“HAGGIS FIGHT!” screamed a man, and from the kitchen more dishes emerged, smaller, fist-sized haggis on more silver plates, and immediately a woman grabbed one and flung it into the face of her neighbour like a custard pie, hooting with merriment as stomach ruptured and hot meat splattered across her chin and into her hair.

“HAGGIS FIGHT!” cheered Jiannis, and again the crowd lunged forward, slipping on spilled drink and meat, grabbing their weapons to hurl at friend and neighbour. Harmony was swept up with the crowd, found herself grabbing a haggis in her bare fingers, the flesh slipping and warping like soap in her grasp, and as Jiannis’s face yawed huge and grinning next to hers, she shoved it bodily into his mouth. He spluttered and hooted, pawed the dripping flesh off his shirt and skin, licking it off his fingers, sucking it off his clothes, and then Harmony too was covered in hot haggis, and he was licking it off her skin, pawing it from her hair; and there were people on the floor, on their hands and knees, gorging at the shattered meat, scrambling between feet and knees and everywhere Harmony looked there was more meat, more food, a spluttering, animal feast, a wild delight of consumption – because why not?

Why the hell not?

There was nothing in this room that could hurt anyone, not the bacteria trodden beneath their shoes or the meat sucked off a stranger’s flesh. They could eat, eat, eat, feast and gorge and dance and party and she laughed ecstatically, drunk without the alcohol ever having reached her bloodstream, grabbed another relatively whole haggis off a passing tray and shoved it straight into her mouth, half-gagging on the juice and choking on the nuts—

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—and she’s not sure how much she’s eaten, how far she’s gorged, but her belly aches and the room is spinning and bright and she’s sucking meat off the floor, on her hands and knees literally sucking up meat like a dog, and when she looks up Jiannis is bent over another woman, her shirt pulled up, her head thrown back and mouth open in ecstasy, and he’s licking flesh off her bare, taut belly – taut like Perfect Abs, or maybe Ultimate Athlete – and as she groans, shuffling minced sheep organs into her gaping, rolling mouth, Jiannis’s tongue slithers into her belly button to extract that extra bit of pulverised lung and Harmony thinks—

Harmony thinks that maybe—

“Of course, no real man needs to upgrade down there because, well, it’s not the same if you’ve artificially enhanced your . . . ”

“Natural lubrication, naturally secreted from . . . ”