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Robin Attewood hated Destiny City.

He'd never wanted to move to America with his parents in the first place. But there was no way he could have afforded to remain in London on his own, surviving on the relatively meager amount of money he made from Torgo's performances and CD sales. So off he went, and here he was, stuck in a place that didn't even speak the language correctly, let alone know what a proper pub was. The place he was camped out at now was a divey little bar whose idea of "pub grub" was buffalo wings and deep-fried mozzarella sticks. Only reason he was in this joint was they'd serve him beer even though he was one year shy of the ridiculous drinking age, as long as he kept his cakehole shut about it.

Speaking of beer… He finished his pint (not even a proper pint glass!) and signalled to the bartender for another. Other things to hate about Destiny City: the monsters -- they called them youma, what the ******** ever -- that occasionally terrorized the citizens, destroying businesses and generally wreaking mayhem. It seemed every day on the news there was another attack reported. Where the ******** had they even come from? And why this town? There weren't any monsters back home, not that he was aware of anyway. This organization calling itself the Negaverse claimed to have things under control, but as far as Rob was concerned they were doing a pretty crap job of it.

The bartender came back with his beer, and Rob nodded in thanks. Even smiled a little bit. Coming up with this hate list was fun. What else could he add? He reckoned he could put the Negaverse on it, buncha smug bastards that they seemed to be from their television spots. He didn't know what they were on about, but he didn't trust them. The other guys, the supposed invaders, could be added to the list too, if the news reports about them were true and they were the ones responsible for all the assaults that had been going on. But wasn't it the rule in America that the ones in white were the Good Guys and the Bad Guys wore black?

Rob took a sip of his beer. Let's see, what else to hate, he mused as a police siren wailed down the street, drowning out the music being piped through the place. Oh yeah, the music. And here he'd thought pop music back home was crap. Even the punk music here was rubbish, so derivative and emotionless, like little kids playing at being rebellious. Some of them even dared to sing with alarmingly bad fake English accents. Those little wankers wouldn't know a proper punk if one came up and head-butted them!

A commotion at the entrance of the bar distracted him from his list-making. The other patrons were gathering at the window, watching as yet another monster rampaged outside, wrecking a cafe across the street. While the others stared and chattered excitedly, though, Rob just sighed and shook his head and returned his attention to his beer.

Yeah, he hated Destiny City.