to the growth of dozens of weeds that just barely manage to sustain themselves. Surrounding it there are boxes of various sizes, all unmarked and overpouring with various knicks and knacks. To the left there is a folding set including both tables and chairs. To the right there is a clothes rack stolen from a men's department store, brimming with a wardrobe that simply seems too stylish for such an environment. In the back there is a sofa with a missing cushion situated in front of a coffee table where a six inche portable television sits with its antennas positioned just right. Besides it is a potted plant that serves as a welcome bit of decorum in an otherwise depressing excuse for a household.
The doors of the Ford Pinto are open, as is the trunk, as is the hood. The interior is lined with blankets and pillows that seemed to have been recently used. The windows are lined with pictures, most of which depict scantly clad women in suggestive positions. Above these, however, there is a picture framed and surprisingly tasteful. In it, a scruffily blue-haired man in a pristine white jacket has his arm wrapped tightly, perhaps too tightly, around the neck of a young boy struggling to breathe. Atop the boy's head there are two twitching fox ears, and behind him there fluffs up a fox tail. A crack in the glass that covers the picture seems to capture the duo perfectly.
