The heart of the Bronx is like Newark’s Sector 3, only worse. The streets are lined with crumbling concrete and flimsy duraplas structures. Signs and display screens flicker and gleam, but the products advertised are strictly grunge rate: soybran, soykaf, plastiwear, body filler, StreetDocs, Ramboic 14. Most of the people living here are SINless and poor. They live like sardines, packed into plastic tins called coffin hotels and apartments consisting of single rooms. The streets are jammed night and day with those seeking work, seeking food, seeking shelter, seeking all the thousand things they need and the means to get them. Some nights it seems that every person Bandit sees is either a criminal on the prowl, ready to maim or even kill for an easy nuyen, or a victim, soon to be robbed and perhaps bludgeoned to death, stripped of his or her meager possessions. The criminals here are as poor as everyone else. The yakuza and others all have their outposts, their little scams, their gaming parlors, their BTL labs, but the streets are ruled by gangers: elf gangers, Asian gangers, troll gangers. The trolls are the worst. The worst of the worst call themselves the Kong Destroyers and are best avoided at all times.