AKA "The Boiling 'Burbclave" AKA "Shitfist Mall"

Type: formerly a Boutique, this domain is rapidly growing, with horrid tumescence, into a Warehouse or "Big-Box" hell; it is currently in some type of little-understood 'transition' between metaphysical states, possibly controlled by (or simply manifested through) a pair of warring demon-lords.

Entrances: There used to be just one good, solid way into Oppyloputsh: a papered-over side-door in a perpetually hot, stuffy, bone-dry hotel room just outside of Many Farms, Arizona, which went by the fanciful name "Hawiovi" - the Great Ladder Down, in the language of the Hopi who used to live in the area. This was one of the more famous "hard cherries" of American crasher lore, with a colorful oral history stretching back to when Route 66, the Mother Road, ran through Holbrook only about a hundred and forty miles south of Many Farms. Allegedly, this little spit of land in the gin-soaked, suicide-plagued gray backwater of Apache County has been haunted since time immemorial; few of the 1,500 people living there now would disagree, since over a third are living below the poverty line.

Over the last few years, however, a whole bunch more cherries, possibly more than a dozen, have popped up which lead into Oppyloptsh, spreading across the Heartland and the Southwest and even up into parts of Oregon like infected blackheads. These are unreliable at best, shifting and closing again in weird intervals, and tend to open into truly inhospitable (read as: LETHAL) sections of the domain, but that's done nothing to stop the devaluation of entrance fees for the beleaguered Tollkeepers.

Transit Access: Once upon a time, Oppyloptsh was considered "Deep Nether": it had few regular transit-falls, and fewer known connections to other domains. That's all changing, now. Route 616 runs through the city back and forth like an angry scribble, as do rails from Absear, splitting and winding around and around, although they both get tangled up in clusters of weird clovers, side streets, overpasses & off-ramps that make negotiating the fucking things a nightmare; the Shuddering Storm similarly blows through all too often, always leaving a wake of fresh damned when it suddenly "blows over" at high speeds previously unseen. The Creeping Dollhouse winds back and forth through the city with startling regularity, and there's talk among a number of crashers that a properly protected and competent party could hike across the blacktop deserts to find Empty Breath, now said to be somehow "adjacent" - masses of mummified damned from that domain have recently immigrated to the Burbclave as mummified, unwanted refugees.

Citizens: Good news: wounds heal in Oppyloputsh. Bad news: they heal slowly, and leave very, very ugly scars, and limbs don't grow back. The worse news: those who die here go somewhere else, and nobody knows where. Anyway: the damned here come in two types: the tranced and the sane; all are knotted with anxiety, glistening with sweat and blisters, pushed and prodded and slapped and stinging with fears and insane desires and a roiling, gnawing worry that they simply cannot make it through another goddamn day. The tranced, which make up roughly 80-90% of the population at any given time, are little better than automatons, miming frenzied, panicked actions and shoving aside anyone who disrupts their crowd-flow of seething, hostile puppetry as they fidget in lines and crumple their belongings and kick and cry and howl and hunt empty shelves for their heart's desire. The sane live in abject terror of the tranced. Sure, the sane are terrified of their swarming, sadistic violence, but also know that at any moment they, themselves, might slip back into that nightmare fugue state and never return. Some of the damned here are corpulent beyond human extremes, some are emaciated like famine victims, most are ugly, hobbled or deformed in some way which increases their glowering self-consciousness to pathological levels, and all of them suffer nasty seizures and bouts of vomiting and diarrhea which strike at random.

The Place: This was once a hell of lonesome despair, abandonment and cracked, wind-swept isolation as fatal, unfathomable and unknowable as the Grand Canyon stretching forth eternally under hot, leaden skies. Now, it's a tumor of flattened lumps growing across the plain: a shining, abjectly cruel place as new and spit-polished and emotionally vacant as a week-old supercenter parking-lot at noon on a summer's day, gleaming with waves of heat off freshly poured oil and the sheen of endless baking SUVs all in a row. By day and evening the streets are cramped, choked with angry rush-hour masses in an continuous ballet of steel and angry hisses and threats and honks, with occasional gunfire and four-car pileups and broken teeth spilled into the street; the buildings are mazes of massive, near-identical constructions stamped from without with incomprehensible logos and filled, inside, with bizarrely-arranged shelves stocked with pretty much fucking nothing at all. As midnight draws close, the town shuts down completely as the Jelly-Bells descend in the dark.

The heat seems to be the worst aspect of the place, although the true culprit (especially near the broken, outlying areas of the Domain) is something more like radiation poisoning: aggravated sunburns and filthy blood-blisters precede the loss of hair, teeth, eyesight, hearing, fingernails and muscle mass.

The entire domain centers around Shitfist Mall, a sprawling, icy-cold turd of glass, white plaster and neon; although over seven stories tall at its spiral, crystalline center, the place still seems to squat over the landscape in a haze of frost, constantly vomiting forth and sucking in streams of the tranced damned and the few scuttling sane brave enough to venture here to raid the few items of worth. The parking lots surrounding Shitfist Mall are hellishly hot, for lack of a better term, but the further one travels out into the wavering wilds of the Boiling Burbclave and the seemingly endless developments it has thrown off, the worse it gets.

At the edge of the plastic townlet, the temperature rises until the asphalt is literally bubbling through its own cracks. These places are lethal.

Shackles: The worst shackle here is, perhaps, loss-of-self; citizen damned are constantly losing themselves into trances of paranoia, anger, pathetic desire and hopeless dread; they become uncaring at best and violently hostile at worst, able only to remember swaths of ill-defined self-loathing and pangs of hideous need in the aftermath of these episodes, which can last for hours, days, weeks or months. The temporarily-sane damned here live in terror of their next episode, knowing full well that when the time comes that they will casually squander whatever resources they've acquired and charge headlong into a mad fury of bullying, self-inflicted wounds, wasteful chaos and possibly the attentions of the Piggy-Pig-Pigs.

Screws: An open war is in effect between the alien Jelly-Bells, strangely black-lit luminescent flying creatures oddly composed of starfish, sea anemone, man-o-war and cancerous intestine parts, and the more ogre-like Piggy-Pig-Pigs, which could pass for muscular, polo-shirt-wearing humans in poor lighting but stink of bile and regurgitated fast food and wear sunglasses over empty, vertically-oriented eye-holes which look, mostly, like gaping, abused vaginae. Both sets of creatures have wide variations in form, including extremes of gross anatomy of all descriptions, and even a few "cross-breeds" have been reported but not verified.

The conflict is in protracted stalemate at the moment; the Piggy-Pig-Pigs rule the day and early evening, driving around in muscle cars, stealing things, making crude sexual comments and beating up anyone they think looked at them funny. Past a certain hour, about the same time that the tranced of the damned unceremoniously depart Shitfist for their homes and the doors across the city begin to lock, the Jelly-Bells descend from the stars with a whirl of shadows and calliope music heard from far away, sniffing at the air and hunting for things to burn with jets and gouts of black-light-colored flame.

It is important to note that neither type of Screw is interested in killing people. Only maiming, humiliating, scalding, sodomizing and otherwise violently, painfully inconveniencing people. To this end, however, they very much enjoy breaking into people's houses and running around the mall.

Notable Demons: Urbdiel, the Angel of Industrious Agency

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