(I want Places You Haunt icons. *sigh*)
To get along in Vegas, you have to be crazy, high, or a shaman. Fortunately for me, I’m all three.
So you take what I say with a grain of salt, see. Because all of my stories are true. Just not necessarily the way I tell them.
I grew up here. I’m from here, a place nobody’s from. I grew up on the line between fey Strip-magic and deep old desert-magic, and it warped me but good. Grew up on all kinds of lines - half German, half-Japanese, my friends all called me the Axis baby til it stuck. Now I’m just Axis.
At your service.
You can feel free to imagine a bow there. I’d’ve done one. Big and courtly or small and subtle, as the occasion requires. I’m only half-here sometimes, but I’m here enough to know that that plays well. Enough to know how to adjust the spin towards “eccentric” rather than “batshit crazy”. Enough so if I tell you I saw Vegas Vic step down and take a walk down Fremont Street with Lady Luck, you’ll chuckle and think I’m telling stories.
Don’t assume they’re not real. Vic and the Ladies. If they’re not real, what is this candy-apple honey-trap city doing smack here in the middle of this desert? You’d be wise to assume that everything’s real til I say otherwise.
Where was I?