Darkness came late on those summer nights, so Jojo was able to sleep for several hours before being roused by one of his personal 'lep bodyguards.

The 'lep moved into the room quietly and looked at the sleeping Jojo for a few minutes. The disgust that the scarred but steel-hard man felt for the gently snoring fat man showed plainly on his battle-hardened features. Jojo was not popular with the 'leps at the best of times, and was even less so now that he hadn't given the order immediately to revenge the death of their fallen comrade. It was only the 'lep column's personal oath to the Leatherman that allowed Jojo to live at that very moment. Things would not always be so simple as things were then. One day Leather would get tired of Jojo and it would be the end of the fat fuck, thought the 'lep. There was even talk that, should there be a firefight on the way home Jojo just might, quite by accident, stop a stray slug. These things happen on the road. Leather would be the first to realize that.

"Time to get up, boss," said the 'lep.

Jojo snorted awake and sat up. "Huh?"

"Dinner-time," said the 'lep through cracked lips.

"Oh, good," said Jojo. He wiped his hand across his sweaty face. "Did Farkas send out patrols?"

"Yeah," said the 'lep.

"Any luck?"

"Nope."

"Fuck."

The 'lep turned to leave.

"Wait a minute ..." The 'lep stopped and turned.

"Waddya think?" said Jojo, "ya think there's somebody out there?"

"Yeah," said the 'lep.

"Who? Bonner?"

"Yeah. We seen him, didn't we?"

"You don't think he'll be crazy enough to attack here, do you."

"Dunno," said the 'lep. "We all seen that man try just about anything."

"Well," said Jojo, heaving himself up off the bed, "if you see him, blast him."

The 'lep nodded. What the hell did the fat fuck think he was going to do if he saw him?

Dinner was another long, leisurely affair. Jojo chomped and grunted his way through seven courses, demanding second and third helpings of just about everything. Farkas made sure that there was plenty of his special home-brewed liquor around—the drink pleased Jojo almost as much as the food—so by the time they finished the meal, a few hours after they sat down, Jojo was in a pretty good frame of mind. He had almost forgotten the danger in the hills, his apprehension having been washed away in a tidal wave of food and drink. He was looking forward to whatever show it was that Farkas had planned, and was already looking beyond it. Maybe Farkas had a couple of good-looking chicks that he could take to bed that night to complete the circle of pleasures that had begun with his meal.

Farkas nodded to a slave who vanished only to reappear on the parade ground with a half dozen other slaves, each holding a flaming torch. These men walked slowly around the wide space of open ground, lighting larger torches that were stuck in the ground. By the time the twenty beacons were lit, the parade ground had been lit up as bright as day. The heavy pitch on the torch poles guttered, crackled, and spat. The elite of the slave farm, the head overseers, the Silk commanders, the 'leps, gathered on the verandah around the Farkas and Jojo, looking out onto the brightly illuminated ground as if they were patrons at one of the old pre-bomb theaters.

Outside the ring of light the rest of the slave farm gathered, huddled in the darkness, ready, with bright eyes, to watch the show.

"Looks good already,' said Jojo. He took a slug of malt liquor in the goblet at his elbow. Farkas had given a slave instructions that the glass was never to stand empty.

"You ain't seen nothing yet," said Farkas, rubbing his hands.

The evening's entertainment began with a boxing match. Six of the younger slaves were brought into the center of the pool of light and at the ringing of a bell, began a six-way slugging match. But it was more than a simple fistfight. Strapped across their knuckles were heavy pieces of lead that, when striking bone, shattered and crushed the limbs of their opponents. In that small, crowded ring, fists became fearsome weapons. As each blow landed, bones splintered and faces sagged. It was interesting to watch the shifting round of alliances between the young men; one or two joined forces to defeat the others, only to betray one another, to forge a new union with someone else and then turn on their former ally.

As the first punch was thrown, the crowd began screaming for blood, for pain. The excited voices of the onlookers drifted up from the circle of light, up into the night sky. The guards in the towers looked away from their posts craning their necks to get a better view of the action.

It seemed as if a muscled blond slave, not the biggest man in the ring but the fastest on his feet, would prevail. He chose his targets carefully, dancing in to land a bone-crunching blow on a chin, and simultaneously smacking his opponent a weighty blow on the knee. Two fighters doubled over in pain as the quick blond struck. But as he went in for the kill he was hit a powerful one-two from behind. Two lead-coated fists crashed into his body. One cracked the back of the skull, bringing out a syrupy flow of blood from a torn scalp, the other landed right at the base of his spine, fracturing the heavy medallion of bone that anchored his backbone.

The crowd screamed with delight as he fell. His finesse had not made as good a show as brute strength.

"Poor fuck," screamed Jojo, really getting into it, "he didn't follow the number one rule." No one asked him what it was so he supplied the answer himself. "Cover your ass!"

The brawny slave that had laid out the fast one now looked to be the winner until a lucky right from one of his smaller opponents smashed his jaw. The big guy fell in a shower of fine tissue from his lips and tongue. The two remaining slaves pounded him mercilessly as he went down. They didn't want him to get up again. He didn't.

The two boxers left circled each other warily. Each was losing blood from a half a dozen places where blows had only grazed their flesh. They staggered slightly from fatigue. The crowd screamed. They wanted more.

One figured they might as well get it over with. He lunged, fists windmilling. He sailed straight into a long, low, heavy blow to the ribs. It looked as if the bones broke around the iron-heavy fists. He fell, blood spurting from his mouth. The remaining boxer raised his hands above his head and danced a few steps to show that he was fresh as a daisy, ready for more.

Unfortunately, he failed to watch his vanquished victims. One of them, half dead from a broken jaw was jerked into a sort of consciousness by the roar of the crowd. He looked up, dazed, and saw that the fight was over. Without really thinking about it, he summoned what strength he had left and sent a lead-gloved fist into the winner's groin. The scream he let out soared above the laughter of the crowd. He toppled and curled around his broken private parts.

"No good for the stud sheds, huh. Parkas?" laughed Jojo.

"No," said Parkas. He was not pleased with that little development at all. It was one thing to pound a slave into a coma. It was another thing altogether to fuck up his regenerative organs. They were the most valuable thing about the livestock, the ability to make more. Oh well, thought Parkas, one less wouldn't break him.

The next act was taking its position center stage. These were five or six women, each naked to the waist and equipped with razor-sharp talons on the end on all ten fingers. Strapped to their feet were single-pointed blades.

"Catfight!" screamed the crowd in delight.

The women circled one another, snarling and screeching, more like wild animals than people. Jojo feasted on their glistening oiled bodies. This was some show, he had to admit.

Without warning, one of the women lunged. The unfortunate object of her attack was caught off guard. Suddenly, the soft field of breast and stomach was a ribbon-slashed mass of blood. Gore-drenched talons ripped and tore. The dun-colored, flame-lit ground soaked up bright red blood, the yells of the crowd absorbed the tormented wails of the fighters. One of the women was whirling through the crowd of combatants like a maniac, slicing, slashing at anything that moved. One of her opponents took careful aim and kicked her hard, mid-stomach, the puncturing tool attached to her foot sliding deep into the crazy woman. As she fell she pulled her attacker down with her. As the two hit the drenched ground the others fell upon them, kicking them full of bloody holes.

One of the kickers broke off the attack long enough to lacerate the head and shoulders of the woman next to her. She fell, only to receive the punishment being meted out to the two that had fallen before her.

Two women were locked in a death struggle. Each had buried her claws in the back of the other and they wrestled in the dirt, their hideous blades rocking back and forth in the flesh of the other. It was sheer pigheadedness that kept the two bestial creatures locked together. Neither would release the other; both would die of their wounds.

A lone woman stood watching them wrestle in the dirt. She had won. She was streaming with blood, her hair caked with the gore of others. Blood streamed down between her breasts. But she had won. All she had to do was deliver the two death blows. She drew back her right foot and knifed one woman in the back of the neck. The spike cut through the flesh and cartilage, the point splitting the skin on the other side of her neck. A great wash of warm blood spurted from her into the face of her opponent. The standing woman casually walked around behind the other, still enfolded in the death embrace of her enemy and split her skull with a swift kick to the back of the head. She extracted her embedded foot with some difficulty and then looked to Mr. and Mrs. Farkas. "What do you think dear?" asked Farkas. Mrs. Farkas looked at the blood-spattered creature. Her red breasts heaved, her strong bare legs ran with the blood of her enemies. Flesh had collected on the spikes on her feet. He blood dripping talons hung at her side.

"I dunno," said Mrs. Farkas. "she had it awful easy. Them two cunts going down like that . . . They handed her the victory."

Farkas shrugged at the slave woman. "Sorry, dear." Mrs. Farkas reached up into her luxuriant hair, pulled out a handful of knives and with an unerring eye launched them in the direction of the catfight victor.

The woman fell screaming, cut down by a steel hailstorm.

Jojo was unmoved. "Thems the breaks," he said philosophically.

A hush came over the crowd. From behind the assembled gathering came a group of Silk Devils. It was time for the star attraction, the big event of the night. The Devils were forcing their way through the crowd, guns at the ready. The slave farm was used to shows involving dueling slaves—and they could be handled. This new attraction couldn't be taken care of by a few skag-men: this operation required care.

Jojo, Farkas, and Mrs. Farkas looked on eagerly as the captured Mean Brother was elbowed into the circle of light. The big man glowered around him, his upper lip curled in a ferocious sneer. He looked deep into Farkas' eyes, then at Mrs. Farkas, then over to the 'leps, and then, finally, at Jojo. The elite of the slave farm—except the 'leps of course—shifted uncomfortably.

Farkas broke the mood. "If looks could kill . . ." Jojo and Mrs. Farkas tittered nervously at the joke.

The Mean Brother looked calmly at them. He was confident that before the night was done he would kill. And with something a little more painful than simply a look.

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