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“Waiting is.” Michael Valentine Smith

Welcome back to the saga of Joey and Linda Sue. My sincere apologies for
the length of time between postings.

For newcomers, this is a tale intended only for adults.  Let me repeat
that. This story is for adults only.  If you are a minor go away.  If
reading this story would in any way violate the local laws, rules,
regulations, morals or customs where you live go away.   There are many
other more edifying stories to be found elsewhere, stories that would be
more appropriate to your age and legal status.

Now, to round out this warning, if you are an adult and have stumbled
across this continuing story for the first time take note: This is not
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. This is an intense story of the raising of
humans as livestock and the consumption of human flesh.

Cannibal 4H or C4H as it has come to be known on the newsgroups
chronicles the adventures of two young people, Joey Geryon and his
girlfriend Linda Sue and their adventures in raising human cattle.  It
contains violence, death, family tragedy, sex of all shades and stripes
and people eating people. This tale is not to everyone’s taste. If you
have the slightest idea that you might be offended by the contents of
this story, please read no further. As the Judge would say “caveat
lector:” let the reader beware.

This story is posted in instalments. This long overdue instalment
contains Chapter 20. To get previous instalments of C4H you can go to
the Dejanews ASSC archive (www.deja.com) and power search the
alt.sex.snuff.cannibalism newsgroup for "ASSC Cannibal 4H" or “ASSC C4H”
starting at September 1, 1997 through the current date.

As always, my thanks to Neuralmancer for allowing me to assume the
mortgage on his farm.

Eurytion


Our story so far:

In Chapter One: A New Project by Neuralmancer --- we meet Joey who lives
on a human cattle ranch owned by his father. His girlfriend, Linda Sue,
uses her feminine charm to convince Joey's dad to allow Joey to raise
and enter a human cattle in the upcoming judging at the Cannibal 4H
fair.

In Chapter Two: The Fair by Neuralmancer --- Joey and Linda Sue take
their human cow to the fair. Watching the activities in the butchering
tent leads them to an afternoon of carnal delight, followed by a repast
of medium done portions of human cattle thigh and rump well covered with
barbecue sauce, onions and mushrooms. Joey envisions Linda Sue rotating
about a cooking flame.

In Chapter Three: The Slaughtering by Eurytion --- we find Joey and
Linda Sue on their way to Japan, reminiscing about their first Cannibal
4H fair. We meet Al Crenshaw, owner of Crenshaw Superior Meats who has
bought Joey's blue ribbon-winning cow. Joey and Linda Sue lend a hand in
the slaughtering.

In Chapter Four: A Maverick's Conversion by Eurytion --- Linda Sue
catches Valerie, Joey's thirteen year old neighbour who has a huge crush
on Joey without her identification badge. Under the fair's rules, that
makes her a maverick to be claimed by the first person who finds her.
Linda Sue relinquishes her claim to Joey who reluctantly decides to have
the youngster converted by McCains into livestock for his new human veal
venture.

In Chapter Five: A Brother's Visit by Eurytion --- Cow 701's former
brother Billy and Joey patch up a friendship strained by Valerie's
conversion.  Billy, acting on the advice of his grief counsellor,
participates in the feeding of 701 and enjoys his former sister's oral
ministrations. We learn, to achieve "closure" his entire family has "to
be there when they butcher her and then we have to help eat her."

In Chapter Six: Evaluations and Judgments by Eurytion --- Linda Sue is
sized up by a professional and given a passing grade. Cow 701 passes a
father’s muster as does her owner. And we learn of Joey’s final promise
to Valerie.

In Chapter Seven:  At the Fair by Eurytion --- Cow 701 arrives at the
fair. Linda Sue models spits for a special barbecue. And Joey tips his
hand.

In Chapter Eight: A Fijian Feast by Eurytion  --- Cow 701 pleases the
judges while Linda Sue pleasures the cook.  Billy learns the true
meaning of finger licking good and a trip to the South Seas is
contemplated.

In Chapter Nine: Patty’s Lesson by Eurytion --- Another young girl
learns a valuable lesson and Joey is given an idea for a new branch of
the business.

In Chapter Ten: Reaching Closure by Eurytion --- Although it’s hard,
Joey keeps his promise to Valerie. Linda Sue  dispatches one adversary
only to meet a more formidable foe.  Despite the recovery of a missing
item, Valerie loses her head. Taking a cue from the rest of the family,
Billy advances relations with his cousin Terri.

In Chapter Eleven: The Sunday Dinner by Eurytion --- The Howitts say
goodbye to Valerie while Linda Sue suggests a family replacement.

In Chapter Twelve: The Plot Advances by Eurytion --- Joey suggests Terri
and Linda Sue engage in a game of horse.  A sparkling new friendship is
formed while an almost cow plots revenge.

In Chapter Thirteen: The War Begins by Eurytion --- Anneliese strikes
her first blow against human cattle ranching while an old friend of her
aunt’s frets about the future.

In Chapter Fourteen: The Eyes Have It by Eurytion --- A brush with
incontinence leads Anneliese to stumble upon her inamorata.

In Chapter Fifteen: The Pinto Project by Eurytion --- Joey goes dotty
over a new undertaking.

In Chapter Sixteen: At The Stables by Eurytion --- We visit Kyner
Stables to find a home for Terri and Linda Sue.

In Chapter Seventeen: Through the Microscope of Dreams by Eurytion ---
We look at the hidden occurrences in the souls of our main characters.

In Chapter Eighteen: In Training by Eurytion --- A pair of new ponies
are put through their paces preparatory to the Chiron Cup races.

In Chapter Nineteen: A Marriage Ends by Eurytion --- We learn more about
the legal system and watch a marriage terminate.

And now Cannibal 4H Chapter Twenty: A Day at The Races by Eurytion

THE TREES WERE CLOTHED in a harlequin costume of terra-cotta, gold and
umber leaves, the occasional loden green needles of a pine or a spruce
serving only to emphasize fall’s onslaught.  A handful of high chalky
clouds danced their way eastward in the wind as the sun continued to
rise up the dome of a milk glass sky.  The morning chill, more
invigorating than a cup of black coffee from Rowena’s, had been replaced
by a temperate breeze whose movement snapped the pennants on the
triple-spired red roof of the grandstand to and fro.

August’s Cannibal Fair was a local event, attended mainly by local
residents since almost  every county in the country had their own
version of that summer festival. But the three days in October devoted
to the Chiron Cup races were a major regional event attracting
spectators and competitors from beyond a five-state area.

The substantial influx of outside money from the Cup festivities was a
boon to the community’s economy, providing an appreciated cushion
against the ups and down of farming. Not all local residents welcomed
out of town guests with open arms. Dara Henderson and her clique, who
aired their grievances like the weekend wash, always groused loudly
about the crowds, the noise, the difficulty of getting a meal in the
town’s restaurants and the overwhelming volume of traffic. Most of the
business owners were too busy tallying up the day’s receipts to take
notice of the complaints.

While the races were the main attraction, they were not the only
inducement to visit. For two days before the races the fairgrounds were
filled with musical acts, plays and other smaller entertainments such as
acrobats, jongleurs,  and illusionists. There were competitions for best
musical group, theatre troupe, saltimbanque show, and strolling player.

Meals were also the subject of competitions. The cuisine served at the
Cup races was more upscale and varied than at the fair, with dishes such
as servelles au berrenoir or beef en daube offered by the caterers to
the owners in their private dining area.  Pot-au-feu, cassoulets or
lobscouse were available in the clubhouse eatery while grandstand
residents could dine on boiled dinners, sausages and sauerbraten. Of
course, as befits an area whose main industry was human cattle ranching,
excellent barbecue from the chuck wagons dotting the grounds was
available to all.  More than four dozen head of cattle, many from the
Geryon’s ranch, would be spit-roasted to a dusky umber over open fires,
while another dozen would find their dismembered way into the broilers
to be served on a stick or as sandwiches.

Billing itself as “your guide to the nation’s best fairs, festivals and
other celebrations,” Callithump magazine did an annual feature on Chiron
Cup cuisine which rated the various offerings and included recipes for
the most popular. Rival restaurateurs jockeyed to appear between its
covers. Ernst Grayh, who together with his wife Mitzi, ran Procrustes’
Carvery, a fashionable restaurant in the next county, had raised the bar
this year by running a series of advertisements before the races
promising a new specialty, one which would be “a taste sensation unlike
any ever offered before.”

With all the attractions and the national publicity, the Chiron Cup
races were very well attended. Cars, campers, pickups and trailers of
both the horse and human kind loaded the parking lot and surrounding
streets to capacity.  Long queues of people waiting at each of the seven
entrances for the festivities to begin were common. Today had been no
different.

To make sure they got a good seat, Dickie Peal and Ralph Levitt had
arrived at the southwest gate an hour before it was scheduled to open.
Seating in the grandstand was at a premium and the pair of ranch hands
wanted to get the best spots possible.  While they were waiting they
talked about the campaign of  vandalism against human cattle ranching
and what was being done, or to their way of thinking, not being done
about it.

Since the initial occurrence at Shea’s Butcher Shop and despite the
efforts of the sheriff’s department the harassment had continued.
Several shops had been defaced with blood-red “Stop the Murder”
graffiti.  Roofing nails were scattered in parking lots.  Fences at
ranches were torn down and mailboxes smashed. Repeated incidents of
sugar in petrol tanks had led to Peter Barton’s supply store placing two
reorders for locking caps. The latest attack, a serious dustbin fire
behind Crenshaw’s, had moved the situation from one of mosquito-like
annoyance to one demanding action.

Assigned to crowd control duties at the races, deputies Wally Zehr and
Stan Triplett, were also engaged in heated conversation over the same
subject. “Mutt, I don’t find this stuff fucking amusing anymore,” the
taller of the two lawmen told his partner.  “This shit is going to stop
before somebody gets hurt.”

“OK, I’m with you on that but how?  We’ve stepped up patrols but we
can’t be everywhere at once unless you want to deputize everyone in the
county and somehow I don’t think the sheriff’s going to buy that one.
Can you see Dickie Peal running around with a badge, let alone a gun?
That’d be a bigger threat to public safety than anything that’s happened
so far.”

Spitting a stream of umber tobacco juice onto the ground in disgust,
Zehr explained  “Don’t need ‘em.  You and I can do this ourselves.”

“Wally, at the risk of being repetitive and repetitious let me once
again pose my original question of how?  How are you and I going to pull
off this miracle of law enforcement, I’d say singlehandedly but that
wouldn’t be quite right since there are two of us, dual-handedly maybe?”

“We’re going after Annelise Dracon, that’s how. We both know that bitch
is behind all of this.  It started once she hit town.  It won’t end
until she’s caught.”

Sighing heavily, Triplett stared directly at his partner.  “Look, I
agree with you  it probably is her.  Hell, Ev McAuliffe knows her as
well as anyone and he thinks she’s behind it.  But thinking it, even
knowing it, isn’t the same as proving it.”

A second brown stream followed the first. “Only way to prove it is to
catch her.  Only way to catch her is to watch her.  That’s what you and
I are going to do, watch her.  Nothing illegal.  We’re not going to pull
a black-bag job and toss her house. We’re not going to plant a bug on
her.  Just going to keep a friendly eye on her; make sure she’s safe and
all right ‘cause ya know those letters of hers have stirred up a real
shit storm in town.  No telling who might have a hard-on for her.  It’s
our job to make sure she’s safe.  Serve and protect that’s us.”

Running his hand across the bottom of his face, Mutt queried his
partner,  “Remember that scene in Bringing Up Baby where Katherine
Hepburn is throwing the rocks at the window and Cary Grant says ‘I know
I should run but somehow I just can’t move.’ Just think of me as Cary
Grant.  Aw hell, I’m just as tired of this shit as you are. I guess
somebody has to keep a closer eye on the lady.  If she thinks we’re
stalking her she can always go to the Judge for a writ of prevention.”

Unaware a target had just been pinned to her back, Anneliese sat in her
kitchen, her left hand glistening, a tube of burn ointment lying
half-crumpled on the white wood table.  The lid of the dustbin had
dropped down at the worst possible time, just after the bottle full of
petrol had shattered inside, trapping her hand in the expanding flames
for several seconds.  While it was happening, Anneliese felt more fear
than she did pain.

Not a fear of dying, she knew the time left her was limited, soon she
would be caught and, once caught, her demise would be assured.  She
wasn’t afraid of how she would die; she had resigned herself to her
death being humiliating and painful, one intended to serve as a warning
to others. Her fear was of dying before she had completed her life’s
mission, before she could redeem the sacrifices Aunt Vi had made, before
she could keep her final promise to Sebastian.

Although her injuries weren’t serious, mostly some redness and swelling
with only a couple of small second degree burns and a bruise where the
lid had landed, she knew  she couldn’t be seen until they healed.  Too
bad since she had something very special planned for the races.  Still
it probably wasn’t a bad idea to lie low for a while and let others aid
the struggle.  Some one or ones had rallied to the cause because she
hadn’t put sugar in anybody’s petrol tank and she sure hadn’t gone
riding around tearing down fences. For now she was content to see what
her mysterious allies came up with while she recuperated.

As an owner, even a temporary one,  Joey didn’t have to wait in queue
for the gates to open.  The morning found him in the squire’s parlour
sharing a lavish breakfast with the other owners, selected buyers, high
rollers and the managers of the stables involved in the day’s
competitions.  Despite his success as a human cattle rancher, he felt
awkward as the newest member of this society, a dabbler among
professionals and so he tried to stay on the fringes of the crowd,
quietly circling the edges of the room with his attention fixated on his
plate as though he was waiting for the peppered bacon to tell him who it
had been in its former incarnation.

His reticent behaviour was noticed by Edmund Dirks.  The lad is behaving
like a skittish colt afraid of its own shadow.  We will have to put that
right and bloody quickly too.  Stopping on the way to pick up a flute of
sparkling wine for his young charge, nothing like a little Dutch courage
to stiffen the backbone and loosen the tension he always felt, Dirks
sauntered across to literally take Joey in hand.

“Mitchell, I’d like you to meet Joseph Geryon,” said Dirks addressing
himself to a tall man whose finely chiselled face was set off with a
short-cropped black beard.  “This is the first time out for Joseph.  He
has a pair of horses running in the fledgling races. Joseph, this is
Mitchell MacHale, he runs the Diamond Z Stables. Mitchell is both a dear
friend and a fierce competitor of mine, which will make beating him this
year all the more enjoyable. ”

The bearded man’s eyes twinkled as the introductions were made.  “Glad
to make your acquaintance, Joseph.  Sorry to hear  you’re hooked up with
this old pirate though,” he said sticking out a right hand whose index
finger stopped short at the second knuckle.  “It’s always sad when a man
as distinguished as Edmund slips away into a fantasy world.  I guess the
ravages of old age are finally catching up.  Well, it had to happen
sometime but knowing  he’s delusional makes me a little ashamed of
wagering with him again this year.  Not too ashamed to take my winnings
mind but still just a little guilty of taking advantage of an old
friend’s troubles.”

“I would hate to put temptation in your way Mitchell given your weak
nature in that regard but should we double our wager this year, two
weeks instead of one?”

“Done and done, Edmund.  I can feel those tropical breezes now.  I’ll be
sure and send you back a postcard.”

“And I’ll be sure and give Tansy your love.”

As they walked away Edmund explained there was a standing bet between
the two stable managers.  Whoever scored the highest average of points
per entry in the Cup race was sent on a week’s holiday to Tahiti at the
other’s expense.  Tansy was the proprietor of the resort the winner
stayed at.

Methodically, Edmund worked the room with Joey at his side, acquainting
him with all and sundry.  At every stop Edmund included Joey in a brief
conversation, helping to assuage the young man’s nervousness.  “Yes,
Mrs.  Applewhite, I do think the track will be rather fast today and I
could not agree with you more that any mudders will come a cropper.  By
the way do you know   . . .  William, I want you to meet someone.  ...
Hello James, how is your wife?  I think you may have already met   . . .
Mrs.  Satran, you are looking especially elegant this morning.  Might I
have the pleasure of introducing Joseph. . . ”

Toward the end of their perambulations, a short, stout, hard built
individual stepped into their path, blocking their progress.  His skin
was grey as though it had been ever so slightly soiled with a clay which
wouldn’t wash out.  A leonine head was framed by a fading black mane of
tousled hair.  Dark brown eyes set in deep sockets had the quickness of
a hawk and showed as much warmth.  Here and there on his face small
patches of bristly whiskers interspersed with lines of raw skin attested
to a shaky hand holding a razor.

His attire, a single-breasted taupe linen jacket with dark brown pants,
was appropriate to the occasion but slightly shiny as though the clothes
had been ironed once too often.  Thin stray threads showed on the edges
of his yellow tie, held crookedly in place by a topaz tiepin.  A light
patina of dust coated the outside counters of his scuffed cordovan
shoes.

“Hullo, Eddie.  I knew you wouldn’t leave without at least passing a
minute or two of the time with me.  Are you going to introduce me to
your friend here,” the stranger asked in a voice that grated on the ears
like a hinge in need of oiling.

“Of course, this is Joseph Geryon.  Joseph, this is Travis Gordon.” Joey
could hear a tinge of disquiet colour Dirk’s rich diction.  Gordon held
out a square and stubby hand, nails cut unevenly and knuckles topped
with wiry thick hairs.  Forewarned by the tone of Dirk’s response, Joey
made certain to press the web of flesh between his thumb and index
finger as far back into Gordon’s hand as it would go.  The manoeuvre
foiled Gordon’s attempt to grind Joey’s hand into paste.

After a few seconds of fruitless effort, Gordon broke off the handshake.
“Pleased to meet you Joe.  I don’t want to be rude, us having just met
and all, but I wonder if Trav could have a few moments alone with his
old pal Eddie here.” Without waiting for an answer Gordon placed his
hand in the small of Dirk’s back and began to steer him toward the
corner.

The pair retreated, Gordon talking with his mouth close to Dirk’s ear;
Dirk reacting by nodding or shaking his head.  Joey saw Dirks reach into
his back pocket, take out his wallet, count out several bills and hand
them to the shorter man who promptly stuck them in his front pocket.
As Joey and Edmund left the owner’s parlour to descend to trackside, his
curiosity got the better of him.

“Edmund, this is probably none of my business but are you in any sort of
trouble?  I mean is Gordon, does he have, is there something . . . ” A
mirthless laugh escaped the stable manger’s lips.  “Joseph, are you
trying to ask if Gordon is blackmailing me?  Or if perhaps he holds an
old gambling debt of mine and I need to pay it off before someone breaks
my legs?  I assure you it is nothing of the sort.  The truth is far more
prosaic and much more boring although in its own way just as
distressing. However, today is not the day for that melancholy  tale to
be told. Today is a day for excitement, entertainment, suspense and, if
all goes well, celebration.”

The brassy roar of bugles grabbed the attention of the crowd as the
advance guard of the Grand Promenade appeared in the arched wooden
gateway, the gold and silver piping on their smoky purple uniforms
contesting with the polished metallic surface of their instruments for
the sun’s blessing.  The first deep crash of the kettle drums was
countered by the sharp crack of feet hitting the broad rose-red paving
stones in unison as the band marched forward, playing until they reached
the joining of the pathway to the track.

There the musicians split into two branches, each arm of the Grenadier
Legion Drum and Bugle Corps facing the other across opposing sides of
the pathway. Once arrayed, the band fell silent, instruments at the
ready. The hushed crowd stirred with anticipation. A high, piercing
whistle split the air and the Grand Promenade was under way.

Grouped into their five divisions, the seventy-eight entries in the
Chiron Cup competitions pranced past the Corps to take the only
unhurried circuit of the track they would be allowed that day. The track
was awash in a riot of colours running the gamut from garish to muted,
depending on the owner’s taste. Nor did any entry wear the same style of
tack, that too being dependent on the owner’s inclinations.

Brightly dyed ostrich feathers doubling as faux-manes were popular as
were long “tails” made of real hair. Most of the tack was constructed of
leather ornamented by metal or glass studding although some nylon and
canvas was also used. The amount of torso covered varied. A large number
of human equine were nearly nude while at least two were covered from
their ankles up to the crown of their heads. Some entries wore full head
masks, others only thin strapping. Footwear ranged from nonexistent to
thigh-high flat-soled boots. The only firm rule regarding tack was the
breasts of all fillies and mares entered in the races be bared to public
view.

>From the owner’s box at the edge of the track Joey marvelled at the
sheer variety of flesh on parade. As a human cattle rancher, nudity was
nothing new to Joey. His livestock were denied even the smallest scrap
of clothing, save when his cows menstruated and even then they were
given only enough of a strap to hold the pad in place. The naked state
of his animals, and their constant availability for the pleasure of
their keepers and others, helped to reenforce their conditioning and
served as a constant reminder  they were no longer citizens but merely
future fare for the dinner table. But watching these human horses
parade, with the knowledge many were only temporarily livestock who
would rejoin the community after the races, excited Joey in a very
different fashion than watching his cattle romp did.

“Joseph, stop gawking and take a closer look at the number three and
eight horses in the fledgling division,” Edmund gently chided as he
passed over a pair of black-pebbled binoculars. “Mr. Vass tells me he
believes these are your main competition for the Cup and I would agree.”

Pressing the eyepieces to his face, Joey followed the directions from
the manager of Kyner Stables. The number three horse was a lanky,
well-sculpted brunette of medium height. Her hair was tied into a single
ponytail at the top of her head which then flowed down her back in a
wide cascade until it reached the middle of her buttocks.  Her tack was
simple, consisting of a three-inch wide neck collar and four one-inch
wide belts all in white leather with silver studs and connected by
two-inch vertical strap in the front.  The top belt accentuated her
hard, conical tits, presenting them to the public as through they were a
set of matched pears, stem thrust forward and ripe for plucking.

The young filly  wore a white cotton G-string under the lower two belts
and her knees were protected by a pair of thin oval coverings,
themselves decorated with a circle of smaller studs with a larger,
pointed stud in the middle of the pad. Her racing ensemble was topped
off with a austere fawn-coloured leather bridle with double straps and a
smooth grey rubber bit. She was unshod.

The number eight horse was a contrast in almost every way. Although a
good two-inches shorter, she seemed to loom over the number three horse
by virtue of a raspberry-hued plume almost two-foot in height. Her body
was thick without the definition of the number three horse.  Her tack
was made of two broad nylon bands arrayed in an x-shaped pattern which
started to cross just above the upper curve of her pendulous breasts,
the same breasts which slapped against her with every stride she took.

Her lower torso was covered by what in other circumstances would have
been the bottom half of a high cut bathing suit with a small excision of
the fabric around the navel.  High nylon boots, rolled into a cuff at
the top and dyed the same vivid cinnabar as the reminder of her tack,
reached to the upper-third of her ample thighs.

Where the number three horse was relatively unfettered, the eight horse
was attached to her sulky by three sets of chains, one each from her
wrist cuffs which merged with the handles of the sulky, the third from a
ring set above her navel tying into the crossbar between the handles.

“The number three horse is Eugenia Ammons, the property  of Julien
Gormick.  She’s nineteen. Julien has had her in training for the last
six months with an eye towards selling her in a claiming race if she
does well today. Since we are always in the market for new stock, Julien
let Beven watch her work out on two occasions,” Dirks declaimed. “She is
swift, likes to be the front runner. Her speed will make her difficult,
but not impossible, to beat in the sprint races. The key would be to get
a horse in front of her or at least close.

“From what he has seen Beven doesn’t think she’s much good coming from
back in the pack as a closer.  He also says if she is pushed near the
end of the race she loses stride and can become roughgaited. Her stamina
over the long haul is questionable. The distance circuits will very
probably hurt her chances, particularly if she’s spent herself in the
sprints.”

“Edmund, I can understand why Beven thinks Eugenia is competition,”
asked Joey turning away from the track to address his racing mentor.
Joey had learned to pay careful attention to Dirk’s pronouncements. “She
looks in very good shape. But why the number eight horse?  If she were
cattle, I’d be giving serious consideration to tagging her for the
smoker.”

“That’s Decima Reis. And I agree my boy she hardly has the look of a
winner. But she is the chalk in this race even though she does not want
to be here.”

Joey took another, longer look at Decima. Aside from her back being
marked with thin red and brown stripes, a sure sign she was no stranger
to the whip, Joey saw nothing that would lead him to believe she was the
favourite for the Cup.  “All right Edmund, I bow to your expertise. What
is it about this horse  I’m not seeing?”

Dirks chuckled. “It is not what you are not seeing Joseph. It is what
you do not know. Miss Reis is a three-time cross-country champion for
her grange. Underneath that dangling epidermis she is as strong as the
summer sun in York and as stubborn as the tide.  She certainly will not
win all the races, she may not even win any of the races she is entered
in. But in almost every race, she will be in the money. She has to be if
she does not want to become a permanent conversion.”

The manager paused to straighten his derby.  “Decima is in very serious
trouble. She was apprehended embezzling from her employer. She has no
money to pay back her theft as all of her ill-gotten gains were used to
finance her education after she lost her scholarship. The happenstance
of her case being heard before that  liberal pillar of jurisprudence
Seeyle rather than the Judge, saved her from a more immediate and severe
punishment. Instead she was offered out on a temporary contract. The
prize money for winning the Cup for the fledgling division, coupled with
the side bets that have been made on her, will amount to enough to
reimburse her employer and buy back her contract. If she loses the Cup
she becomes livestock on a permanent basis and the compensation for her
conversion will go to her ex-employer.”

His face showing his perplexity Joey asked, “If all that’s true Edmund,
and I know better than to doubt you, why doesn’t she want to race? Seems
like an easy way out of all her troubles to me.”

“Miss Reis is obdurate to a fault,” Dirks replied, shaking his head
sadly at the foibles of human nature. “She believes her current
circumstances are caused by the actions of others, not her own. The
incident that led to her scholarship being cancelled was a result of her
coach’s shortcoming. She was forced to steal by the inadequacy of the
remuneration paid to her by her employer. She even scorned the misplaced
compassion which gave her this opportunity as unjustified punishment for
the sins of others. As you can see from her markings, it took more than
one chastisement to get her ready for today. Still even though she may
still blame someone else for her misfortune, she now understands winning
the Cup is her only way out and she is determined to prevail. We, of
course, would prefer to thwart her ambitions and see she pays the proper
penalty for her transgressions.”

“So what are the odds of seeing justice triumph today,” inquired Joey,
his uncertainty and concern almost tangible.

“Mr. Geryon,” said Dirks, the twinkle of his eyes belying the solemn
tone of his voice, “I would most heartily advise you not to pursue a
career as a professional card player. I am afraid  your face shows more
emotion than a Zurbaran painting. Our odds are good, I would say eight
to five. Your number five horse, Terri, has done far better under Mr.
Vass’s tutelage than we had a right to expect, given the short amount of
time he was able to work with her. Our strategy is a simple one not
unlike that of Miss Reis but hopefully more successful."

C4H Chapter 20 Part One of Four
Eurytion


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