“Worms do disappear. Even zombies, sometimes. Twice, some fake brigade picked up half a dozen skinny zombies at an intersection, and they were never heard from again. Just don’t buy mystery meat, Elb. You’re better off saving up some money and coming here — for ten sol you can get three or four bones with meat on them. If you’re lucky enough to kill another plux, ask around and find out where you can cook it yourself. Easier to bring the carcass here, though — you’ll get the finest cut, roasted and served well as you please, just for bringing them fresh meat.”
“Got it. Thank you. Um…”
“Go on, ask.”
“Is the clock still ticking?”
“Well, tonight’s entertainment is running late.” Mads sighed. “So feel free to ask.”
“Where do they take the worms? Some dark corner when they can butcher them?”
“Way to spoil my appetite.” She winced. “Why butcher them right away? Think about it, Elb. Worms are all bones, right? They’re just barely surviving. What has to happen first?”
“Huh?”
“Think practically, Elb! No one wants to buy stringy meat. Even you wouldn’t eat it. Everyone wants tender meat, fatty meat. The kidnapped ‘cattle’ has to be fattened up.”
“Ugh…”
“Ugh, indeed. Still hungry for meat?”
“Yep.”
“Just this once.” Mads sighed again. “You’re a curious one. A funny guy. This round’s on me.”
I leaned forward to cover her hand with mine before she could raise it to signal the waitress. I smiled at her:
“Thanks, but no thanks. When we earn more sol, we’ll buy our meat ourselves. And I’ll be happy to share with you.”
Mads looked at me thoughtfully and slowly nodded, not trying to free her hand:
“I’ll take your word for it.”
I removed my hand and asked:
“So where do they fatten them up?”
“That’s where we have to rely on rumors. It’s just whispers among the goblins, but the butchers don’t have much choice. The Stench, the Stagnant Cesspool… Places where Mother isn’t watching. They’re like an eternal fucking twilight zone. Every path there is a death path, which is why most people avoid them.”
“But some people live there?”
“In the Stench? Yeah, some people do, if you can call slogging through shit life.”
“Are they goblins or orcs?”
“They have their own nicknames that speak for themselves. We call the people that live in the Stench shit-guzzlers. But if you meet one, you should know they call themselves the bogmen. Call one a shit-guzzler and you’ll find yourself in a fight. They’re skilled fighters and love a good brawl.”
“Okay, bogmen. Why bogmen? Well, I could guess, but…”
“Every veteran here knows why. The Stench was one of six sewer nodes around Drainagetown — they surround the upper district like the petals of a shitty flower. It’s a twisted mess, hundreds of intertwined pipes, all full of shit. Literally.”
“Whose shit?”
“Elven shit, of course!” Mads scoffed. “What a silly question. All the shit in the world goes to Drainagetown.”
“Really? All the shit goes there?” I narrowed my eyes.
“Smartass goblin! That’s just a saying. Well, who knows, maybe it really does. Anyway, all the drains go to Murkwaters and everything’s filtered. The Stench used to play a part in producing stinky filth, until there was a huge accident there about twenty years ago. It was real serious, lots of important equipment broke down. The situation was so bad that Mother decided it wasn’t worth the effort to repair it, and sent goblins and orcs to scrap the remains of the most important tech and abandon the destroyed node.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“I’ve been there once. Just by the entrance — I didn’t go inside. But I saw the giant pipes, smashed in and twisted, the collapsed and blown-out walls, the remains of broken equipment, pumps and stuff. Mother made the right decision — there was nothing that could be repaired. The pressure was split between the five remaining nodes, but shit still leaks into the ruins of the sixth node, making a kind of shallow swamp. It slowly flows into the gutter that leads to lower Drainagetown. That’s how the Stench came to be. I’m pretty sure that’s where they fatten the worms up before they butcher them. That one time, when I was standing at the entrance, covering my squad, I thought I heard weak, distant screams coming from the depths. Three years ago, a unit of fighters found a fat, badly-wounded worm swimming down the gutter and dragged him out. He died in their arms, leaking blood mixed with shit. He didn’t say a word, either — his tongue had been cut off. And his eyes. And his balls. Hey, there’s my evening’s entertainment! Give up your spot, goblin!”
“Thank you,” I said, sliding off the ledge.
“Stay away from those places. Stick to the Outskirts. It’s much safer here — trust me.”
“I trust you. What about the Stagnant Cesspool?”
“Don’t even mention the name. It’s a rotten place.”
“Got it. Thanks again, Mads.”
“No problem. We were all new once. Don’t forget to check your job list all the time — the system doesn’t automatically warn cadets about extra jobs.”
