The bottom of the echelon is the citizenry itself, those who run the games, who beg in the streets, or sell their body and soul for some form of brief, meaningless comfort. They are the wretched, the lost and unwanted, mostly slaves and the unusual crossbreeds of their offspring. Most survive by preying on anything weaker than themselves, or pleasing someone of higher station. There is no real law here, no help for the desperate, and those that cannot survive are quietly taken away by the Spiral. The Eater's minions allow the city to exist on their border as a study of entropy, and as a place to trade slaves for gold, and life for death.
Life in Harrow is commonly referred to as 'The Show', and the show must always go on. To survive here, one must either run the show, as the gorgs do, or be somehow associated with it. Almost everyone has an amusing trick of some kind, even if it's just a frightening visage. Many Tamaran burnouts end up here, both slaves and once-wealthy citizens alike; in many ways, Harrow is a twisted parody of the Decider's empire. The Show forces everyone to perform, not simply to curry favor but to survive.
The Show has no single governing body. Much like a carnival, it is composed of individual talents and organizers, promoters, gamblers, and con artists, all seeking individual gain and recognition. Anyone without an amusing trick or a sponsor of some kind generally winds up dead within a week or two (something the locals will bet on). If a newcomer 'makes the show', they become a part of the community, for good or ill. If not, they become a 'dud', shunned by the general populace. This can also happen to those who wear out over time or lose their talent. In either case, duds quickly attract the attention of the urban vultures and carrion-feeders, and often end up in an alley or gutter, picked clean. Those taken by the Spiral never return, at least not in any shape or form that can be recognized.
The gorg merchants forced to deal with Harrow are seen as bottom feeders, even by their own kind. For many merchant houses, Harrow is a last resort, a sort of bargain basement in its own regard. There is money to be had, but anarchy reigns, and thus the individual houses that run the city are heavily fortified and often guarded by large numbers of czath slaves. These opulent fortresses rise above the stench and decay of the slums below, offering a degree of shelter to those the gorgs favor, while keeping the rest of the vermin out. From these lofty towers, the guildmasters oversee the sprawl and all its rusty financial mechanisms, forced to live a comparatively humble existance in the shadow of the wealthier clans - indeed few are here by choice. The rulers of the city are mostly exiles, their financial licenses revoked, or their coffers too low to maintain an existance in the Tamaran Empire.