Evan Stampstone

When you look up "bad guy made good" in the dictionary, they ought to have a picture of Evan Stampstone right fucking there. He's what young, ambitious men born with no money and no power dream of becoming someday. He parties with record producers, owns clubs you couldn't get into, fucks pretty much anything he feels like, and he has a white man driving a car made by a company whose name you can't even pronounce.

Yes, sure, there are more powerful movers and shakers on the West Coast. There are guys in LA and Seattle who could buy and sell Mr. Stampstone a few times over. But the thing is, Evan is young. On the move. On the way up. And you'd be hard pressed to find anyone with his power out on the Left with as much interest in crashing, or in crashers themselves, or in what they can do for him.

See, the secret to Evan's success is the sale and exploitation of resurrections and regenerations. Eternal youth. Brand new limbs. Bringing people back from the dead. He's got the keys to Hell itself, and there are very few men willing to fuck with a guy like that.

Brothers who piss off Evan Stampstone don't just die, you see. No, he has a Cherry on lock-down in a part of West Hollywood that people don't like to talk about, and it leads to a place where a man can't die, no matter what you do to him. Things grow back on a guy like they do on starfish, down there: an inch or so a day, as long as that dude is soaking in the bloody, boiling, amniotic-fluid-like hot-springs that dot the puckered plain. It stings, but it'll do. A dude who fucks with Evan get carted down to the Big Bad for special treatment: a six-man squad of dudes in hazmat suits with shotguns, sniper rifles, flame-throwers and chainsaws accompany the unlucky fella; only some of that hardware is for use on the victim, of course.

There are plenty of predators down there. Birds, rock-lizards, something that looks like a ram but isn't. And sometimes transits from other hells bring in screws and damned for "rejuvenation". And then there's the fact that even with the hazmat suits, sometimes the steam from the "saunas" can make a dude grow into a mass of weeping, tooth-filled tumors the size of a mini-van, all in the space of a half-minute. It's like the watering hole in the savanna, except it's Damnation Itself.

There are a few flaws to Evan's system, of course: the saunas can't heal women. They eat them, instead. And while Mr. Stampstone can make guarantees to people that he'll bring back the dead - and in pristine condition - he has to rely on crashers, just like any other Cheney, to fetch the damned back to him.

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