Perched amid indigenous palms in a corner of the Red Room, Fredericko Eubanks III entertains the rambunctious merrymakers with easy-listening renditions of Brazilian pop hits on the Hammond B-3. He wears protective goggles, for the mushroom clouds have acquired a curiously green hue. (New isotopes, partial to select bands of the visible spectrum, have become the rage in Canada.) "Quite an updraft, those fireballs. Breaking atoms, you know." At eleven o'clock, Nurse Atticus plays the cello, while in an adjoining room they demonstrate the slicing of a volunteer's buttocks with a rattan cane. "The lower portion is soaked in brine, so it's flexible like a lash," explains the emcee. "But the grip is rigid for control." With that cue, a daunting amazon runs towards her victim, swinging the cane in a huge arc "...like a cricket pitch." A loud whooshing sound ends with an abrupt crack -- like gunfire. The victim's flesh quivers, turns white for an instant, then disintegrates as blood seeps through. Onlookers nod approvingly while sipping martinis. "Top form, that woman. And she's so muscular." (A competition weightlifter, they say.) "Indeed. And that contraption upon which the poor soul is bound..." remarks another patron, "Very authentic. I'll need one for myself." The amazon paces back to her starting position and readies for another pass, measuring her target with focused consideration. "This is all well and good," interjects an older woman with the slur of inebriation. "But they don't 'break' atoms. They 'split' them. I should know. My ex-husband was a physicist." A bouncer reaches around from behind to clamp a fresh sponge of ether over her nose, and the woman swoons. Fredericko slides a hand across the keys of the B-3, then waves a finger at the crowd, "We'll have none of that," he admonishes cheerfully over the PA, then nods, "Please... Continue." The lashing resumes as Nurse Atticus finishes her cello sonata. Nine piercing strokes are counted before the volunteer loses consciousness, only to be revived for an additional four. Nurse Atticus exchanges her instrument for a pail of chilled iodine and tends to the wounds, stretched wide over horrendous swelling. Enthusiastic aficionados congratulate the amazon, despite Atticus' observation that the victim "probably won't need more than a few stitches." Another round of applause as the implement itself -- bloody, splintered, and embedded with small pieces of flesh -- is awarded to the highest bidder. "A rousing exhibition, indeed," notes the emcee. "And still hours before dawn!" A deep rumble suggests that B-52s have begun carpet-bombing the valley as Fredericko begins another samba treatment... ("Sounds like they're cleaning up, friends. Won't be long now.") ...and patrons anxiously draw lots for the opportunity to participate in an encore performance by the amazon.