Dominovich sat on the dock, still sticky with mustard and swamp mud. The beast was ash. The victory sandwich was gone. But the smell clung to him, thick and sour, and no clean water waited in the swamp. Daddy Bieuuu scratched at the dried sauce on his arm and said nothing. Both of them stank of smoke and pickle brine. Word of the beast's fiery death had spread, and now something new came sliding across the water toward them. A boat drifted up to the dock. It was built from stacked deli meat, pink and shining, with fat pontoons that hummed like they meant to fly. A round man stepped off. He was made of sausage links and napkins, held together with grease and cheese. A cowboy hat sat over his big mustache. He pointed a sausage finger at Dominovich, then at Daddy Bieuuu. "You two killed the steel beast," he said. "Heard it downriver. You smell like it too." He tucked a loose napkin back into his collar. "Name's Wiener Cleaner. I clean folks. You need it." Dominovich stood, wary. He feared nothing, but he had never seen a man made of lunch. "We have no coin," he said. "And I don't take charity." "No coin needed," Wiener Cleaner said. He pulled the napkins from his own arms and wiped Dominovich's face with them. The sauce came off. Then the sandwich crumbs, the pickle bits, the mustard smear. He plucked the dried sauce from Daddy Bieuuu's beard and rolled it into the napkins. "I collect the scraps. That's my pay." He held up the soaked napkins. "Good eating." Daddy Bieuuu ran a hand over his clean arm. He almost smiled. "Clean," he said. It was the plainest praise he had. Wiener Cleaner waved them onto his boat. "Come. I'm crossing away from here. This place stinks worse than me." He looked at Dominovich. "You want to eat a sandwich in peace? You come now." Dominovich hesitated. The swamp had given him his dead enemy. But the tyrant at the gate still stood, far off and waiting. He looked at the meat boat, then back at the ash. Rest was a thing he never let himself want. Still, his followers needed him whole, not broken by mud and stench. "One trip," Dominovich said. "Then I go back to my war." They boarded. The squirrelmoose stepped on last, hooves clicking on the deli deck. Wiener Cleaner pushed off, and the pontoons hummed louder. The boat rose and slid over the reeds. The swamp dump shrank behind them, its rusty shack sinking into the green. They left Bieuuuville's stench behind. Wiener Cleaner passed out mustard and pickles, and they ate in peace, clean at last. Dominovich chewed slowly and watched the water pass. He had bought himself calm. But every mile carried him farther from the gate, and the tyrant would not wait forever.

Dominovich rested on the pickle pile. His followers had gathered from the ruined boat and the swamp edge, tired but alive. Then a cane tapped the wet ground. An old woman climbed the bank. She wore black stripes and a rope of pearls. Her eyes were sharp and mean. This was Gwammy, the gangster grandmother who ruled the cherry tomato marauders. She took vinegar as payment, and she took what she wanted from anyone who fell short. "Look at this filth," Gwammy said. She poked a pickle with her cane. "Your homes are mud. Your clothes are sauce. You are all too dirty to live." Dominovich's people sank down. One wept. Another hid her face. Their anger, the thing Dominovich fed each day, drained out of them and left only shame. Dominovich stood. "They are mine," he said. "You will not shame them." Gwammy laughed. She swung her cane. It cracked across shoulders and backs, one after another. His followers fell in the mud. Then she raised her voice and called her gang. The cherry tomato marauders poured over the bank, teeth flashing, stems whipping. "Eat their limbs," she said. The tomatoes swarmed. Dominovich lunged, but the pile shifted under him and he went down. The marauders did their work fast. When they scattered, his people lay broken, legs useless, arms limp. Gwammy tipped a bucket of cheese sauce over them and cackled. "Sticky and small," she said. "Just like you." Dominovich rose, shaking. He had kept their anger hot for months. Now they were sad and sticky and could not walk. He could not fight the whole gang alone. He needed her to leave. Wiener Cleaner pushed up from the mud beside him. Grease dripped off his sausage arms. "She hates one thing," he said. "She hates mustard. Can't stand the smell." He nodded at the ground. The crash had spilled mustard everywhere, yellow pools across the whole bank. Dominovich saw it. He grabbed a broken barrel stave and scooped a load of mustard. He flung it at Gwammy. It splattered her striped coat. She gagged and stumbled back. "Again," Dominovich said. Wiener Cleaner wrung his own arms and threw fistfuls of mustard from his body. His people, flat on their backs, reached into the yellow pools and hurled it too. The bank filled with the smell. Gwammy retched. Her cane slipped. "Foul," she choked. "Foul, foul." She whistled for her gang and fled up the bank, tomatoes rolling after her. In a moment she was gone. The smell hung heavy. Dominovich looked at his followers. They were free of Gwammy, but they lay in the sauce, unable to stand. His war on the gate needed marching feet. Now his people had none. He knelt in the mustard and took the nearest hand. He had driven off the grandmother. He had no idea how to lift an army that could not walk.