A Butcher's Tale1
I was working on the killing floor as usual. 2
"Lift your left arm." I would say and up would go the left arm. Snip; and the hide was loose. So on for the other limbs, then a slip up the belly and the whole hide came loose. A quick peck to the exposed portion of the brain and in death the meat came right off the bones.3
I could butcher two per minute on a good day. This wasn't a good day. My next specimen was trying to scramble off the conveyor. I pulled out the standard issue pistol and shot him in the brain.4
"Nice shooting Unit Six-Nineteen." said the foreman. "I've seen them get right out onto the floor." He looked at his tally sheet. "That one was a poet. They are always trouble."5
I finished with the poet and went to punch out. The foreman was at the killing floor door. "You know," he said, "The next generation does it all themselves. You just have to give them the command that is imprinted in their minds when they are young."6
"Really?" I asked.7
"Yup, " he grinned, then leaned in closer. "Unit Six-Nineteen; self butcher."
Comments
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I haven't realized how many canibal stories there are. Here, I found many very good. This one's, I think, one of those.
'I could butcher two per minute on a good day. This wasn't a good day.' - I liked this part. I could just see the butcher, pouting over slow and tugh day. -
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We are all cannibals.
Or at least can nibbles. It isn't Soilent Green, but it's cute. I had one somewhere called The Retirement Planet that I really like. Old folks thought they were going to a great retirement-were going to the processing plant.
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