Master Cat, understated in black cloak, pink satin Stetson and jodhpurs, paid the cab driver and turned to face the ruin of the Pickled Pig. He rapped on the vault door. Curdy let him in.
"So what you got for me?" asked Master Cat.
"More fucks for your bucks," said Curdy.
They walked through the remains of the pub. Old fruit machine, beaten out of shape by the punches and slaps of disgruntled punters. Chairs and tables piled up. A musty blanket covered the wreck of optics behind the bar. They went into the cellar, which reeked of stale ale, urine and cigarette smoke. He switched the light on. Three undulating mounds lay under heavy tarpaulin. Curdy pulled the nearest one away. A child with a grossly distended head and a tapering, elegant swanlike neck, angelic eyes and a soft pursed mouth.
"He's a beauty," said Master Cat, running his fingers through fine black hair.
"I'll take him."
Curdy swept off the second cover. A young male Thalidomide victim.
"I thought this shit had died out..."
"Well this boy shows it's still in the system. Anyhow, retro's cool."
The boy did not have arms attached to his shoulders. A withered hand, on either side in graceful symmetry, fluttering in tandem like desiccated bat's wings.
"There's not much I can do with him. If he was an amputee it'd be different. Like this, I don't know."
"I told you before, it's a job lot. All or nothing."
"Well, if I'm gonna make a loss on him the rest had better be good."
They went further into the darkness. Curdy flipped on a light. A form under the dirty blanket wriggled. Curdy whipped it off. Master Cat recoiled shaken. A pretty young woman's head was attached to a snakelike trunk, scaly and ulcerated.