It's the height of summer in the United States of America. The state doesn't matter -- it's sunny, you're in the outskirts of town, and the jungle is concrete. Your refurbished 1960 Lincoln Continental, matte black with leather interior, sluts down the street as you wind the window down, the hot air turning cool as it hits your face in the 40kmh wind. Your arm decides it would be better suited leaning on the door sill, and as you do the cool air begins to blow into your shirt cuff, and it feels nice, a welcome respite from the blazing sundown heat of perhaps a Southron state. From elsewhere, the stranger innings of a distant barbeque wafts its redolent fat delights into your nose -- Louisiana chicken? Brisket? Burger? Shortribs? Steak? Whatsoever the shape of the meat, the sweet fat and caster-sugar melt smell distracts you for a moment, and your stomach begins to opine its loneliness, being otherwise sat there all day with itself as you conduct your Yanky business. But you steel yourself, your grip tightening on the decades-old steering wheel: you aren't here to feed your belly. You're here in this bastard asphalt outback, lined Church-like with the brandings of interstate commerce, to feed your loins -- and the fat that will grease them is very distinct from that which would otherwise line your stomach. You pull in to the parking lot, a pitch of empty dreams and a monument of the American pastimes of now and ages past; where once-Stetsoned men may have hitched their ponies, a metal beast declares itself, growling into the spots those beasts once stood, a liquid prostrated onto the ground piss-like but oily, and black -- "Asian Massage", the sign reads, a neon number declaring the seedy hotbed "OPEN" as you pull in. Dizzying thoughts like the blinking lights around the signage fly around in the interior of your mind. "What will I ask Su Linn to do for me today?" Visions of fleshy interspersements dance around, fistfuls of jet-black Asian hair, the foreign sighs...