The name of the club is "Spit’s" and tonight the cataclysmic fury of bruiser
metal roars out from the entrance, sending a feral rhythm through the 
steel-and-concrete canyon whose glaring neon billboards rise to thirty and forty stories. Sky 
swimmers drifting far overhead blare with the audio tracks of adverts winking 
and flashing on ten-by-eight trideo displays. Ground traffic hums and growls and 
squeals along four narrow lanes of pavement. The breeds and breeders alike crowd 
the crumbling sidewalks: humans and metas, polis and skinheads, suits and scats, 
trogs and toughs, wannabe razors in studs and leather, the NeoMonochromes and 
tats and electro-bodyware freaks, and all the other thousand sweating, swearing, 
shouting variants to be found in the postmodern, post-Ghost Dance, re-Awakened 
urban environment.