Evelyn Thunderbird was cruising down the highway at an altitude of a hundred and ten meters and a velocity that meant serious business. She was on her way to The Ultimate Raffle and she was running a bit late already. This was her chance, her big-time chance-of-the-lifetime to win the prize she’d kept her eyes on all that time since the early-release negotiations began. If she won (and by that I mean if she won The One) she’d be set for at least another year. If not, it was back to the drip factory for more Exemplary Salvation treatments. The Ultimate Raffle was held on un-regular dates, announced at random and with barely enough time for anyone to arrive, get checked in, pass through debriefing and take a seat. Those un-checked, un-debriefed and/or unseated were automatically unqualified. The Speaker this year was going to be the famous Anchovy Anders, he of the triple-mustachioed threat. Valdoon was also said to be among the hosts. There would be countdowns. There would be music. There would be displayings of body parts both young and exotic. Evelyn Thunderbird would not be denied. Hadn’t she already risked so much? Hadn’t she already paid many prices? And she still had one death remaining.