IC
Imagine a city without the trappings and restraints of a larger national government. Indeed, the path of the city-state was once the status quo for civilization, from the Greek Poleis to the pre-Garibaldi city-states of Italy, but the path of unity has brought upon the existence of large, expansive nations encompassing many cities. This is the way of the world as we know it. However, the story we are about to tell is one of an exception to the rule.
Welcome to the Condominium, a city-state for the modern era. At its most basic state, the Condominium is a vast urban sprawl across a cluster of islands in the Indian Ocean, situated some fifty miles from the territorial waters of India. No national flag flies in this city, and there is no municipal government to impose its dominion over the whole of the islands. Not a single uniformed police officer is to be found here, from the glistening red light districts and casinos of Whitaker Island, to the slums of Khopar. Indeed, there is no unifying national image or dominant ethnicity that holds the Condominium in its grasp. No single party can claim dominion over the Condominium.
This is by sheer design; on the outside, the Condominium is a capitalist’s paradise, a land buried under obscure legal protections and forged by men and women of different creeds with a shared interest in an escape from the tentacles of any single nation. In its core, the Condominium is pit of vipers, contested constantly by the groups of the criminal underworld. Every business, every street, every drug, every bullet, and every whore - can be traced back to one of many criminal groups, be it transnational drug cartels or long-standing organized crime rings with centuries of history. There is no effective central control over the city; each district has been balkanized in such a way that prosperity is directly proportional with the dominant criminal group - and that is a constantly-changing variable.
Some “normal” people eke out a living in this city. The term “normal” means that they have a secret, but no obligation to be in an organized group. Prostitutes, shopkeepers, bartenders, cleaners, waitresses, doctors, engineers, teachers, cab drivers - they all equally have a reason for coming into the Condominium. A desire for “untaxed” wealth, “involuntary arrival,” forced flight, and other reasons are often claimed, but no one talks about themselves. They bide their time, skirting the ever-raging gang wars and bloody rivalries by courting one side or another. The ones that pay for privilege and protection will get all of the basic utilities they need - but only at the whim of a crime boss. Stratified by wealth, it's how you’d expect the Great City of Oz stacked next to Johannesburg to look.
At the top of the food chain, storied and shadowy organized crime organizations net themselves the brunt of the Condominium’s cash flow. Men and women in bespoked formal attire collect their cash from the casinos and ensure that the privileged guests of the city receive their fill of gambling and drugs and pricey call girls; it's all just business at the end of the day. They keep the city running in the districts that they own; water and power is no problem for them. Impediments, be they situations or people, are but trivial bumps in the road. From their high-rise offices and premier venues, these groups call the shots that determine the fate of the city - all in a day's work.
From the bottom of the slums, it's all the same - but without the expensive veneer of groups like the Cosa Nostra or Yakuza. The street gangs run their protection rackets and deal their dime bags on the crumbling streets and shantytowns that lie in the shadow of glass towers. Life is cheap in the slums, and a nine-millimeter commands all the respect until a seven-six-two pokes out from a moving car. Some gangs choose to eke out their existence in the slums; others dream of inhabiting the same skyscraper penthouses as the criminals in suits, and all will scheme to no end to achieve their varied goals.
At the end of the day, it's all the same; the mobster collects their cash, the gangster gets their cut. The money - those sweet American greenbacks - is the grease behind the levers in the Condominium. It keeps the lights on, debts paid, and deals made - when the rod is not to be used. The “Antediluvians” of the criminal underworld - ancient crime lords and kingpins - keep the city free from the prying eyes of the world - from the shared fear of losing their sovereignty to a national government. It is one that inspires, and threatens.
As for this story, it could go anywhere; indeed, that is the way of the Condominium. Come from anywhere - the slums or the glass towers - and make your mark.
Welcome to the Condominium, a city-state for the modern era. At its most basic state, the Condominium is a vast urban sprawl across a cluster of islands in the Indian Ocean, situated some fifty miles from the territorial waters of India. No national flag flies in this city, and there is no municipal government to impose its dominion over the whole of the islands. Not a single uniformed police officer is to be found here, from the glistening red light districts and casinos of Whitaker Island, to the slums of Khopar. Indeed, there is no unifying national image or dominant ethnicity that holds the Condominium in its grasp. No single party can claim dominion over the Condominium.
This is by sheer design; on the outside, the Condominium is a capitalist’s paradise, a land buried under obscure legal protections and forged by men and women of different creeds with a shared interest in an escape from the tentacles of any single nation. In its core, the Condominium is pit of vipers, contested constantly by the groups of the criminal underworld. Every business, every street, every drug, every bullet, and every whore - can be traced back to one of many criminal groups, be it transnational drug cartels or long-standing organized crime rings with centuries of history. There is no effective central control over the city; each district has been balkanized in such a way that prosperity is directly proportional with the dominant criminal group - and that is a constantly-changing variable.
Some “normal” people eke out a living in this city. The term “normal” means that they have a secret, but no obligation to be in an organized group. Prostitutes, shopkeepers, bartenders, cleaners, waitresses, doctors, engineers, teachers, cab drivers - they all equally have a reason for coming into the Condominium. A desire for “untaxed” wealth, “involuntary arrival,” forced flight, and other reasons are often claimed, but no one talks about themselves. They bide their time, skirting the ever-raging gang wars and bloody rivalries by courting one side or another. The ones that pay for privilege and protection will get all of the basic utilities they need - but only at the whim of a crime boss. Stratified by wealth, it's how you’d expect the Great City of Oz stacked next to Johannesburg to look.
At the top of the food chain, storied and shadowy organized crime organizations net themselves the brunt of the Condominium’s cash flow. Men and women in bespoked formal attire collect their cash from the casinos and ensure that the privileged guests of the city receive their fill of gambling and drugs and pricey call girls; it's all just business at the end of the day. They keep the city running in the districts that they own; water and power is no problem for them. Impediments, be they situations or people, are but trivial bumps in the road. From their high-rise offices and premier venues, these groups call the shots that determine the fate of the city - all in a day's work.
From the bottom of the slums, it's all the same - but without the expensive veneer of groups like the Cosa Nostra or Yakuza. The street gangs run their protection rackets and deal their dime bags on the crumbling streets and shantytowns that lie in the shadow of glass towers. Life is cheap in the slums, and a nine-millimeter commands all the respect until a seven-six-two pokes out from a moving car. Some gangs choose to eke out their existence in the slums; others dream of inhabiting the same skyscraper penthouses as the criminals in suits, and all will scheme to no end to achieve their varied goals.
At the end of the day, it's all the same; the mobster collects their cash, the gangster gets their cut. The money - those sweet American greenbacks - is the grease behind the levers in the Condominium. It keeps the lights on, debts paid, and deals made - when the rod is not to be used. The “Antediluvians” of the criminal underworld - ancient crime lords and kingpins - keep the city free from the prying eyes of the world - from the shared fear of losing their sovereignty to a national government. It is one that inspires, and threatens.
As for this story, it could go anywhere; indeed, that is the way of the Condominium. Come from anywhere - the slums or the glass towers - and make your mark.
