Neon bled into the grimy rain slicking Woodward Avenue. Sirens wailed a mournful symphony in the distance, a constant soundtrack to 1986 Detroit.  Sasha, a whirlwind of emerald green eyeshadow and ripped fishnet tights, stumbled out of a dented El Camino, a scowl etched on her face like a bad tattoo. Her short, fiery curls were plastered to her forehead, and her skirt clung uncomfortably to her legs.