The story of the South is a carefully forged truth.

Summer of 1987 is the heart of yet another year wrapped in the illusion of an omnipotence constructed from well-structured lies and tangible, everyday myths.

Processions of teenagers head toward a hedonistic, technicolor future, with the herds of their instincts devouring their nights.

Neighbors' heroes seek their fantasies in electric landscapes.

A cycle of blood begins when Giotis, the owner of the South, a seaside bar in a provincial town, decides to help a journalist from the Mediterranean, Marlina, to unravel the strange accident of a young man.

Cops and dealers, divas and card players, conscientious killers and innocent passersby are swept up in a dizzying course toward the void, only to discover that they can do everything except save themselves.

“At the edge of the bar sat Marley. He came every night to listen to the same songs, slowly sipping a Southern Comfort.

When I shot the sheriff or Knockin’ on Heaven’s entered, he would sway his shoulders slowly to the same, unchanging rhythm that had been playing in his head for years.

He and a couple of others seemed to have existed in these very spots prior, sitting in the cosmic nowhere, on a stellar boulevard waiting for the bar to be built around them.

Giotis believed that these guys were the glue holding the universe together.

If Marley stopped swaying his shoulders, the Earth would lose its rhythm, its beat, its eternal groove. It would go out of tune and gradually come to a stop.

No one would enjoy anything anymore, the trees would wither, the rivers would dry up, and the lizards would stop mating.

Because, gentlemen, without the groove we are lost, Giotis thought and took another sip.”