So what if the Black Market were an actual, physical place you could go to?

"Organs here! Get yer Organs here! Fresh living organs! Brains, hearts, lungs, bowels, skins, hair, teeth, ya name it! For food or for transplant! Get yer organs here!" The man was in his forties, balding, fat and sweaty. Clearly he'd been at it all day. His name-tag read "Moskowitz" and he was pushing a cart that held a metal tree with numerous branches. At the ends of it were bottles and jars with pulsing, throbbing organs contained in various fluids; tubes and pipes ran from the jars around the branches to the base, where a system of pumps and filters flushed the necessary chemicals in and out, in and out.

God, do I have some mixed feelings about this fucking place.

I pulled up the edge of my coat, made of some poor girl's skin (I'm sorry, "Bolivian Leather") and tried to look ambiguous.

I wasn't here to sell as much as to get rid of the rest of the evidence. I came here for the first time like, what, five months ago? Wanted a Bolivian Leather Wallet for my Girlfriend at the time, the ultra-goth who painted her face white, only came out at night and once convinced me to bone her in a Mausoleum. Figures she'd ghost me, right? So now I'm stuck ditching my market, so if the feds come bursting in one night when I'm wasted there's nothing they can do without invoking that newfangled "Police Brutality" and giving me grounds for a lawsuit. God Almighty, do I love that good old-fashioned Police Brutality. You can't see me right now, but you believe me: I'm fuckin' smirking.

There were children in cages up the next block. I could hear them crying and begging from here and I needed to avoid them. I'd gotten three out and just up and fucking released them "back into the wild", costing me five fucking grand, total. You walk by them and see the bad scars, sometimes the stitched-up eyes and exposed ribs, the filthy, greasy, lice-ridden hair, and y'know what you think? You think, "Oh, just one. Just this time. Just for the good of humanity."

There ain't no fuckin' good in humanity anymore.

My Great-Great Grandpa used to tell me about the Black Market. Y’know before it was an actual place. When he was my age he'd just stay up all night and read about it, some of the stories true and some of 'em not and him having no goddamn clue one way or another. He never went Black Market Shopping, but I wonder if it was anywhere near as bad as, y'know, this goddamn wasteland of human scum and agony.

He kicked the can nine years ago. He was only a hundred and thirty - goddamn shame, goddamn shame. Of course, most of the rejuvination drugs we got for him were from here, too, but that's besides the point. It must've been simpler then. Back when there were only rumors and few truths.

Then when the internet went down about fifty years ago, well, people needed something new.

Blackmark was new then.

Shit, one of the other blocks has A Haunted House. One of those lethal ones - the fight-for-your life ones. Admission one grand, granted back upon (potential) survival. Spectation, 350.

F-U-C-K that. I lived through three of those things already and I'm done with that like the world is done with decency. Jesus Christ Goddamn Almighty.

I put my hat down. Don't let him see me, don't let him see me, don't let him see me.

He calls to me but I keep on walking. God, I'm in here for ten minutes and I'm already sick enough to wanna die. I wish I had the balls to kill my goddamn self sometimes. I really do.

Smells of burning flesh and dead insects hit my nose. Don't think about where it's coming from - hopefully two seperate places. Some Hookers, up ahead; all dressed as fictional characters. Between the Dominatrix Velma, Marge and Lois making out and the girl crying in a full-on four-legged dragon costume, I have to wonder if maybe not pulling out my sawn-off and blowing them all back to Bangkok is gonna send me to Hell. Which I guess would be this place where nobody has any money, right?

One of the public torture cages at one of the squares is going balls-to-the-wall. There's a dude hung up by rusty hooks - he don't look like he's enjoying it much. A toddler's on fire and running around, all while the neckbearded, acne-ridden losers in pink robes laugh their asses off.

Gotta get what I came here for. Just gotta get that and then I'm done, I'm done with this shithole forever.

Could that be it up there?

Yeah, there we go.

A sign says "RARE TREATS" and of course, the main thing is chicken. Chicken, from one of the thirteen thousand still left in existence. The guy's wearing a name-tag from the Bronx Zoo. Of course. That's where he got it from - he must have secret access to the birds and their eggs to be able to get the meat here.

I was about to ask him about the chicken, but then I remember what I came for. It takes some convincing. Some convincing and some under-the-table bribes, including that wedding ring I'd have given to my last girlfriend if she hadn't ditched me. But I get it.

And boy-oh-boy-oh-boy, is it goddamn beautiful.

I wanna test it myself, but I wouldn't dare. I wanna see if there are any insect legs in it, any Madagascar Steak (A.K.A. Babymeats). I wanna know if he did anything sick to it before he gave it to me. Part of whatever fetish on the infinite list this guy might have.

But I wouldn't dare.

This might be the last Twix bar I will ever see. And it might be the last one anyone ever tastes - my dying Mother. The big 191 hits her this week and, being that's forty years past life expectancy, I want her to have something nice.

So let's put it where nobody will find it, the inside of my coat's pocket. Let's put it there and keep our heads down and get out of here for good. Let's........

One of the kids is crying. Oh, fuck, of all the alleys I had to turn into, this kid's about to get sold to......

Fuck.

This dude is a goddamn NIGHTMARE. He's got some kind of skin disease, psoriasis or something, all up his face and shoulder and back. I know because he's wearing a fishnet T-Shirt. He's about to buy some kid, and...

"Hey!" I yell, angry. "HEY! What's the bid on that boy there?"

The man in the Plague Doctor's Mask rings the bell and shouts through his distorted, static mask: "Eleven-year-old boy, two hundred! Going twice, do I hear Three hundred? Three hundred for this Eleven-year-old boy! Functional limbs, sight in one eye! Often travelled, rarely used! Do I hear.....

"Six-fifty." I say. "Six-fifty." The kid looks broken as fuck, scared.

"I'm too broke to adopt the regular way." I said, even though neither the merchant or the diseased fuckin' loon would care. I say it so the kid knows he's not gonna wind up completely fucking wrecked and mutilated in a meat grinder somewhere.

I still need cash to get outta here. For the exit feet. So six-fifty's all I got.

Let's hope the Psoriasis-Riddled Shitmonger doesn't have any more than that.

A couple of minutes go by.

The sounds of Blackmark, this shithole wasteland of human evil and sickness and hopelessness, engulf us all. For some time.

But not long. This is all a business after all.

"Six-fifty!" He shouts. "Six-fifty! Here you are, my good sir!" The Plague doctor lets him go and the kid heads over to me, reeking like rotting meat - probably what he was fed.

"Thanks, man." He said through yellowed, broken teeth set loose in dark, oxygen-deprived gums.

"Sure kid. Sure." I said. "But don't you fucking get used to it, you hear? The world out there might be shit, but it ain't anywhere close to this shit-heap. Do you remember your parents?"

He shakes his head. Of course.

"Well, you can stick with me for a little. Keywords: A. LITTLE. Then you're off. Got it?"

He nods his head quickly and looks over at his would-be "guardian" who tears white, dead and peeling flesh from his face and eats it, angry and growling profanities.

"We both get to live to see tomorrow. No matter how shitty and bleak it might be. Now let's go, kid."

Yep.

You see all kinds of crazy-ass motherfuckin' things in Blackmark, that's for goddamn sure.