Topiary enthusiasts of the written word mill about a hastily polished antechamber, varied varieties of trash and ambrosia freely mixing into the early afternoon cocktail. The grind of stretched leather echoes in the darkened room beyond as a solitary, candy red button is firmly pushed in.

The sheik glass door flies open, a wispy figure quietly moving through as it slams back into place. A literary sparerib, drenched in thick molasses and macabrely cut it moves forward into the light. Tendrils of fat hang down like a form fitting dress, obscuring thick hunks of palpating meat. The inquisitorial floodlights heat the bone. The smell is not unpleasant. Slender fingers probe into the exposed skin, giving way like a sponge. Every inch is surveyed, catalogued, noted and re-noted. The steady black pool gathers underfoot, crisp heels clacking back to another candy button.

"Fairly good," he smiles and nods at her, a littany of comments chanted in low tones. The button thrusts forward and, trap door open, the sparerib bids a hasty adieu. I looked over to Guildenstern and raised my eyebrow, enquiring about my virginal review.

"My boy," he said with the air of a high-ranking Nazi, "you were excellent. Wie verschwitzt!" I can't help smiling as I sit down. I am reviewer scum for Marked Accordingly. The heels take some getting used to, but I really like the whip.

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