The transformation of Mo Dickens’s meat emporium was almost complete. Although he had very little to do with the decorative touches, he had supervised the movement of his precious slager table, the massive woodblock put together from three mighty ironwood trees. The blud from a multitude of carcasses stained the wood like a sacrificial slab, and though he was very proud of his trade, and his status as Hetman within the slager community, he agreed to move it to one side and cover it over for this one, very special occasion. All to please Jojo and his very pregnant daughter.

JoJo Dickens moved with a steady purpose. She pushed, shoved, and cajoled her army of conscripted helpers to sweep up the old rushes, and put down fresh flooring, remove all the cobwebs from the eaves, scrub the walls clean of dried blud, and generally wash the place out from top to bottom. It was not just the huge chamber which received special attention, the large courtyard was spruced up too. Mo Dickens’s apprentices grumbled at all of the work, but they knew a tremendous feast awaited them on the other end of all of the cleaning, so they muscled up and kept the complaints to a minimum, and outside of Jojo’s aural range.

Juan Grimm stepped back and marveled at the decor with his one good eye. It had been two lunar cycles since the Dandy’s stick sword reduced his sight by half and he was still getting used to the patch he wore, and the drastic change in his vision. The journey back to Mo’s slagerhaus had been a tough one, and Carlos had in turn carried and dragged him back to their Four Kith sanctuary. Mo was nothing if not practical, and a ragged boy with a seeping eye socket, and a heavy touch of fever, was not an asset. He could easily have ended up in one of the canals, cast out and abandoned to his own fate. The saving grace was the billee flesh they brought back for Jojo. Despite the trials and tribulations of the return journey, Juan held onto it, stuffed inside his shirt and out of sight of the thieves and vagabonds who would kill for some meat to enrich their rotten vegetable and bean diet. They surrendered the carcass to Mo, Juan pulling it out of his shirt and holding it up triumphantly by the neck, before collapsing in a heap against his brother. Mo nodded his approval, proud of the sacrifice they had made for the sweet meat, an eye for a billee, and Jojo’s motherly instincts kicked in as she tended to the wounded boy and nursed him back to health. 

The decorations were a wonder to behold for the Grimm boys. It was like a FaderNord celebration with the mistletoe and goose feast of legend, the dab reckoning when newborns were plunged into the canal and life began, and the overgang when folks of status were returned to the earth fathers. Bundled together they made for one very special slager wedding. Fresh greenery was purchased from the tree traders, and skillfully wrapped from the beams to resemble living foliage. The best chalk artists were hired to decorate the walls with scenes of the old four seasons, before the winter chill permanently descended on their world. The Yule hunt dominated the wall where the great fireplace resided. Giant poro raced across the snow covered landscape, chased by mighty hunters in bearskins, and semi-tamed wolves as their companions. A gargantuan snow bear watched from a distance, high up on a mountain peak. No hunter ventured up there. A herd of wooly mamonts crashed through the snow trees, making their own clearing through the ancient purplewoods. Skovenmen, the wild watchers of the forest, observed them from their tree nests.

There were wonderful smells too. Jojo hired the best cooks in the Four Kith to man the kitchen and fire pits set up in the courtyard. Mo’s best blud sausages, golden ducks, delicious stewed snow hares, slabs of poro ribs, spit roasted boars, and a mountain of savory meat pies, all added together to overwhelm the senses and tantalize the taste buds. There were pots of boiling potatoes, and enough steamed fresh carrots and cabbage to feed all of Gastown. The fare from the cold ocean waters were well represented too. Not the slimy bottom feeders once common to the canals, but deeper species: smoked lampreys, jellied silver eels, and cod pies. The chefs and their helpers, large women with meaty arms swinging cleavers, and slender men with dexterous knife skills, manned the stations, each working on their own version of deliciousness. A mountain of fresh baked brood and aged cheeses were delivered from the Burghs at a truly exorbitant price. Bottles of wine were there for the special guests, treacle grog for those in between, and barrel upon barrel of the finest black bier was on tap for the rest of the imbibers.

The denizens of the Four Kith came too. They were not allowed access to the courtyard, and Mo’s hired guards ensured they did not block the entranceway. But smelling the banquet was free, and they huddled in small groups, driving themselves crazy with descriptions of the food, and how it would fill their meat deprived bellies. Drool filled every mouth. One man could not stand it. The aromas highlighted what he could never have, and he ran screaming to the nearest canal, jumped in, and disappeared from sight. No one gave him a second thought as the slager’s feast held center stage.

It was a truly special day for Mo and Jojo Dickens. Their only daughter was about to leave the nest and they were seeing her off in style. Josie Dickens, soon to be Josie Heap, was a pleasant, comely girl in her own way. Being the offspring of Mo and Jojo, she was a big-boned lass with most of her teeth, but she still had some shape to her, at least before the ninth lunar swelling set in. Josie’s main weakness was getting horizontal with her father’s older apprentices, and one such excursion led to her current predicament. It was obvious to everyone, even Juan with his one eye, but no one said a word. A wedding was quickly arranged, but not with any of the lowly apprentices, that would not do for the Hetman of the Slagers’ daughter. In the end, Mo found a suitable groom from one of the other slager families, and paid a small fortune for the dowry. Samwell Heap was a good match for Josie, more by accident than by design. He was a big man with strong arms, simple tastes, a heart of gold, and a forgiving nature. While Josie talked, Samwell listened. When asked for advice, he would simply tap the side of his nose and say ‘Samwell thinks that be a grand idea,’ followed by a knowing wink. There was not an original thought in his head, but he could swing a meat cleaver with singular purpose as well as any slager. 

The Heap family arrived in fine style. Their slagerhaus was to the north end of the Four Kith, and too far to walk, which would have been Jobson Heap’s choice. But their finery would have been compromised with a trek across canals and with mud under foot, and Mrs. Jobson Heap would hear none of it. She was a thin, wisp of a woman, but her voice preceded her by at least four blocks. Some said she spoke so loudly because Jobson Heap was stone deaf. Others said she made him that way. The old couple doted on one another, and their only son, though thick as a mason’s stone, was a happy addition to the trio as they disembarked from the horse drawn carriage Mo Dickens so graciously provided as a means of luxurious transport. It was not every solar they rode in such grandeur, and Mrs. Heap positively beamed under her beak of a nose as she greeted Jojo Dickens.

“LOVELY PLACE, YOU ‘AVE ‘ERE, MRS. DICKENS. POSITIVELY LOVELY!” Mrs. Heap roared.

Jojo took a step back at the stentorian power of the little woman’s voice, but quickly recovered her poise, and embraced her role as hostess.

“I’m glad you like it, Mrs. Heap. We do try to keep up appearances,” Jojo said. 

One of the apprentices, whose hair was slicked back with hog grease for the occasion, and was to act as page for the Heaps, snickered at how posh Jojo tried to sound as she forced the pronunciation of every syllable. A sharp elbow to the ribs from Jojo knocked the air out of him and reminded him apprentices should be seen and not heard. 

“Welcome to our little slagerhaus and abattoir. Please do come this way,” Jojo said with a little curtsy she had practiced all week, and followed by a delicate sweep of the arm and flick of the wrist indicating the direction.

Mrs. Heap appreciated the gesture and prepared to follow. The show was lost on her husband. Ever the professional slager, he was carefully studying the layout of the courtyard, checking out the sheds where the wagons were stored, and counted the number of apprentices Mo Dickens had on hand. 

“Mr. Heap. Shall we?” Jojo asked, but Jobson Heap was oblivious, lost in his world of slager comparisons.

“JOBSON!” Mrs. Heap bellowed, and everyone stopped working, and turned to look at her.

Jobson turned and looked at his wife. “Did you say something, dear?” 

“INSIDE. NOW!” Mrs. Heap screeched, causing Jojo to cover her ear closest to the thunderous voice. 

“Ah, yes. Inside. Yes, we’re interested in seein’ inside,” Jobson said. “Samwell, lead on ole chap.” 

Samwell scratched the side of his nose. “Samwell thinks that be a grand idea,” he said, and winked at Jojo, who positively blushed.

The party of four, dressed in their finest garb, entered the inner courtyard, through a double line of spruced up apprentices, and on inside the main building. Jojo beamed as she took in the decor as if for the first time. There was a large fire burning in the oversized hearth, and it accentuated all of the wondrous decorations. This was one slager wedding people would be talking about for a generation, and she promised herself she would give Mo some special attention when it was all said and done for making it all possible. 

Pews were lined up on either side facing the grand hearth at the front, and JoJo led her guests forward and over to the right hand side. The Heaps nodded to their family and friends who were already in attendance. Most of them had walked, and mud splattered the lower parts of their clothing. Samwell stopped more than once to greet a friend, and receive a hearty congratulatory slap on the back.

The army of apprentices filed into the slagerhaus and took their appointed seats on the opposite side of the Heap entourage. Juan and Carlos, like all of the apprentices, wore matching uniforms Jojo had created for the occasion, with Mo’s haus symbol, two large cleavers crossed over a bloody boar’s head, emblazoned on their left chest. None of them appreciated the cold water bath they were forced to take while the solar was still sleeping, but a hearty breakfast of brood, cheese and a blud sausage promised more fare to come. 

A band of five musicians entertained the guests while they waited for the bride and her father, who were fashionably late. They played local favorites like, The Slager’s Breakfast, The Mudlark’s Revenge, Molly Slopped a Dandy, and The Trollop Ate My Sausage, and everyone looked forward to hearing, The Slager’s Wedding March after the bride and groom completed their vows and Four Kith kissed to seal the deal.

The wedding crowd grew restless as they waited for Mo and Josie to appear. Jojo fretted something had gone wrong and chatted nervously with the Creation Mother who would perform the ceremony to unite the Dickens and Heaps in blessed matrimony.

The band saw them first—it helped to have a watcher in the courtyard signal to them—and immediately shifted to playing, She’s On Her Way At Last, the traditional tune to indicate the future Mrs. Josie Heap was finally present, and the wedding was about to get under way. All chatter stopped and heads swiveled to observe father and daughter waltz down the aisle. Mo Dickens was overcome with joy, and smiled like a barking mad parent. The best outfitter the Burghs had to offer, tailored a fine suit out of an immense amount of cloth. Mo’s Haus Dickens emblem was proudly on display too, and dominated the left side of his garment. He wore a heavy leather belt around his waist, which contained the tools of his trade, his mighty cleavers, which were positioned so he could cross draw them from their holsters. He also sported a heavy gold chain around his neck, and a gold cleaver at the end of it, signaling his authority as Hetman of the Slagers. 

Josie, dressed from head to toe in the finest cream lace, waddled next to her father. Since she was so heavy with child, the journey to the blazing hearth took so long, and the band had to repeat, She’s On Her Way At Last. 

“OH, SHE’S POSITIVELY LOVELY!” Mrs. Heap said in a stage whisper, which they could hear all the way at the back of the abattoir.

Samwell Heap stood beside the hearth and ignored the blazing heat. He only had eyes for Josie, and the smile never left his simple face as she slowly closed the distance between them. Once father and daughter reached the front aisle, Mo took his place next to JoJo, and Josie stood facing Samwell. She was sweating a lot for a big lass, and the stains already appeared under her armpits. The heat from the fire did not help, and she took a glove and wiped away the perspiration from her brow.

The Creation Mother had a story to tell. The same story for all slager weddings. It centered on man and woman’s need of meat for sustenance, and how the animals of this world were to be respected for giving up their flesh. It also extolled the skills of the first slager, and how he fashioned the original cleaver from flint. His skill at butchery was passed down through the ages, and now resided with the Hetman of the Slagers. It was a fine story, and one Mo Dickens never tired of hearing. He had a fine lineage, all the way back to creation. 

“Touch hands, please,” the Creation Mother said to Samwell and Josie. 

The happy couple did just that. Samwell’s hands were hard, scarred and warm. Josie’s were flaccid and wet, though Samwell did not mind. He was in love and could ignore all of Josie’s imperfections and indiscretions, large and small. 

“Samwell Toppington Heap, slager by trade, name, and choice. Do you take Josie Prudence Dickens as the woman to bake your brood, cook your sausage, warm your bed, and raise your flock?”

There were a few snickers at the last remark, as the flock was already underway and the first sheep was a black one. 

“Samwell thinks that be a grand idea,” Samwell said, and winked at the Creation Mother.

“A simple yes will suffice,” she replied with a scowl.

“Simple yes,” Samwell said, which also drew some snickers. The Creation Mother let it pass and moved on.

“Josie Prudence Dickens, Hetman’s daughter. Do you take Samwell Toppington Heap as the man to slager your meat, mix your mustard, eat your brood, and raise your flock by hand?”

“Simple yes,” Josie said, taking a leaf from her soon-to-be husband’s uncomplicated book. 

The Creation Mother groaned inside, before turning to face Mo Dickens.

Mo Dickens. Hetman of the Slagers. Do you agree?”

“I do indeed,” Mo said. He had practiced his lines all week, and was picture perfect.

The Creation Mother turned to face Jobson Heap. “Jobson Heap. Head of Haus Heap. Do you agree?”

Jobson looked confused. “Take a knee?” He turned to face his wife. “Why’s she askin’ me to take a knee?” 

“AGREE, YOU DEAF OAF,” Mrs. Heap said. 

“Oh, agree. Yes, yes, of course I agree,” Jobson Heap said. 

The Creation Mother moved on, happy to get the ceremony completed before someone else said something stupid. There was only one final act left, and she hoped it went as smoothly as possible. More than one slager wedding had terminated because of a final mishap. She reached behind her, and took a small frying pan from the fire. It contained one blud sausage, handmade by Samwell Heap himself. She stabbed a fork into it, and nodded her head with satisfaction as a clear liquid oozed out over the three prongs. 

“Step closer, please,” she said to the bride and groom, and when they did so, she placed the hot blud sausage in both of their mouths. Josie was smart, and held it between her teeth, but Samwell wrapped his lips around it and burnt himself. To his credit, he did not let it drop from his mouth. That would have been a very bad omen.

“With this blud sausage, made by the hand of Samwell Toppington Heap himself, I call on all of you as witness to the sharing of the sacred meat. Let them meet in the middle and share as like does with like.”

Josie was hungry with all of the waiting around, and she started noshing on the sausage before the Creation Mother had finished talking. The blud sausage was meant to be devoured equally, but Josie was never much of a one for sharing, and her greed got the better of her. She chewed her way through the meat, congealed blud, and barley like a boar with a truffle. Samwell did not  mind. He slowly chewed from his end, and would reach Josie in the middle regardless of how long his end of the sausage actually was. And meet they did. With one final snap, Josie took the last bite, and their greasy lips locked to seal the union. The abattoir erupted with cheers as Haus Dickens and Haus Heap celebrated a successful merger. 

There was only one last thing to do. Samwell and Josie Heap locked arms, Josie still chewing on her mouthful of sausage, and the two fathers formed up behind them, followed by the mothers. They took three steps forward in unison, and then one step back, which they continued down the aisle. As they passed each pew, the guests formed up behind them, as the whole congregation moved down the aisle and into the courtyard where food and refreshments waited. The band played, The Slager Wedding March as accompaniment, and the Creation Mother, happy her role was completed, drank heartily from a tankard of hot grog she had sequestered to the side of the great fireplace.

The slager wedding feast was everything Mo Dickens’s apprentices hoped for and more. While the guests ate snacks of potted eels, skewered shrimp, and snow hare pies, and quaffed their way through copious barrels of ale, the apprentices picked up and stacked the pews to one side. They carried out long tables from one of Mo’s abundant storehauses, placed them as Jojo had directed, and covered them with the blud red cloths. The table decorations followed next, thistle and vine, and flowers from the greenhaus, the like most folks had not seen in this lifetime. Silver plates and silver knives, forks, and spoons were carefully laid out and then it was time for the feast to begin in earnest.

The Master of Ceremonies, a tall skinny man with a pronounced stoop, a mostly bald head with long, loose strands smeared over the top, an eagle beaked nose, and a uniform with large red balls in place of buttons, bashed on a gong to let everyone know it was time to take their seats. The Happy Heaps went first to the head table, closely followed by their respective parents who sat on either side of them. The rest of the guests filed in and took their seats at the long tables running parallel to the head table. Once everyone was seated, the food arrived.

There were gasps from the wedding guests, and a lot of drooling from the apprentices as platter after hot platter was brought in and placed on the tables. The first dishes were devoured completely as folks could not believe their good fortune at the amount of meat on display. Once they realized the bounty was not slowing down, they started to pace themselves and actually chewed their food. 

Juan and Carlos gorged themselves along with the other apprentices. They had promised each other to eat until they exploded, and were well into their third platter and showing no signs of slowing down. Carlos did not seem to mind what he ate as long as his mouth was full. Juan was a little more discerning and selected his food with a degree of care. His particular favorite was a large snow goose, roasted to perfection, and stuffed with a delicious sweet meat. It took five apprentices to take one down, and Juan marveled at the fact Mo Dickens had one for himself. The Hetman threw the mangled carcass to one side and moved on to a thick rack of poro ribs covered in a rich, hot red sauce.

Snow goose and poro ribs were followed by large blud sausages; whole fish the size of Josie Heap and baked inside a layer of salt; towers of snow hares which the guests plucked off with knives; and an open boar’s head for every table, with the cooked brains available to scoop out. Rivers of wine and lakes of ale added to the general merriment and growing inebriation.

The Master of Ceremonies banged his gong again and brought a pause to the gastronomic extravaganza. All eyes went to the head table and Mo Dickens. It was time for the Hetman of the Slagers to speak. With knives and forks in hand, the guests banged the butts on the table in a steady rhythm with the rumble increasing until Mo held up his hands for silence. Everyone stopped but one.

There was a loud slow rhythmic clapping from the back of the room, one heavy hand making solid contact with the other. The sound echoed through the converted slaughterhaus and bounced off the rafters. All heads turned in the direction to see who had the audacity to interfere with Mo’s pending speech.

Cotter Sullivan was a huge man. A tad shorter in height than Mo Dickens, but in terms of sheer bulk he was the equivalent of three ordinary men compressed together. His legs were thin and did not seem capable of supporting such a huge girth, but he was surprisingly nimble on his feet for such a gargantuan human being. Whereas Mo was old hard knotted muscle, Cotter was flab. He was a corpulent monstrosity with deviant tastes. He generally surrounded himself with a harem of small boys and some of them were with him today. They were in the front line, and behind them was a small army of Bully Boys. They were Cotter Sullivan’s band of thugs, angry men with angry scars. Men who liked to inflict pain for the pleasure of it all. Men who sliced, diced, and killed when Cotter snapped his pudgy fingers. 

Cotter could be charming when he wanted, but the smooth silky words came from a face which held little attraction. His tongue seemed to be a little too big for his mouth and he drooled when he talked. A large red scar running down his face did not help appearances, nor the fact he had one ear mostly missing as a result of a childhood fight with a rather ravenous opponent. His fat lips were rouged and he wore dark lining under eyes which rarely blinked and seemed to view the world as either his plaything, or something to destroy. He was malevolent, destructive, chaotic, and utterly ruthless. Like Mo Dickens he wore two slager blades at each hip. He had taken them from another slager, Dolan Macomber, in a relatively fair duel, at least according to the only witness who survived. Although it marked his entry into the slager world, most of the other butcher men did not recognize his right to be a part of the exalted fraternity of meat carvers. Few said it to his face, and Mo Dickens, although he had little regard for the man, was a stickler for the rules and regulations. He carried the blades, so he was an insider. However, it did not give him the right to gatecrash the slager wedding.

“What do you want ‘ere, Cotter? You an’ your kind aren’t welcome, is all,” Mo Dickens growled.

The sickly smile did not leave Cotter’s face. He pulled a pink handkerchief soaked in lavender from his pocket and took a long sniff, before replacing it. 

“I do luv a gud weddin’. Don’t we luv a gud weddin’ boys?” Cotter asked his crew. They all nodded their heads with enthusiasm. “But we didn’t cum for the weddin’. No wez ‘ave other things to attend to today.” Drool ran from the corner of Cotter’s mouth and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“What do you want, Cotter? Say your piece, an’ leave,” Mo said.

The smile finally left Cotter’s face, and he pointed a finger directly at Mo. “I cum to challenge yuz, Mo Dickens. It be time the slagers ‘ave a new Hetman, an’ that man be me!” he shouted as he banged a hand on his own chest.

There was a loud gasp from Jojo. It was every slager’s right to challenge Mo for the Hetman title. She knew the day would come and Mo had the opportunity to step aside or fight to the death to keep his position. She knew he would never step aside for the likes of Cotter Sullivan. Not in this world, or the next. 

“It’s a fight, yuz want, is it Cotter? Mo said.

“Yuz can always slink away into the night, if yuz want, like one of my boys after I’ve bent ‘im over. But Cotter Sullivan would rather the blades did the talkin’.” 

“Then talkin’ there shall be! Are yuz up for it, Cotter Sullivan?” Mo thundered, and stepped up on the wedding table. He reached down and pulled both slager cleavers from their sheaths. They were supremely polished and razor sharp, and they gleamed in the light from the fire. “Move back the tables boys. Give us room for this merry dance!” 

Mo’s apprentices went to work quickly, and ushered all of the guests to the sides of the great abattoir. They lifted the heavy tables and moved them back, creating an inner courtyard for the contestants. There was a buzz of excitement amongst the guests. They had not seen a death match for the Hetman of the Slagers  in quite some time. Mo’s transition was peaceful and expected. This one would leave one man dead and the other possibly mutilated for life. 

Mo jumped down from the table and landed in the makeshift arena. Cotter stepped forward and unsheathed his own mighty cleavers. There was no fear in either man, and no onset of bloodrush madness. Cotter did drool, but it was not the froth at the mouth of a lunatic. Both men were calm, experienced killers. Mo did not necessarily enjoy it, but it was part of his trade and he went about it with ruthless efficiency. Cotter was equally efficient, but there was also a heavy association with pleasure. He enjoyed inflicting pain, and the power it gave him over others. 

The men circled each other looking for an opening. There were a couple of feints, but no bites. They kept moving in this fashion, until Mo decided to change things up. He stopped moving on the outside and took a direct line at Cotter, both blades swinging. Cotter stepped up to the challenge and met Mo’s onslaught with his own whirring blades. Sparks flew as metal made contact with metal. Two blades stuck together for a moment, biting into each other’s metallic flesh, until the combatants pulled them apart. They stepped back and then in again, cleavers clashing. Mo’s right blade made it through Cotter’s defenses and took a slice out of Cotter’s bicep. Blood flowed, but it did not slow Cotter down. Cotter’s own right blade made it through next and caught Mo a glancing blow in the chest, enough to cut through his uniform and hack into the muscle below. Mo grunted, but it was the only outward sign he was hurt.

Both men were breathing hard now, but they continued to step in and swing at each other. Blows landed on both sides, blows strong enough to bring an ordinary man down, but not these two monstrous slagers. Blood flowed and mingled on the floor. The viscous liquid made holding the blades harder, as both men tightened their grips. Mo took another strike to the chest, deeper this time, and enough to temporarily lock Cotter’s blade into muscle. Mo used the opportunity to swing his own blade in a wide arc and sink it into Cotter’s upper arm. Flesh and fat came away, and Cotter lost his grip on his blade. Mo swung again, and this time he sliced Cotter’s left thumb clean off. It lay on the flood in a pool of blood like a discarded drumstick. 

Cotter stepped back, his left arm hanging useless at his side, and his hand bleeding profusely from the chasm of a wound where his thumb once resided. Mo used the temporary lull to put both his blades in his right hand and pulled Cotter’s blade from his own chest with his left hand. There was a brief sucking noise as the blade came free, followed by a gush of blood. Mo did not hesitate, and with a swing of his mighty arm and flick of his wrist, he turned the slager blade into a projectile straight back at its previous owner. It was not clear if Cotter saw the blade coming his way, but he moved on instinct, and it sailed on past and into one of the wooden pillars where it stuck home with a tremendous thud. 

Mo moved in for the kill. His adversary was badly wounded and it was only a matter of time before he caught up with him and delivered the death blow. He would not rush it, or take his time either, but two blades would triumph over one. Mo stepped in, slower this time, hampered by the wounds in his chest which were beginning to tighten up. There was less power behind his swings now, and Cotter could parry them away with his singular blade.

Cotter now relied on his movement, and guile. He would not challenge Mo’s fight and die. That was not part of his plan. 

“Bones, boys, bones! Bloody bones, greasy bones. Bones, bones, bones!” Cotter shrieked.

The wedding crowd thought Cotter had truly gone mad, and they waited expectantly for his demise. But Cotter’s Bully Boys knew what their leader was shouting about, and they quickly went to work. They grabbed trays from the tables, and the boxes holding the discarded remnants from the feasting. They upended them on the floor, and pushed, threw and kicked them all across the arena. Cotter grinned and Mo frowned. 

Cotter moved like a dancer. It was amazing to watch a blubbery giant perform with such grace. His left arm hung useless at his side, and he gushed blood with every step, but he glided in and out between the bones, never stepping on a single one. He twirled around Mo, taking delicate slices of flesh, or deeper cuts of meat with every turn. Mo grunted, and took his blows and strikes with stoic determination. He had only one single minded goal, the utter destruction of Cotter Sullivan. He would end his life forever, carve up his corpulent carcass and feed it to the bottom feeders in the Basin. 

Mo was not light on his feet, he took heavy measured steps, and tried to ensure he had a firm connection to the ground before he moved on. It generally worked for him, but not this time. Cotter was just out of reach, and he had to chase him. He saw what he thought was an opening and he overcommitted. His next step landed firmly on top of a greasy snow goose carcass and his feet slid out from under him. He landed on his back with a heavy thud, and the back of his head cracked heavily against the stone floor. Blood oozed from his broken head, and in all likelihood, he was already dead. Cotter stepped forward to make sure. He swung his slager chopper in a vicious arc and embedded the blade deep into Mo’s skull and into his brain. Life ended there for Mo Dickens, former Hetman of the Slagers. 

Cotter reached down and took the blades from Mo Dickens’s lifeless hands one at a time, and gingerly placed them in his own sheaths. He then removed his own blade from Mo’s head, and proceeded to hack his way through the neck and sever the head of his opponent. He took the Hetman of the Slager’s heavy gold chain, the symbol of his new authority, and placed it with some difficulty around his own neck, and then held up the head of Mo Dickens for all to see.

“Mo Dickens is no more! I’m the Hetman of the Slagers. Does anyone in this hall dispute that?” Cotter roared. He turned Mo’s head to face him. “What do you have to say about that, Mo Dickens? Nothin’? Billee got ya tongue?” 

Cotter spat a mouthful of blood into Mo’s dead face, and then dropped the head and kicked it like a football across the room. It rolled to stop directly below Jojo’s seat at the table. She stared down at it in disbelief, and then burst into tears. Mo’s life was over, and her life was about to change and not for the better.

“As the victor, Iz claim my prize,” Cotter said. “By rights, Iz can claim the Hetman’s wife.” He looked over at Jojo. “But no one would want to use that ole hag. It’s the streets for ‘er, and no one to lift a finger of ‘elp, do yuz ‘ear?”

He turned his attention to the heavily pregnant Josie Heap, who had collapsed against her husband’s side. Samwell wrapped a protective arm around her and held her close as she cried a river.

“If not the wife, then ‘ow about the daughter?” 

Samwell glared at Cotter. There was no fear of the man. “Samwell thinks that not be a grand idea,” Samwell said. There was no wink this time, or a knowing tap of the nostril. He was fully prepared to fight for his wife, and Cotter knew it.

Cotter shook his head. “No, not the daughter. She’s a Heap now. I ‘ave no quarrel with the Heaps, do yuz ‘ear? So I’ll take my prize elsewhere. Why, Iz think I know the very thing Iz want.” 

Cotter moved over to the side of the room and stood directly in front of Juan and Carlos. He looked down at both boys and smiled. A sweet sickly smile. A smile full of malice, and something else: desire. “I want that!” he said pointing at Carlos. 

Carlos tried to bolt, but three of Cotter’s Bully Boys were already on to him. They pinned his arms and held him firm. Juan tried to come to his twin’s defense, but he was no match for the seasoned fighters who accompanied Cotter. Two of them beat him to the ground, kicked him a few times, and then dragged his unconscious body out of the hall and threw him into the courtyard.

“Now the rest of yuz, get out of my slagerhaus! My blud is up, and Iz ‘ave some celebratin’ to do.”