Firesale, The hip place for hackers in the rotten apple Options

[limejello10512]

I've been running a campaign set in manhattan for a long time now and I'm thrilled to finally have a book about the sprawl. But does anyone know anyhting about Firesale (other than that it's owner was a former otaku and hates technomancers)? I mean the Cathode Glow was SOOOO cool (I wish there were a club like that in real life)! Is Firesale anything similar? From what I read they called a "hangout" where they sell hard core hacking programs on the bottom floor but it sounds like it's just a store and I'm not sure how I'd describe it.

[Kanada Ten]

I hate specialty stores. Everyone there is an expert in asshole, including the clientele - that milling group of foul-smelling pear-shaped regulars, patting their copious bellies and looking down their black smudged noses at anyone and everyone not acquainted and accented in their vernacular of acronyms and goofy grins. And what's that cologne - eau de solder and body odor? Pity the boosted nostrils in this cramped house of obsolete gadgetry. It's not hard to get lost in the stacks of dusted and dated computers, boxes of busted up comms and coiled miles of fiberoptic cables towering and tittering in long, dark aisles. This dizzying, byzantine labyrinth mapped by confusing and frustrating arrows might have everything you need to fix or tweak your favorite toy, but you'd never be able to find it. My uncle's basement was better organized, half as noxious and half as porn filled, though I'm almost sure they stole his carpet. Low-light vision is a must, as is a huge firewall - pockets of spam zones, dead zones, white zones, you name it zones flit around the store like a wild flock of sparrows (a flock of whom indeed occupy the rafters of the upper levels. Worst of all, it's impossible to get your hacker out, once he's in. Take the stairs if you're going up or down. Trust me on that one.

[Writer]

Nice, Kanada Ten, nice.
(IMG:style_emoticons/default/notworthy.gif)
I bow to your artistry.

[Wiseman]

I hate specialty stores. Everyone there is an expert in asshole, including the clientele - that milling group of foul-smelling pear-shaped regulars, patting their copious bellies and looking down their black smudged noses at anyone and everyone not acquainted and accented in their vernacular of acronyms and goofy grins. And what's that cologne - eau de solder and body odor? Pity the boosted nostrils in this cramped house of obsolete gadgetry. It's not hard to get lost in the stacks of dusted and dated computers, boxes of busted up comms and coiled miles of fiberoptic cables towering and tittering in long, dark aisles. This dizzying, byzantine labyrinth mapped by confusing and frustrating arrows might have everything you need to fix or tweak your favorite toy, but you'd never be able to find it. My uncle's basement was better organized, half as noxious and half as porn filled, though I'm almost sure they stole his carpet. Low-light vision is a must, as is a huge firewall - pockets of spam zones, dead zones, white zones, you name it zones flit around the store like a wild flock of sparrows (a flock of whom indeed occupy the rafters of the upper levels. Worst of all, it's impossible to get your hacker out, once he's in. Take the stairs if you're going up or down. Trust me on that one.

That was great! Do some more!