We own the streets. The Glass walkers in their high domains think they do, but they only own the title deed. We own the dirt. We own the gravel. We own the broken fragments of glass and the Burger Cow wrappers and the Runaway Helpline posters and the muck, the slime, the goo that decomposes whenever you trashers throw something down here. We own it all. We�re the princes of Paper, the satraps of soil, the tyrants of trash. When you throw a bag full of hungry newborn kittens into the sewers, we find them. We you toss your shredded �dirty laundry� documents in the trash, we find them� and put them back together.

We live off the crap you no longer want. We don�t have a credit card or a Miata or even a checkbook, but we get along. What�s my goddamn Social Security number? Hell if I know. We don�t worry about stinkin� numbers. We survive. That�s out gig, survival. Sometimes I wonder what the hell we�re waiting for � our deaths, or the end of the world? Why do we put up with it?

You may not care about any of this, but I am gonna say it anyway. When you�re told to shut up a lot, and when you�ve had folks turn their back on you for long enough, you�ve got a lot to say. You think that just because we�re Garou, we�re automatically buddy-buddy with the other Garou? Fat chance. They loathe us. They think we stink. And we do. But we stink because of what we are, where we live. I�ll tell you though. I�ll tell you exactly what�s gonna happen here in a few years. The rest of the wolves, they�re gonna get their butts killed off by the Wyrm. Already ya see it happening down in the Amazon. Already ya hear from places like Atlanta and Chicago � Garou getting killed off left and right, the Wyrm showin� up in new guises. I tell you, garou won�t be long in this world.