The 11th Street Butchers or, as the hanging sign above the door said, 'La 11ème Rue des Bouchers', was situated on 11th street in Corktown, a sleepy residential area of Detroit. All things considered, a better place for a French upmarket Butchers could not be found in all of the city, if not all of Michigan. For the store's legal activities it was located in the heart of a residential neighbourhood that had enough disposable income - even in this hard times - to afford luxuries such a premium French cuts. For the illegal activities, of much more interest to the proprietor Monsieur Eric Cantona, the store was located far from the criminal hive of Black Bottom or the industrial hub of Downtown that it attracted almost no police attention. As such, it was the perfect outpost for Chicago mobsters to conduct their business in the Motor City.

The arrangement was beautiful. The G-men were clueless, the local police were paid off and generous gifts of prime lamb, pork and beef cuts (which were harder to come by than prohibited booze in the current economic climate!) were given to the wives of Police and political figures as a gesture of goodwill and appreciation. The local Irish boys who ran the neighbourhood were friendly because Eric and his Italian friends had no interest in muscling in on their small time criminality; and they always knew they could use the erratic Frenchman's services if they so required.

The services were useful, to say the least. Eric was a fixer, he made people disappear. Using  his extensive skill and training of the art of butchery acquired on the south coast of France and his legal premises as a base; he could make someone (or what was left of someone) disappear entirely. Nervewracking trips to an upstate farm with sack of quicklime and a shovel in the trunk an unnecessary risk when a man right in the city centre itself could move the corpses with his 3 refrigerated trucks and made them disappear with his fine knowledge of dismemberment. A handsome and oft use bonus to this store was that, as a totally legal venture, it provided the perfect means to 'clean money'.

The only drawback was the owner himself. Eric would describe himself as full of Gallic passion, fiercely loyal and driven and guided by a rigid moral compass and an unshakable sense of right and wrong. Indeed, with his cool European manner and natural people skills he was often disarmingly amiable; charm personified. However, he was an enigma. Owner of a fierce temper and a belief that emotions should always be expressed he was, to say the least, a livewire. Coupled with the ability (as all Frenchman have) to answer almost any question with a raised eyebrow, a twitch of the lip and a nononcommittal shrug, it was next to impossible to gauge what he was thinking. All that said, for a man who spent an inordinate time indiscriminately chopping up human bodies, he was relatively normal.

The butchers itself was typical of any butchers in America. The site of spotless steel counters, gleaming glass and bloodstained wooden blocks were everywhere; and the coppery, powerful smell of blood that tickled the back of your throat and made it's way bitterly to your tongue mingled with the rich earthy scent of sawdust liberally tossed on the floor to soak up the excess.

A small dainty bell above the door announces arrivals, but it's rarely heard over the bawdy French folk songs sang at full volume when Eric is at work. Always dressed the same, a finely styled beard often decorated with small flecks of blood is half hidden by the trademark upturned collar. Baggy shirtsleeves are rolled up to reveal powerful forearm muscles that ripple with the effort of wielding a cumbersome meat hammer, cleaver fillet knife. In his hands they are  paintbrushes, used to carve out the best cuts of meat in the State; the beef is used by the State Congressmen for his July 4th cookouts no less. And in his hands they are instruments of death; brutally unsubtle tools that can not only shuffle a man off his mortal coil; but leave no record that the man had ever been a man to begin with.

ChaosSpike finally arrived into Corktown Detroit. The long drive had made him quite stiff, however the place he needed to be was right ahead. La 11eme Rue des Bouchers. Exactly where Cantona said he could find it. ChaosSpike pulled his black Buick up to the curb and exited it. This residential area of Detroit was a good location for the shop. ChaosSpike smiled then entered the shop. He then walked up to the counter and rang the bell for service.

"Quite a place this is, I wonder if Eric Cantona is in?"

ChaosSpike always making sure he is presentable brushed off a few hairs off his sleeves and straightened his jacket.

Cantona exhaled with the exertion, his breath coming out as a plume of mist in the confines of the refrigerated back room. It was no good. He released his grip and stood up, relaxing his arms and shoulders and rolling his neck. He sighed slightly, his fist clenching accompanied by the staccato sound of popping knuckles. This would be so much easier to do with a blade, but he knew the fine, telltale marks of a bone saw would be picked up at once the Police ran through everything with a fine tooth-comb.

He also knew the Canadian border was only a few minutes away, and he could probably get away with dumping on their side of the border and letting the marine life do their work; but Toberius had said 'don't take any chances' and he wouldn't.

With another sigh, he bent down and once again grasped the wrist and pinkie finger of the frozen dead body. After about minute or so's exhortations he was finally rewarded with the crunchy, snapping sound of the frozen finger coming away from the body. That was the last of them. With a grim smile, Cantona slipped the finger into the pouch on his butcher's apron with the other nine. He could feed these to his dogs, then all the body would need would be 10 minutes with a ball-pin hammer to smash the teeth and he could be rid of the thing.As

As he left the freezer, grunting as he shoulder the solid metal door closed behind him, he heard the insistent ringing of a bell at the main counter. Still with icicles clinging to his beard, he rushed to the main counter and found, to his surprise, the Godfather of Chicago's West Side rocking on his heels.

"Godfather Spike! So sorry to 'ave kept you old friend. I was in ze back, ze freezer; I could not 'ere! I'm surprised to see you out 'ere in dreary old Michigan, eh? To what do I owe zis pleasure?"

Arya wandered in clutching a dead pigeon...

Business had been picking up for Stan While he preffered to stick mainly to New York and Philly the lure of the almighty Dollar could not be ignored. So it wasnt long before Stan found himself in Detroit to collect on a bad debt.

By chance he had booked into a hotel not far from La 11eme des bouchers, While Stan prefered to handle his own affairs this kind of job required a certain type of individual and Eric Cantona fit the Bill.

Stan entered the store and waited for Eric to finish serving the other customers this job required descretion.

Stan bowed his head to the Chaosfather and waited to be servered