Located in the armpit of America is the city of Detroit and in the armpit of Detroit - Apollo's Pad. An extremely dirty, shabby and otherwise unpleasant place where the disco balls still glitter, the old vinyls still spin, and flared pants never tapered. Apollo's Pad is owned and run by none other than Apollo himself, a beat up man who's become a mere shadow of his former self. "No longer bunking in any bed, or dining while getting head, no more digesting extinct meat while fans grovel at his feet". Apollo is a man stuck in the past with hopes for the present, peddling the last legal drug inside an establishment which similarly to himself was once upon a time hip and popular but now is forgotten. Apollo's Pad has become a safe-haven to losers, the less fortunate looking to the even less fortunate, where ignorance leads to unpredictable events and hysterical stories. The variety of patrons is limitless, however in few numbers, the schemes are endless, however never successful and the ...