| " | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tThere were two sides to the anthro trafficking business known as Mister Rafeek’s Imports. There was the front counter, hidden away behind a fish merchant to mask the scent, which featured labouring mothers (and a few fathers) and their newly-born cubs lined up neatly on the counter for purchase. Then there was the rental counter. If one of Mister Rafeek’s breeders produced defective or unsightly stock, then the product was moved to the back counter to be trained and rented out. It was immediately clear that rentals were NOT the proprietor's priority – the stock and all of their paraphernalia were thrown into a wet, slippery, screaming pile to be picked through at the client’s leisure or sorted out at a later date. A cursory examination revealed how frighteningly little needed to be “wrong” with Mister Rafeek’s products to end up back here. A large, unfortunately-placed birthmark here, a shock of off-colour hair over there, even a bruise from a botched mechanical delivery. And behind them all, the rat himself yanking a scrawny, squealing scalie from a large olive-hued matron with a sign reading “REJECT” affixed to her midsection. “Too small,” he grinned, “too small, yes. Barely worth its weight in coin, this one,” he explained, holding the smooth-skinned, slippery newborn by the tail and bouncing it lightly to gauge its weight. “Last chance for purchase, yes! You don’t want to know what happens if nobody buys!”\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t