Jack of Harts

Scorchdale is another prize in Sunnydale’s cap when it comes to providing living space for rugged and individualistic men to live on. Which is another way of saying that it pretty much ranks a zero on the habitability scale. It’s a rotten little piece of rock so close to the local sun that it’s literally tide-locked. The sun holds it so firmly in its gravity that one face of the miserable little rock always faces the sun. It doesn’t even have an atmosphere measurable by anything short of scientific instruments. It’s evaporated on the near-side and frozen on the dark-side. Even the thin line where light and dark meet is basically worthless as living space. I have been there. It is not a fun place to visit. You could not pay Mrs. Hart’s little boy enough money to make me want to live there.