The 'park' stretched endlessly beneath a burning sun, a vast and untamed sprawl of the American frontier brought to life with eerie perfection. Golden plains rippled like an ocean of dry grass, interrupted only by the occasional twisted silhouette of a lone tree or the jagged rise of red rock mesas cutting against the horizon. The air was thick with dust and the scent of warm earth, laced with the distant promise of rain that never came. Wooden towns sat like relics of a bygone era, their saloons and storefronts filled with the low murmur of player pianos and the heavy bootsteps of men who had no past and no future beyond the scripts written into their very being. The train whistled in the distance, its echo swallowed by the silence of the desert.

The town, Sweetwater, is alive with the sound of shopkeepers setting up their wares, barkers calling out to passing guests, and the distant sound of piano keys from the Saloon/brothel. These 'hosts' went about their routines, following their scripts and lines written into their code. Real life human guests mingled, taking in the sights with awe of being in such a fake world, playing a character, dressed in those wildwest clothes.