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Hank Goode has fallen far, and he has fallen hard. The streets he used to rule hold less room for him everyday as the clone mudders expand throughout the city. Mudder drums and mudders songs floating in the air rankle Hank, but nothing about the mudders disgusts him as much as that inescapable stench of mudder stew. The smell lingers in Hank's clothes and hangs in his hair. The streets he faces in his age are nothing like those Hank knew in his youth, and Hank must carve himself a new niche as the days of the mudders sweep away the last pieces of his old world. Hank must face the prospect that he will lose everything unless he sacrifices the possession he cherishes most. For the mudders crowd the city streets, and Hank can turn in no direction to avoid gazing upon the blue tattoo that circles the right eye of each mudder.