Men die.

Women laugh.

<i>Meat</i>'s a hot and happening nightspot, and it's always full.

Cages dangle from the high, industrial ceiling, holding either a fearfully gyrating man and a cheerfully grooving girl, or simply a vore dancing off an already-filled belly jiggling with her motion.

Much like your own.

It's past nine, but still early. So right now <i>Meat</i>'s filled mostly with stockboys and snackagirls, some few vorish patrons and the club's own staff. Only those of them who are vore themselves can be said to be truly permanent. The rest, waiters and waitresses and barmaids and barmen all, tend to short careers and life-expectancies only slightly longer than those bought in deliberately to be eaten.

You've bought the price of a stockboy with your entrance fee. It's fair enough: Even though the Tommy-bulge in your belly means it's unlikely you'll be taking one of them home in it, there's still a fair chance one will come with you for your bed and thence, probably, your breakfast. And if not yours, certainly one of your daughters'.

The thought doesn't bother you. You've already condemned one man to a dire fate. That you'll do the same to another tomorrow is nothing at all, you think and smile as you rub the pleasant fullness of your tum.

What a good tasty Tommy he'd been.

On the dance-floor, a few filled stomachs protrude out from between clothes vertically-slit in the classic vorish style, or below midriff baring tops. It seems that several of your compatriots have dined already. Their distended bellies roll as they dance in the slow groove of lazy satisfaction between stockboys, snackagirls and a few forlorn piles of emptied clothing.

It'll be washed and re-worn by the meals of tomorrow.

Those who wear them dare not flee. The club's vorish doorwomen are their jailers, trapping them within <i>Meat</i> or within the much tighter confines of their own stomachs as meat.

The whole place is a meat-market really, sunken dance-floor surrounded by comfortably private booths. A few nude stockboys are chained to each, cheaper than the no-less-edible female dancers brought in to somewhat balance the genders.

Till the rest of the vorish sharks arrive and change the whole equation.

Some of the chains trail across the floor to collars already empty of anything fearful and living.

Dance-floor or booths, booths or dance-floor? Which is it to be?