Jojo was eating. It was not a pretty Sight. He was sitting at a table that had been set up on the wide and shady porch of the old mansion that Farkas called home. The table was spread with a white cloth— rather, it had been white at the beginning of the meal, now it was slopped over with stains. Jojo was, to put it mildly, a messy eater. A slave stood in front of the table ladling more food onto the, plate as Jojo called for it. Two Radleps stood behind their master looking around suspiciously, as if they expected Bonner to pop out from behind a bush and start blasting.

The 'leps had reason to be suspicious. A fellow 'lep was missing. The Radleps took it very badly when one of their number disappeared. If he turned up dead, some blood was going to be shed.

At that moment, though, Jojo wasn't worried about a thing besides filling his big gut. Farkas was an asshole, he thought, but his food was fantastic. The plate in front of him was as big as a hug cap on an old Caddy and it was piled high with a steak the size of a boulder. There was a side of mashed potatoes that stood a full six inches high on the plate, a pound of bacon, and a dozen fried eggs slithering around, wherever there was room. . . .

Jojo was bent double over the food, glowering out from under his eyebrows as if he were ready to kill the man that tried to take his snack from him. His left arm was crooked around the plate, holding it, his right hand was a blur as it shoveled the food into his wide mouth as fast as he could. As his big yellow teeth chopped up the food, some of it tried to escape and stained his lips; bits of mashed potatoes lodged in the scraggly beard that flapped listlessly around his chin like a hairy bib. The slave who served him had seen some ugly sights in his time but watching Jojo eat was about as bad as they came. It turned his hardened stomach. Between Jojo and the two freaks behind his chair, the whole tableau was pretty disgusting.

Farkas came on the scene and eyed his guest from a few feet away. The big slave keeper's reaction to Jojo was much the same as the slaves. Disgusting, thought Farkas.

Jojo didn't think much of Farkas either. He sat back from the plate, belched a burp as loud as < pistol shot, and rubbed his stomach.

"Morning, Jojo," said Farkas. "You owe me," said Jojo pleasantly. "I do, huh," said Farkas, "how much?" "A small matter of a few thousand slates," said Jojo.

"Big fuckin' deal," said Farkas, "don't bother me with these chickenshit numbers. There's real business to be done."

"Well, if it ain't much to a big man like you," said Jojo. He paused to work another belch out of the bushel-basket belly he carried around with him. It came, loud and sulphurous and he finished his sentence. "... then maybe you wouldn't mind settling up now."

"Yeah, yeah," said Farkas, as if he couldn't be bothered. Actually he was thinking that if Mrs. Frakas ever found out that he paid Jojo his gambling debt his life would be hell for the next six months. "So how long you gonna be here?" "Leaving as soon as I fuckin' can," said Jojo. "We'll settle up when we work out who owes what. I have a feeling you're gonna end up owing me more than I owe you."

"What the fuck does that mean?" "It means you came to deal, right? So you're gonna buy slaves, right? So who the fuck do you think you're gonna pay for them. Me, right?"

"Don't talk to me like that man," said Jojo quietly, "you know who you're dealing with, right? I'm fuckin' Leatherman's right-hand man. Got it?"

"Yeah," said Farkas, "you're the little fuck that jerks him off right?"

By way of reply, Jojo reached under the big flap of flesh that hung at his waist and grabbed a couple of pounds of pistol that he kept hidden under his gut. He leveled it at Farkas.

"Maybe I'll just blow your head off and take whatever I need. How would that sound."

Farkas laughed. It wasn't the first time he had looked down the barrel of a gun. "Tough man, tough man," he laughed.

Jojo stared at him. He wasn't used to being insulted and he wasn't used to being laughed at, and yet both things had happened inside of ten minutes. And the day had just started.

" 'leps are good," Farkas continued, "hell, I'd be the first to say that. But shit, Jojo, use your head. You only got fifty men here. I got about a thousand. You'd never make it to the gate. And don't forget. Leatherman ain't the only game on the continent, ya know. Berger would never let you get out of the Hots alive."

"Oh, Berger," snorted Jojo, "You're scaring the piss out of me."

"Put the shooter away, Jojo, and we'll be friends again. I got some things planned for today. You'll have a good time."

By way of compromise Jojo put the gun down on the table in front of him, as if it was there if he decided to use it.

"So like what?" demanded Jojo.

"Thought I'd show you around the operation. Let you take a look at the slaves. Make some choices . . . See what you might want. You know, stuff like that ..."

"What's so special about that? That's what I come here to do."

"Okay, okay," said Farkas. "I was keeping it as a surprise ..."

"What ferchrissakes!"

"We were gonna put on a little show tonight."

"What kind of show?"

"You'll see ..."

The tour began after Jojo had put away another six or seven pounds of food. Only once he was properly fortified could he attend to the business of the day.

When the plate was licked clean he hoisted himself to his feet and followed Farkas down the graceful steps of the old mansion to the courtyard of the plantation. Farkas noted that Jojo's breathing was labored, as if his heart and lungs objected to carrying around so much blubber.

"The fat fuck is going to eat himself to death," Farkas thought.

"Not so goddam fast," said Jojo.

If anyone had any doubts that Farkas was absolute. ruler over his domain, the tour around his property dispeled them. Wherever he went on his property, slaves dropped to their knees as he passed, averting their fear-filled eyes as if he was some sort of god temporarily walking on earth. Jojo had to admit to himself that he was impressed. Not even Leatherman got this kind of respect, and the Leatherman ruled an area measured in hundreds of square miles, not a few lousy acres like Farkas.

"So what do we see first?"

"Thought you might want to take a look at the birthing sheds."

"What the fuck are those."

"What the hell do you think they are," thought Farkas. "Where do you think babies come from?"

The Silk Devil escorting them pushed open the door of one of the sheds that surrounded the main house. Farkas stepped in, with Jojo and his two 'leps following.

The shed was dimly lit and absolutely silent. It took Jojo's eyes a few seconds to adapt to the light, but once his eyes cleared and adjusted, he saw exactly why Farkas called them the "birthing sheds."

The room was filled with beds, three-tiered and caged with chicken wire. Stretched out on each bed, reclining naked on a series of thin mattresses were hollowed eyed women, each in the advanced stages of pregnancy. They stared at Farcas blankly.

"The latest crop," said Farkas proudly, as if he was showing off a new litter of puppies.

"Jeez," said Jojo as he surveyed the room. There must have been two hundred women in the room. "Who porks all these broads?" He asked elegantly.

"The studs," said Farkas, "we call 'em the bulls."

"Haw," said Jojo, "nice work if you can get it." "You think," said Farkas, shooting his guest a sideways glance. "How would you like to do it seven times a day ..."

"Haw haw," said Jojo, "I wouldn't kick . . ." "Day in, day out. Every day of the year. It sounds better than it is."

Farkas walked down the row of beds. He stopped in front of a woman who looked to be about sixty.

"My best breeder," said Farkas affectionately. "Her!" said Farkas. "She looks about ninety-five.

I'd say her days are about over."

"How many pups you had, dear?" asked Farkas.

"Twenty-two," croaked the woman.

"And tell the man how old you are?"

"I think thirty," said the woman.

"A little more," sid Farkas, "thirty-three."

"Thirty-three!" said Jojo, doing some quick arithmetic. "You mean you started her when she was eleven?"

"S'right. She's been pregnant ever since."

"Jeez," said Jojo, genuinely impressed.

"They usually cave in after about seven or eight, but some of 'em just keep on producing. The human body is an amazing thing, you know?"

"She don't look so amazing," said Jojo, running his eyes over the woman's swollen belly and emaciated flanks.

"Well, it takes a lot out of them. This one, I doub she can walk anymore. If she could I might consider retiring her but, you know it ain't worth it ..." He spoke as if the woman wasn't there. "Her time will come. A lot of them croak during delivery. I got a couple women who deliver the pups, but they don't really know what the hell they're doing. They croak too many cows—we call 'em cows—and they get put in the sheds themselves. It's the best I can do to make sure they do their best."

"Got any that are, you know, good looking?" asked Jojo.

"We got special sheds for the real foxes. Most people who want slaves, they want strong ones. They don't care what they look like, ya' know? The foxes, I mean they can look good, but that don't mean they're gonna have good-looking pups. The ones that turn out good, they are real expensive. Real expensive."

"You unnerstan' that I come looking for full growns," said Jojo. "I don't want to take no kids back to Leather. I want big strong men and women. The best."

"Business later," said Farkas airily. "But just to put your mind at rest, I'll tell you I got some special stock for you."

"When can I see 'em?"

"In a minute. Don't you want to see the bulls?"

"Oh, yeah," snorted Jojo. "Those lucky fucks." 

  Back in the sunlight, they met a brawny-looking Skag Devil crossing the parade ground.

"Grubby," barked Farkas. The man stopped dead in his tracks, frozen by the sound of Farkas' voice.

"Yes boss?" "You headed for the bull pen?" "Yessir, time for the third shift of the day." "We'll tag along and take a look if you don't mind, that is."

"No problem at all, sir, no problem at all." Farkas and his guest fell in behind Grubby and followed him to yet another shed that stood nearby. Jojo noticed that the overseer carried neither gun nor whip.

"These guys never get uppity? These bulls?" Grubby laughed. "No sir, they don't." They reached the door of a shed and Grubby kicked it open. As he entered a chorus of groans went up from the occupants.

Jojo couldn't believe his eyes. The bulls looked to be in worse shape than the cows. They were thin and washed out looking. Exhausted, clapped out. 

"Ker-rist," he said, "these guys look terrible." 

"And they're half your age," said Farkas with a chuckle. "Sometimes we use bull duty as a punishment ... I tell you, fuckin' takes it out of you."

Grubby took a deep breath and started bellowing out numbers. Each bull had a number and the overseers took care to keep track of whose turn it was to climb into the saddle again.

"No," murmured one bull, a balding, broken-toothed man, as thin as a corpse. "Please, not again."

Farkas laughed. "See, Jojo, tole you it wasn't no picnic. When you fuck a couple of thousand times a year, it just ain't fun no more."

"Maybe you're right."

"You wanna see them in action. We could go see the fucking sheds now."

"How 'bout we eat instead?" said Jojo.

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