Rubbed, Smoked, and Sauced control the entire barbecue trade in The City. (And notice how they employ convenient props to supply us with memory aids: Rubbed has a tommy gun for rubbing out rival gangs, Smoked is puffing away on a stogie, and Sauced is drunk again.) Nothing moves without their say-so. They've got the whole place locked up tight. And so, with the market for fresh victims cornered, they make sure only their people get a chance to sizzle.
That's right: Like any Submissive Dominants worth their salt, these wise guys use their power and connections not to ensure their own safety, but to ensure their deaths at the hands of the competitive barbecuers.
This makes sense, of course, only in Suicidefood City, a crumbling and corrupt burg where status derives from victimhood. It's not what you know, or even who you know. It's all about how you die. Old age? That's for chumps. Any sap can graze his way into the afterlife. For the connected "food" animal—the made entrée—the only noble way to go is covered in sauce, with a spit rammed up your keister.