“Picturesque desert, giving way to bountiful oceans all at your grasp!” the automated tour guide gushed as the tram came to a stop. In times past, multitudes of people stepped off the tram into this resort. There were no people left. None that were entirely people, that is. War had been declared, both sides running into battle with all weapons raised. What had been first a game between two governments became death for all, with a few exceptions. The resort was known by no name anymore, the large sign at the entrance had long been whitewashed from age and sun exposure. It stood at the highest point in the world, on the only continent that made this world’s entire geography. The opportunities here had been endless, if you could pay the price for them. A giant pool of water once held a miracle cure for any ailment! How about the famous musician who held court here, singing every night in the lounge?
THE SERVER at Acapulco's gently places a kid-size poolful glass of margarita on my table, the periscope of a straw staring into me. I pluck it out, lick the part of the straw soaking in margarita, then sip, watching grains of salt float into my mouth slowly. It burns away the knots in my neck and back. I look at the menu for something that won't punch me in the stomach later. 
