We were all lame. Something about each and every one of us was lame, walking down a long hallway towards the sorting office as a grimy, lethargic line of “misfit”. My leg was snapped sideways at the knee from the recklessness of my youth, so that I had a limp long before I’d been deemed an unsuitable. But I made a point of making it known my mind was right as rain, at least enough to rile up the buyers.
“It’s not that you’re unimportant to society for your lameness. In fact, you’re too important to society.”
This was their mantra, in a formal monotonous tone, spoken to every unsuitable; regardless of if their deficiency allowed them to comprehend English.
“This is a fuckin’ joke, right? My worth to you, you pigs, is just how much more swine-like you can become from my carcass. My importance is the jiggle of your asses.”, I said this unmoved then I laughed like a madman because bolts might have come loose in between the span of months where I was picked up when hitchhiking, by an ingenuous man that sold me, after my wife was determined fit enough to be taken to the breeding house. I was held and beat while they dragged her away, leaving breadcrumbs of screams. The unsuitables were no longer satiating the demand. A new policy began where “fairly unsuitables” — healthy enough to be fucked or artificially inseminated and survive annual childbirth — were taken to live in breeder houses. What’s the most foul is the price of seed is sometimes deem
ed too high for the companies to subscribe to any sense of ethics so workers frequently, forcefully do the job. Perks of the job, eh.
And in my disgust at the descent of the world, and especially the fat, jowled bastard that was in front of me, sucking a soft peppermint, I spat in his face. Paperwork was done in my life and name, and there was no raised, embossed seal of official documentation, of importance, like my birth certificate had.
“You’re meat, boy”, the fat man had the last laugh, followed by a cough as I was being pulled towards the light beyond the doors.
“Take 6391 to the rig. And, god damn it, Windsor, 6278 is lying in the mud — probably seized again or some shit — and I told you to go initiate blunt trauma ten minutes ago!”, a foreman shouted orders.
A frightened specimen of a man, more boy, was stiffening in the mud and letting out grunts as the operation was at work. Just another day for the men in coveralls and steel-toed boots. So submerged in their brainwashing that they legitimately think their day won’t come; that they won’t become unsuitable then a parcel of had-been-someone in various freezers of the wealthy and able. So submersed in the filth of their conscience and death that one of the men looks conf
used as I scrunch up my nose from the putridity.
“Fucking hell, that’s vile. That’s the smell of people. People that did nothing. What do you tell your children your job is?”, it felt rhetorical, as the men pulling me towards a rig went steel-faced. I scowl at a severed off, or broken off or torn off finger with a pink nail sticking out of the mud and make an effort to step over it.
“I tell my little girl there are exceptionally important people to society that I tend to.”, one caved but not enough to give me the respect of looking at me.
And just as I was thrown in the truck, lame from the limp that landed me there, facing him, I find myself that the numbers 6391 had begun to conceal. I softened, “By God’s grace, I hope she’s never exceptionally important to society.”
And he looked at me just as he slightly had before, when I scrunched up my nose at the scent of humans and human descent. Only this time he really saw me, just before the other man slid the door of the rig closed and slapped the side of the truck.
He yelled up towards the drive, “To the slaughterhouse with these!”
– The Vegan Bunny