Chapter Twenty: A Day at The Races

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 The morning chill, more invigorating than a cup of black coffee from Rowena's, had been replaced by a temperate breeze whose movement snapped the pennants on the triple-spired red roof of the grandstand to and fro.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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 that 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. Nudity was nothing new to Joey. His livestock were denied even the smallest scrap of clothing, save when they 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 animals. 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 animals 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 threeinch 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?"

"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."

Of the seven races Joey's horse was entered in, her best chance to finish first was in the mid-distance races. These were run to a distance of two furlongs. To take home the Cup for her division, his equine would need to win at least one of these races. Then, depending on what her competitors did, a combination of placing and showing in three other races could "bestow fortune's smile upon us." Although he spoke of the upcoming races with a calm and measured tones, Joey could sense an edge of excitement creeping into his mentor's voice.

Before Joey could ask his next question, the crowd around him exploded into a buzz.

Pulling not a sulky but a small wooden cart, the final participant in the Grand Promenade had reached the track. Standing upright in the cart was a driver swathed entirely in black silks. Even his eyes were hidden by a dark visor built into his hood. In place of the regular riding crop his black-gloved hand held a sjambok cane, a vicious instrument capable of flaying the flesh from a back with a single hard stroke.

Older than the other entries and of medium height the mare's slumping body was softly rounded with a small pot belly. She wore only the skimpiest of black leather tack, exposing most of her body to public view. Mousy brown hair was pulled back off of her head and secured with black bands into a shoulder length mane. Her bridle consisted of neck, forehead and chin straps connected to each other by an "O" ring lying centred on each cheek.

Attached directly to the "O" ring was the metal bit, pulled as far back into her mouth as it would go. This cruelty forced her upper lip down to cover her top teeth while her lower lip was forced below the gum line of her bottom teeth leaving them exposed. The result was a pained grimace like the sharp slash of a jack 'o lantern smile.

Around her neck was a choker made of black silk about two inches in width. This neck band had a fabric loop at one end and a metal circle at the other. The metal ring had been threaded through the fabric loop to create a slipnoose which could be tightened by pulling on the circle. For now the ring lay slack against her shoulder.

Her chest straps, arrayed in the normal "X" shape crossed in the centre of the valley between her cupcake-sized breasts before ending in a broad belt at navel level. Each nipple had been newly pierced, through the binoculars Joey could still see small droplets of carmine blood oozing from the edges of the holes, and three-inch rings thrust through the openings. Three tiny silver bells hung from the lower curve of each link.

A "V" strap descended from the navel belt, crossing a second board belt located just above the start of her pubic hairs becoming a single strap running between her buttocks and back up to the pubic belt. The tightness of the tack forced her reddened flesh to bulge slightly over the leather bindings.

Her wrist bands were manacled to the handles of the cart. Reins made of metal chain were joined not to the bridle but first to the wrists then to a pair of "O" rings positioned between the upper and lower body belts and finally into the hands of the driver.

Midway up the grandstand, Marty Brune turned towards Peter Barton, spilling a quarter of the beer he held in his hand in the process. "Damn ole' Moondog was right. There's a black hood in this year's races."

Looking down in resignation, Barton watched as small rivulets of amber fluid flowed across the concrete to dampen his program. Having spotted the proprietor of the Stockyard as he entered the grandstand, Peter had gone over to thank him for the donation last month of the Gygers' meat to the local food bank. The last thing he had expected or wanted for that matter was to sit with the man.

Although Brune's slaughterhouse made frequent donations to the food bank, there was still something slightly unsavory about the man that made Barton want to keep his distance. But, as the saying goes, "there is no such thing as a free lunch," even when that lunch was intended for others and so Barton resigned himself to spending a portion of the day in Brune's company, intent upon making his escape as soon as possible.

"Mr. Brune, who is Moondog and what's a black hood?"

"Well, Moondog is a person who knows a lot about horse racing," explained Brune, "sort of like a teacher. And if somebody wants to know which horse might win in a race, well they ask Moondog. Of course, Moondog's got to eat and so we all pay him for his answers."

"And what's a black hood?" He thought for a second before he answered.

Back bowed, Crowbait slowly made her way onto the track, her body quivering as she strained to pull her burden forward. Once she had been sleek and graceful, more powerful than jealousy and swifter than the Niagara current, a steed fit for Apollo's chariot. But these abilities had proven to be evanescent, subject to the slow leak of time. Her sinewy body had gradually softened, rounding like a pat of butter left out to warm. Injuries took longer to heal. Finish lines seemed further away, her eyes filling more and more often with the dust of passing horses. Her first owner sold her to a second who, in turn, sold her to a third, the quality of the races she competed in declining with each succeeding owner. Finally, her glory days well past, she had been sold for service as a brood mare.

Even here entropy made itself felt, her aging structure rejecting two embryos. After the second miscarriage she was sold to her fifth and final owner who had intended to use her as a companion animal for his stable of racers. Profit, in the form of the purse available for black hood entries, had changed those intentions.

Of all the conversions, human equines retained the greatest amount of their previous awareness. Any remnants of sapience were, if not entirely burnt out by the process, buried far below numerous layers of conditioning in most animals. Human horses were another matter.

With these conversions, certain characteristics from their human existence needed to be maintained. Obedience was also a primary characteristic of human horses but a moderately high level of intelligence was desirable. Human horses needed, within limits, to be smart, spirited and competitive. To meet these parameters required different conversion techniques, ones which left tattered remnants of the old human psyche closer to the surface.

Those remnants now sent bubbles of fear and apprehension through Crowbait. She sensed something was different, wrong about this outing. In all the races she'd run she'd never worn this style of trace before, so restricting and heavy. And she'd always pulled a sulky with the driver sitting, not a cart with the driver standing up. Near panic, the aging horse stopped, only to be driven forward by the sharp sting of the sjambok ripping a thin strip of skin from her back, red blood welling up from the torn flesh to mark its point of contact.

"When a horse gets too old, so old it doesn't win any races and it costs too much to feed it and keep it in a stable, it gets put down. You know what I mean when I say 'put down'?"

"It means killed."

"That's right, it means killed. If a horse is old like that one out there, well, nobody would buy that horse. And she's too old to win any more races. But her owner can still make money off her one more time by entering her in a race as a 'black hood.'"

"When a horse is entered as a 'black hood' it means, unless the horse wins the race and believe me they make sure there's no chance of that, they sure don't want a bunch of disappointed spectators, she's gonna be killed. They don't take her back into the stables to do it; they do it right out in public where everyone can watch. You can tell how there going to do it by what she's wearing. If she was wearing a red neck collar, they'd cut her head off either with an axe or a guillotine. Silver chains on her wrist and ankles means she'd be drawn and quartered." The slaughterhouse owner paused to gauge for the expected response, a mixture of intense interest, excitement and just a suggestion of fear.

"A silver cap would mean the electric chair. A blue vest and she's gonna drown."

"She's not wearing any of those. All I can see is a black collar around her neck. What's that mean?"

"That black collar means she's going to do the air mambo. If you want to see her dangle from the rope's end, I'll be glad to buy an extra ticket and take you with me. Whadda ya say?"

With the grace of the animal she had become, Joey's entry surged forward her feet pounding the track in a rapid, rhythmic stride. This was her second short race of the day and she was determined to cross the finish line ahead of her competitors. The last race she had been so close, just three strides away from the lead horse and running step for step with the horse next to her. Then she'd gone just a little wide in the turn and that damned red horse with the raspberry mane had pulled ahead of her. She'd learned her lesson and this time she wouldn't disappoint her master.

She could smell the stink of the white horse next to her, hear the heavy breathing of her foe in red just behind her. Her body felt consumed with fire, her tack digging angrily into her flesh as she pulled the weight of her sulky and driver onward. A flick of the whip stung her left buttock like an angry yellowjacket bringing a muffled yelp from between her lips. The turn was just up ahead. She felt the electricity of another sting along with a tug on her left rein.

Damn it, thought Cort Szeman as his right wrist followed through with the second whip stroke, get over. Don't go wide on me again. Move to the left, move, move. Cut off the trailing horse damn you.

The human horse responded as she had been trained. Reflex taking the place of conscious thought, she obeyed her driver's unspoken commands and moved to the left. Now it was the other driver's turn to curse as the number eight horse went wide to the right, her raspberry plume waving in the air, dropping back a stride and a half in the process. This was now a two horse race.

Thundering out of the turn the horse from Kyner Stables found herself in lockstep with the whiteclad filly. Stride for stride they approached the finish line in tandem, neither horse giving an inch in their battle, each matching the other's exertions. She felt the surface of the track crunch beneath her feet, her soles burning with every contact; her throat was raw with the effort of respiration; her chest constricted as though her tack was made of shrinking iron bands.

Sounds receded, she could no longer hear the shouts of the crowd, only her hoarse and tortured breathing echoed in her ears. Her vision narrowed as if she were entering a tunnel whose edges were blackest night made solid. The throngs in the grandstand no longer existed, the horse next to her no longer mattered, even her driver had become insubstantial. In her new universe, only the finish line remained.

Not so for the number three horse. Throughout the race, she could see another horse just hovering at the outer edge of her vision, never ahead but never far behind. This horse was always there like a gnat buzzing next to her ear, one which refused to go away no matter how hard or how fast she ran. Irritated, the 19-year old filly twisted her head ever so slightly to the right to get a look at this phantasm, this apparition who had haunted her every step in this race and, in so doing, broke stride.

Joey's equine slowed her pace after crossing the finish line, her legs lifting less and less high with each step. A sense of repose settled over her body, overriding the pain. Her face was wet with salty water, a mixture of sweat and tears. She could hear her own gasping sobs force their way around the bit as she trotted towards the winner's circle. The traditional garland of mums and mallows placed around her neck was as welcome as a warm cloak on a cold winter's night. Equally as welcome were the gentle caresses and kind murmurings from her driver and her trainer as, together with the young groom, they walked her back to the barn to allow her to rest before the next race.

When Terri crossed the finish line Joey jumped to his feet as though he had been propelled by a spring, his program flying from his hand to land several rows behind him. He turned exclaiming "Edmund, she won. My horse won. My horse beat both Eugenia and Decima. She beat all of the nine other entries and in a short race too. Can you believe it Edmund? She won. Nothing's going to stop us now. The Cup is as good as ours. I just wish Billy was here to see all of this."

Amusement and a sense of nostalgia brought a smile to the stable manager's face as he watched Joey's antics. Was I like that when I won my first race, an unleashed terrier ready to chase any squirrel in the neighbourhood back up the tree, full of excitement, drinking in every experience like a fine Bordeaux?

For a brief moment the older man felt a bittersweet homesickness, not for a place but a time, missing those young days when the future seemed to float before him like a softly glowing firefly just beyond the edge of his reach, when he was sure fame and fortune were waiting just around the next corner and that each moment was certain to be better than the one before it.

But he'd learned, learned life was a journey without a map, learned real adulthood arrived not with triumphs but with loss. He knew now life was a series of interconnected accidents whose only real value was in how you used it. So Edmund Dirks had determined to bring to his life the same principle he did his wagering, raking in his winnings with a smile, leaving his losses on the table with a rueful grin.

With a small shake of the head, Dirks returned to the present and addressed his young charge. "Joseph, while I do hate to be the 'old fogey' putting the damper on youthful exuberance, I would advise you it is premature to begin building a shelf to put the Cup on. The number three horse won the first race which gives her three points and was the show horse in the second race which adds 1 point to her total. The number six horse, which is to say your horse, won this race. This gives her three points towards the Cup. She was the show horse in the first race. That is one additional point on her tally sheet. The number eight horse placed in both the first and the second race earning two points for each finish. I believe you can do the math as well as I can and my calculus shows a three-way tie for the Cup."

Unfazed the young cattle rancher continued "Sure, for right now. But we haven't gotten to my horse's strengths yet. You said her best chance of a win was in the mid-distance races and those haven't been run yet Edmund."

"Yes Joseph I did. And, at the time, I meant it. In all honesty, I might add. But you must remember we did not expect her to win one of the short races. The concern now is whether or not she spent too much to win that last sprint. How much energy and stamina is left in your horse? Will it be enough to see her through the next five races or will she falter or fade? Remember my boy there is a tremendous difference between training and actually racing. Your horse has never been tested at the track and while she has acquitted herself nobly so far, her greatest challenges lay ahead.

"Now, I think your horse has materially improved the chances of you winning the Chiron Cup in the fledgling division. But it is by no means a 'sure thing' as you put it. My advice to you is to go and get something to eat. Be back here in one hour. Then we will go together and get a status report on your horse from Bevan and Cort."

Her tack removed, Terri was flat on her back on an elevated table. Kim Dun, the young groom who helped walk her back to her stall, was rubbing her skin with ointment while Gin, the stable's physical therapist was using ultrasound to drive the ointment well into her muscles. A biofeedback machine attached to Terri's head had put her into a light torpor which would aid in her recovery.

Across the small stall Cort Szeman and Bevan Voss were deep in discussions over their charge. Both agreed she had performed much better than expected, showing not only the heart and desire of a champion in the last race but also the ability to learn from her mistakes.

"I'll tell you Bevan," said the bronzed driver pausing to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face with a blue-checked handkerchief, "I had an anxious moment when we got to that turn. Figured for sure she was going to go wide on me again. But she stuck to the course and made the other horse go wide. I wish she wasn't a fledgling entry because I think we've got the makings of a damn fine horse here."

"Hold that thought for a second will you Cort?" asked Voss pointing to the table where the groom was massaging Terri. "I need to take care of something." Seeing what Voss had noticed Szeman smiled and nodded his acquiesce.

Two short steps put the trainer directly behind the young stable hand who was oblivious to his presence. Dun had reached the inside of Terri's thighs and, fascinated by the small, black mole to the left of her clit, had stopped his massaging to stare at her pussy. "They call that a cunt, Mr. Dun. Or a pussy or in highbrow circles a vagina. Every female has one, even your mom did. From the way you're staring, a man might think this was the first one you've ever seen, at least outside of photos in stroke magazines. Would that be right, Mr. Dun?"

His skin flushing as though hot liquid has been poured over his head and shoulders, the embarrassed groom didn't know what to do. As he tried to stammer out a reply, Voss held out a hand to stop him, the mermaid tattoo on his arm doing an underwater hula as he did so. "My apologies, Mr. Dun, that's not the kind of question one man should ask another, at least under these circumstances. Please continue with your work, but we will talk about this later. Right now we need to get this horse ready for the next race."

Sheepishly, his head lowered to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room, the discomfited groom began to slather ointment on the horse's legs, an exercise which placed more of the balm on the table than the thighs. A sharp tap on his shoulder interrupted his efforts. "One more thing Mr. Dun" said Voss in a kinder voice than he had previously used, "it's ok to look. You do need to know where you're putting the ointment. It's ok to touch. You need to do that to put the ointment on. Just keep it professional. This is a horse under your care, not a playmate for you to party with." Dun nodded his understanding. "Good. Come and see me after the final race and we'll chat," said the trainer lightly slapping the boy on the shoulder as he returned to his interrupted conversation.

One unexpected consequence of Linda Sue's becoming a human equine was a change in how Joey regarded her. Sure, he had often fantasised about the auburn haired beauty.

An invisible line had been crossed in his relationship with Linda Sue, one that she had been edging up to for sometime. First she had dipped herself in the defoliating tank, just as though she had been an animal. Then, for awhile, she had taken to wearing what hair she did have on the top of her head in a bun very similar to the trademark hairdo worn by all the animals on the farm.

That's why he had insisted to Terri that Linda Sue go to the stables as well, to give Linda Sue the opportunity to live the life of an animal. It hadn't worked out that way. Joey now saw Linda Sue had great potential as an animal. The point of demarcation had come the night he had visited the stables to watch Linda Sue being bred.

Standing on the observation platform at the edge of the ring, Joey watched as Linda Sue dropped onto her hands and knees, a thick bit in her mouth, long traces lying across her back. A groom, one who Joey didn't recognize, approached Linda Sue from behind, his rampant prick jutting out from the fly of his breeches. Without any more lubrication than was dripping from the head of his prick the groom thrust himself into her, swaying roughly back and forth, tugging on the traces to keep her tight against him. Her initial cries of pain, recognizable even around the hard rubber cylinder in her mouth, had quickly turned to howls of pleasure.

Watching the groom in action, Joey's cock was so hard it hurt. He thought it was impossible to get any stiffer. He had been wrong.

In a culture where humans could become animals in the blink of an eye, sexual mores were quite relaxed. Youths were encouraged to experiment with sex in a variety of flavours. Monogamy, at least before marriage and quite often after, was considered to be a quaint notion while multiple partners, pairings and positions were the norm.

As with any society there were standards but these had more to do with issues of etiquette and manners than moral judgments. As an example, orgies beyond a certain age or outside selected special occasions were seen, not as perversion, but simply a sign of ill-breeding. Pregnancies both in and out of wedlock were encouraged with little attention paid to whom the progenitors might be. After the great disaster everyone knew an ample population should always be maintained.

Like anyone his age, Joey had seen his girlfriends have sex with other people. It could be arousing, it could be depressing, it could even be boring. He knew Linda Sue shared her favours freely. He'd seen her do so himself on many occasions, sometimes as an active participant, sometimes as a spectator on the sidelines. But whatever emotions those previous voyeuristic experiences had stirred in him none affected him the way this encounter had. Because on each of those previous occasions it had been Linda Sue he had observed. Not so this time.

Her reactions to these repeated matings in the show ring were not those of an aroused young woman but those of a wild and feral beast. All visible traces of humanity had vanished to be replaced by the raw primitive instinct of an animal. This wasn't the girl her grew up with down there making love, the one he had always thought of as his future wife, it was just another head of livestock rutting, indistinguishable from hundreds of other he had seen.

Her temporary fledgling status, the guarantee against permanent conversion in her contract were now no more than meaningless words on a piece of paper to the young cattle rancher. In Joey's mind Linda Sue could no longer return to the starting point and become fully human again. Her unspoken wish to become an animal might soon be granted.

The scraping sound of a chair being pulled out refocused Joey's attention away from his musings. A short, shout man had taken the seat across from Joey. His face was round and florid with shiny plump cheeks and a double chin dropping onto a bull neck. He wore a jaunty green felt alpine hat, with a single brown and red feather at the back. His blonde hair, at least the portion Joey could see was cut short. Lederhosen over a white ruffled shirt decorated with colourful embroidery completed the costume, giving the not totally inaccurate impression the visitor was a well-off German burger.

"Hello, Mr. Grayh," said Joey politely as he wiped his hand on a napkin before extending it across the table.

In return, a fat but firm handclasp greeted Joey "Hello, Joey," responded the proprietor of Procrustes' Carvery. "Mitz' said she saw you go through the line."