Angry marketplace, with cattle and llamas and chickens running wild, freshly escaped from cage imprisonment, sold as meat to passing strangers. Carts pulled by small children, eyes bugging out of their face, ready to explode any second. One man berates another for the style in which he wears his hat, and then inevitably shoots him in the face from inches away.
Kell walks with Death in a half-lurch, dripping sweat. A finger has fallen off entirely from the Baroline and Death’s robes are saturated with plasma.

“We can score here, right?” Death wants to know.
“Guy’s been living out of a car. He’s got the weight.”
“He’s a heavy?”
“You’re not picking up the lingo, Death.”
He sighs and says, “Call me Anthony.”

So we enter some kind of drug den decadence, grotesque addiction museum. No love for spies in this lot, we’ll have to burn the whole place. A young boy, maybe twelve, red hair and brown eyes, freckles, no biceps or pectorals, an ass that would make you sit up and beat yourself over the head. Some kind of arbitrator guiding the proceedings, overseeing the bargaining of the parties involved.

“Now that one there,” Hands McGreg says with urgency, “cash in hand and you get dick in mouth.”
“No no,” Legs Von Grand breaks in. “That one is promised to the eternal mother. You see the shine on his cock? Not suffering from scurvy, we have to protect the innocence where we can.”
“Fuck that, you wide-o. You’ve been a thorn in my side from the get go. Well I’ve had enough of your prudish ways.”
The arbiter interrupts to say, “Let’s restrict the violence to a manageable level, gentlemen.”
Less is more, as they say back in Rimjob, Wyoming.

The boy steps off from his perch and holds his hands above his head while his erect cock pulses. A chambermaid enters and declares, “He’s got the shine, alright.” This is obviously a mistake because men prevent the girl from leaving until the arbiter’s made his decision. He considers the evidence carefully and then points painfully at the ceiling and says, “That’s someone else’s floor.”
Hands becomes irritated and says, “Everyone always sides with management. Well this is the new world order. We're not baking cookies here, this is important, damn it!”

“I’ve met the man,” the arbiter says, ignoring Hands’ outburst. “He’s a vampire. A baron. Sucks blood out of dead animals. Has nails longer than a French maid.”
“See to the girl,” Legs implores, revealing either complete control over the situation or its exact opposite. “We have to see to the girl.”
The arbiter considers and then issues his proclamation. “The boy shall masturbate while the girl strangles him. At the moment of orgasm, he should be knocked unconscious.”
“There you have it, folks,” Legs Von Grand tells the wasters around the room. “He’s made his ruling and that is law in this town. As one pelican said to the other, ‘Eat often and if you can’t eat, shit.’ So let’s get the belts and the gag and the mallet.”

“You misunderstand,” the arbiter insists. “She shall strangle him with her bare hands. He shall be knocked unconscious by a surgical two by four,” and at this he pulls out a sterile, vacuum-wrapped piece of wood. “If his eyes do not fall out on impact, we will have to try it again.”
“I don’t know,” Legs differs. “An impact like that will have to be rather sudden and timed well. If it gets screwed up and we have to wait for him to cum over and over again, we could be here all damn night.”
“Yeah,” Hands agrees. “What he said.”

“Well how about this,” the arbiter finally says, “What if we were to string him up and see how many hands can fit in his ass?”
“We’d have better luck with that damn piece of wood going up his ass,” Hands offers. “I’d pay to see that. And even more to see the girl suck the splinters out.”
So it was decided and the boy was strung up by the neck. The girl reacted instinctually, going straightaway for his cock. She sucked it like she was trying to start a leaf blower and a man threw meat slices at her clothed form. He then got very angry and appealed to the arbiter, “That gash has clothes on, I wanna see the vulva!” So the girl was asked to disrobe while the boy continued his slow circling pattern.

When she was naked, the arbiter suddenly rose to reveal an erection beneath his robes. He took off his wig and removed a fake nose. “This beats any damn thing I ever saw in Cleveland,” someone remarked. The boy was beginning the death struggle now so they let him down momentarily to keep him alive until the right moment. But it was a mistake because as soon as he touched the ground he started cumming, shooting small fountains of jizz on the floor.

“God damn!” Hands shouted. “The boy’s a squirter! Get that girl’s face into range!”
Now naked and dripping slices of rancid meat, the girl fell to her knees and began to lick up the cum with a reptilian motion. The meat thrower grew more adventurous and approached to shove a slice of bologna into her tight little hairless pussy. But it was some kind of trap because he lost a finger in the process. Now the room was quickly filling with his blood as geysers erupted at each heartbeat.

“Stop that!” the arbiter admonished. “You’re spoiling the show.”
“No,” Legs insisted, “we can use this.”
So it was decided that the boy would suck out the severed finger while the girl drank from the wound. But once again the girl’s cunt proved too smart for such feeble plans and instantly took the boy’s tongue on the first lick.

“She’ll never have a proper orgasm,” Legs remarked to Hands. “It’s a matter of getting the deep dick action. Now she’s got a finger and the end of a tongue up her twat. She won’t shit them out for a week.”
“Give me that two by four,” Hands replied. “And some nails. I’m going fishing.”
“Stevenson should be here to see this,” I remarked to Death.
He looked at me blankly and then said, “Do you not recognize the magistrate?”
And there he was, in all his hideous glory, our man Stevenson.

“Well shit,” I said, feeling the blood cells jumping at the promise of Baroline. “We came at an opportune time. I’d say after this fiasco he’s not going to be needed here anymore.”
“He’s got more professions than a half-breed in Mexico,” Death said.
By now the boy was sitting on an overturned oil drum and laughing.
“Silence the boy,” Hands insisted. “He’s making a mockery of this whole scene.”

They strung the boy back up and this time they said he could live if he would just stick his dick in the chambermaid’s gash. He refused and was hanged. He took about four minutes to die and, just as he was about to succumb, he had another large orgasm, shooting jizz as far as 10 yards, far enough to hit the wall. His jizz spelled out a message in sexual hieroglyphics.
“So goes the war,” Stevenson says. “Might makes right.”