The sun was setting. Far to the east, threatening black clouds arose from the fumes of pollution from the several smoke stacks towering over the city. The streets were pock marked and dented with the recent shower of acid rain. Hot boiling steam from the sewers made the temperature of day much hotter than it really was. Just outside the borders of the city is a lake covered with muck and crude oil spills. Death and despair floated aimlessly on the surface of the unhospitable body of water. Corpses of dead fish, seagulls... bobbed just under the rim of the black slime. The black slime sensing fresh prey, extended it's corrupt and revolting tendrils farther...until it caught another unsuspecting victim, choking and engulfing, destroying, leaving just another emtpy shell behind, devoid of any life. Night set in, the stars were obscured by thick blankets of smoke. The day was done. Stores got ready to lock up and street lights were turned on to aid the bread winners, so they may travel safely. Few were fortunate enough to own automobiles so they could avoid the cold dangerous streets and dark alleyways. Most shops were already abandoned, finished for the day. Yet few doors were still open, desperate for any last minute customers. One such shopkeeper was Phil Anderson. Anderson had worked as a pharmacist for most of his life. At forty, he had little to show for. The pollution that caused the gradual decay of the city had had negative effects on business, as well as the environment. Phil, though by all means not an old man, showed signs of premature aging. His skin was pale and dry, wrinkled by the everyday punishment of the deteriorating sorroundings. Few strands of grayish white hair lined his almost bald, dandruff infested scalp. Looking at Phil with his characteristic limp, slouched posture and bulging belly one might think him an extremely unathletic person. But then again it was not entirely his fault.
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