On fields of the Eternal slaughter, far in the south from Kvoydzha, the corpulent figure works hard under the screen of night — cleans, and then dismembers, cleans, unloads in heaps of an extremity and an internal of the fallen. And all this only in order that the next morning the slaughter could repeat. In that damned world, nothing decays in itself — dead persons never are fated to return back to the earth, and it isn't important, the grave is how deep. Surrounded with packs of birds deathbirds to which the cut slices of corpses are necessary, the Butcher of Pudge practises with edges which are sharpened from are sharp corpses. I Vzhik-vzhik-tukh. The flesh is cut from bones, sheaves and sinews come off as slices of wet paper. And though Pudge always had an addiction to myasnitsky craft, over time the corpulent healthy fellow fell in love also with that turns out when it