One Man’s Death Story In Minutes

-nd even my microbes conspire against me. Hideous little amoebas twisting within the damp walls of this fetid squalorous shack. I am the last one to stay in this crumbling building. And I will not leave. I cannot leave, for this four walled dungeon is all that stands between me and my soul’s final skid row. Unfortunately my tastes do not extend to forced famine, so now let me explain how this situation was birthed, not many moons ago.

Tertiary education, that being any education after the put upon years of schooling, had only ever short places for my brain to rest. An abject and genetically ingrained DNA code thirsty for distilled liquors and a constant headache requiring piling handfuls of prescribed pills destroyed any concentration I had. So the philosophy courses, full of what you can and Kant do, gave way to law, in which the only universal law seemed to be make the maximum amount of money, to the art classes, where a pencil was not picked up for the first six months, to finally literature, where we discussed more words than read. In this time I met no one, talked to no one and became isolated in all discussion save for how much more medication I needed and what side dishes I wanted with my fried food meals. Eventually this loneliness killed my hunger for knowledge as information, except escape plans, are useless in a vacuum. My final day was spent sobbing locked in a library toilet, with no pretensions as to what was left. This was not my place anymore.

With family favours filled and educational entitlements now non applicable, I had become somewhat, useless within the realms of what is, society. I left all of my belongings, my toothbrush and some textbooks in the hall of the busy dormitory, unnoticed, and pushed open the brown wood silver metal exit door. Freedom for a second.

Work came easy at the chicken factory. Each day I had to ensure the main machine never became sticky, or overly jammed up with feathers or flesh. Section Three Cee. The final stage. Beginning with One Aye, the preps, then Two Aye, the stun stages, the finally Three Aye to Cee, the execution stages. Chugging along they came to us, in Three, hung upside down in rows. Knocked out eyes sometimes shut, sometimes glassy, not dead though, because maximum tenderness is sustained by the freshness of the kill before freezing. The laser eye reads and adjusts according to size and weight. Then moves a thirty kilo blade through their neck, at the speed of one hundred and four kilometres an hour. That is Aye. Then Bee, Bee is where they attached sucking plastic snakes to the new hole, where all fluids, gizzards and leftovers are pulled into a vat for gravy. Then finally Cee, we bisected them for supermarkets, or minced for nuggets. There was no love here, no small talk, as far as I could see nobody met outside the sheds for any reason. We were all simply there for our forty hour week survival handout. 

Silent and disturbing work, but it worked for me for the last few months. Until the rotten batch shipped in around three weeks ago. The initial stun did not work in only aggravated them. Even with amps twisted to instant kill levels, they clucked and squirmed in the bonding clamps. So after some chief of calculations pushed some sums around, the decision was made to skip Section Two. Move them down the line to us in Three. Wet lipped protests arose and hesitation of humanity, until a promise of overtime for normal time was arranged. We gathered to watch the display. A gloved finger pushed down, starting it. The blades moved across, and across, and across. High pitched clucks and twisting almost out of their sockets eyes. Black rivers, with the slow run density of tar, sprayed ultra violently from stumps due to steroid cursed heart. We shut down the machines. Turned off all power via an emergency switch. As I backed away into the roar of the sirens, the red lights of danger alarms, I felt the still steaming inky blood running down my cheek, and into my mouth. 

Twisting in this old eaten away abandoned armchair now, I can say with an earnest mind that the Earth now longer has any abode, nor medical miracles, left for me. Five others came into contact that day. Three are being cut up in a government controlled madhouse in the city. One is a crying, walking skeleton on the run upstate, and the other suffered little due to a fantastic fiery cocktail of whiskey and a car crash. So, life may have been better I admit, more fortuitous, but at least I will perish freely here. In solitude screaming through a hole in the ceiling at all of the fresh aired stars in the sky for an answer, we both know they can never possibly give. Just please, make it quick. Make it quick. Good night.

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