"Rough day, yeah?" Ohm says, handing me a bottle of 'tosh.

Tromatosh, a nasty mix of fish liver oils, kyarwhal secretions and Burning ghoul-whine. RIPPERs are the only human beings known to consume the stuff. The taste is worthy of a cosmic horror straight from the Gulf itself, but the health benefits are nothing to snob at. It contains enough D-vitamins to satiate a full-grown human and then some, which is very advantageous for RIPPERs, who spent most of their daily life covered from head to toe in the jack-suit.

My stomach gurgles. As if on cue, she produces a bowl of scoon. I mumble thanks, and dig in.

Scoonthurpe. A fatty yoghurt-like broth, created from the remnants of daemoniac souls. Without scoon, the entirety of Red Iron Patrol would starve in mere weeks. The corpses of daemoniac scum must always give back what they took.

The oily texture from the 'tosh makes the slop taste much better. Truly, one of the foods of all time. I release the subdermal magnets in my skull so I can take off my helmet. Gotta give my sweaty head room to breathe. The day is finished, and so is the week. I slump down into a pile of corpses I just finished making. Ohm sits down on the muddy ground, and starts eating her own bowl of scoon. It's actually her second bowl, and Ishtar only knows where she's keeping them. Despite her eating habits, only her tits are fat. Curious. 

"Where are the kids?" I ask, referring to Ylva and Rothgar. Ohm shrugs, absentmindedly chowing down another bowl of scoon. I think it's her third. The only thing she does fast is eat. I don't think she pisses or shits faster...I know for a fact she fingers fast. Just ask Yl-

Cease

"How are the voices treating you?" The question snaps me away from my inner conduction, like hearing a twig break against malicious footsteps...I stare at that piece of wood, wrapped around my left wrist. A piece of maple wrapped in copper, hiding most of the mechanical workings.

"More of the same. A little less." Hard to say if that's true. Sometimes I feel like they're a constant, like tinnitus with a voice. Other times, I can almost tune them out until I actually need them. A healthy dose of whoreshit. Need us? I need you to put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger.

Ohm sits back on the pile of garbage she just made for herself. I almost forgot that we have an actual vehicle to stay in. I look back and-

Psych!

It's gone. The tracks lead to the south. Ohm tells me the kids headed to the nearest ghast so that they can start harvesting. I ask why the ghouls can't just drive here by themselves. "Something has them spooked."

Not much is needed to scare off a ghast of ghouls. Even a single fleet of wyekings can do it, despite their reputation as cowardly scags.

I play around with the dead fingers of a child. What the fuck, Krow? She couldn't have been more than seven years old. One day she's playing make believe in this shit-heap, the next...desaturation.

In DRETCH, the D stands for Desaturation. This condition of Pandemonium only affects human species, and begins with symptoms such as greying coloration, increased appetite for human flesh (especially elven) and general scag behaviour. Those that suffer from desaturation are generally referred to as "bleachers" due to their pallid appearance.

I guess its kind of messed up, to be absent minded while playing around with a dead future. Well, I've seen it enough times to not really care. Most (if not all) people that knew her have been culled by yours truly. Hel, Ylva ripped the spine out of a particularly feisty bleacher. The lucky brat tore a hole in Ohm's suit, and I guess the she-wolf took it personally. I stop playing with dead baby hands when our interceptor comes roaring back into the scene. Out of it emerge a dozen figures. Two of them are wearing the same jack-suits as us. The rest are ghouls. Pale, hairy humanoids with canine features, and eyes that glow with avaricous intent. They approach our piles, golden eyes ravening for delight.

The nature of Ragnalon and its Red Iron Patrol can speak for itself when their main source of income comes from creatures like ghouls. It's a brutal business, keeping the cosmos in balance after the Song of Storms. Never look a gift-ghoul in the mouth...it might contain maggots you recognise. 

"I see there is great work done here, Ragnalonian...let's talk about your compensation. Will you-" I nod impatiently and leave for the interceptor. They look startled, but still eager to begin their work. I make one thing clear before I disappear from sight: "I already weighed them with my Runes, ghoul. Screw us, and I'll have Rothgar drill an actual screw into your crotch."

Rothgar looks at me, indignant. The bumfuck thinks I actually mean it, which is several species of adorable. I fuck off into the interceptor, and take a nice nap. I think Ylva and Ohm do the same, only in the back, having a nice cuddle-session. The silver-haired dork is overly worried about the tiny scratch Ohm received in the scuffle. 

Thirty minutes and twenty nine seconds of dozing, I am awakened by a knock on the passenger door. The ghouls have done their harvesting, and they look happy indeed. Now comes the negotiation. My favorite part of the day. For most people, sarcasm is like stomach acid. They don't get it until you puke it out.

"Six tunne of choice flesh. Good week, eh?"

I let Rothgar glare at him for ten seconds. The creature clears its throat, and holds up five fingers. "Five-thousand. More than enough to-"

Rothgar's glare deepens into a full blown scowl.

Rothgar, stay cool.

My telepathic Runes won't be enough to stop him. His hatred towards any kind of treachery is blind and unreasoning, no matter how petty it might be. Berserkers and their obsolete virtues...I need to salvage the situation with a genuine threat. 

"What's your name?" I conduct my question through a few Runes to force the issue. Giving someone like me your true name is a suicidal notion at best, so when I force it, the threat is real. Surprisingly, he gives his actual name. Runesmitten mind games tend to not work on ghouls. I'd be worried if I wasn't hungry for CUMpensation. "Ferr, do you remember what I said about screwing us?" as if to bring weight to my point, Rothgar holds up a screwdriver in his right hand. In his left are...ten screws, one for each ghoulish crotch.

This chucklefuck thinks you were being serious...I like it.

 "For this insult, I expect seven thousand." is my final offer. There is general discontent in the ghast, but I raise my hand to gain the muddy floor. "I would've settled for six-thousand, but your first offer insulted our hard work this week. You think its easy for us to mow down our fellow humans by the hundreds each week?"

The answer is yes. It's easy, and gets easier with every passing century. At this point, practical child's play. We even have bingo cards to make things spicy. Of course, these overgrown corpse-dogs don't know that, being naive to the ways of RIPPERs. So they relent, and give us six-thousand units of CUM.

Cultivated Umbra Mold, the go to currency of Red Iron Patrol and any self-respecting ghoul. Nobody asks the ghouls how they make it, either because of apathy or genuine dread. Perhaps a mixture of both. The mystery of CUM.

Right, another work week in the bag, and no priority disposal needed. I sit in the driver's seat, and initiate the engines. Rothgar sits in the passenger seat, and asks me a simple question.

"Rough day?"

I shake my head, and scratch my brazen eye. "Mediocre, at best."