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The Revolution\'s Pig Contest

Part 3

The Revolution’s Pig Contest, by counterparts199; part 03.


   I looked at the situation Jesse was in.  He was hanging by his neck brace.  His hands were cuffed behind him.  The four side-track rails could be used to isolate any one of us.  The four sidetracking rails were also connected together by a longer rail that ran parallel to the one the remaining forty-nine of us were stuck to.  That one was also parallel to the far right wall.  It ended at a black piece of metal framed glass that I’d previously ignored, thinking it some kind of spy window.  It was tall, reaching a good seven feet at the top, and not quite coming to the floor, ending about a foot and a half up.  I saw some kind of push button control to the side of it and a latch like that on a freezer for a handle.


   Two of the black guards were unlatching the rail stays that isolated the far ends of all of the three sidetracks from one another.  This allowed a clear passage from the sidetrail Jesse was on to the black glass window at the far end corner of the warehouse.  The only cinch left to remove was the one directly at the station Jesse had ended up at.  He effectively couldn’t move either towards us, or down the parallel line towards the black window due to two fastened cinches holding bars over the tracks in either right angled direction.  Whatever was going to happen was going to end up at that black window, I realized, but for now Jesse was a prisoner of the station he’d been left at and none of us could get any closer to him than we were.


   He was whimpering and struggling in his bondage, but the women ignored him.  One of us at our line got to whimpering almost as much as Jesse was, and earned himself the sting of a cattle prod for his troubles.  The message delivered that Jesse could whimper and struggle a little bit, given that he was the one on display, but the rest of us were to remain docile, least we interfere with all of the preparations.


   Finally a circular and sectional brass clamp was brought out of a toolbox that had been sitting in the corner of the far wall.  Two of the women stood to the sides of Jesse, holding him in place as he tried to kick and squirm.  It got to be a bit too much, so they backed off and delivered a sting of their wand to his nuts.


   Jesse went limp for just a few seconds, which was long enough for the first black guard to run the circular brass and rubber clamp up his foot, past his ankle, and then up to the top of his thigh.  She connected a tool to the clamp, and then another of the women grabbed the clamp and shoved it so far up that his butt cheek bunched up.  I could see the bulky, industrial grade clamp’s edge bang at Jesse’s crotch, bouncing his balls to the side.  The first lady started cranking the tool in a circle, tightening the clamp once it was as high up the left leg as they could push it.  There was some kind of brass spacers on the inside, preventing Jesse from being pinched, but the overall contraption was doing one massive pinch as they went well past snug and to the point of the flesh of Jesse’s upper leg bulging out an inch all the way around.  I could see his leg start to blue up a bit even before they were done tightening it, telling me that the blood flow had stopped to the limb.


   The whole operation repeated itself as Jesse regained some of his lucidity and movement.  He didn’t struggle, however, still fresh with memory of the last sting, no doubt.  They had no trouble fitting the right leg clamp up past his toes, up his ankle, over his knee, and then up his thigh.  He flinched as it brushed past his balls.  The combination of the left and right clamps left no room for his privates, so they bulged out in front of the brass metal as if some hand was pushing them out and showing them off.  They only half cranked the right leg, leaving the clamp tight enough to not slip, but not so tight as to cut off his circulation.


   One leg was blue, and other red as one of the ladies grabbed Jesse’s left leg.  He stiffened and groaned.  “No!  Please!  I’m not gay!  There’s been a mistake!”


   The wand was raised to just in front of his face, causing him to quit his complaining in order to forestall the shock to his mouth.  That was good enough for the guard, as she lowered the wand.  The procedure continued, the one guard lifting the left leg up high while the other one pushed the large chopping block table under it.  The block was deep enough to hold it lengthwise.  Two leather clamps were belted over the leg from where the belts were fastened to the table.  These were left loose enough for the leg to be moved some, but not enough for him to move the leg from side to side.


   A box was set in a slight depression near the far end of the table.  The letter’s B O N E S, were painted in white on the box’s side.


   Finally, a hypodermic needle was taken out of the toolbox by the far wall, and sat upon the closest end of the table, just out of reach of Jesse, assuming he had his hands free, which he didn’t.


   The head guard lady looked at us after putting the hypo down, and said, “Since this is the first time for each of you, we won’t begin by asking this fag pig if he wants to do the work himself or not.  Suffice to say, we will give him the option of completing the task instead, but much of the beginning work will be done by us, particularly on the first loin.  In the future, the choice will be up front and you pigs will have to do everything yourselves or suffer the penalty of suffering under a guard administered slaughtering.  The reason we are altering the process for this pig is that it doesn’t know the full process yet.  As with all good instruction, first we tell, thus the video, then we demonstrate, and then finally we expect participation under guidance.  So, this is step two, the demonstration part.  It will be assumed that all of you piggies know how to do yourselves in the future, so pay attention or things will go very badly for you when it is your turn to be butchered and made into a carcass.”


   They had to be kidding, I thought.  This was all some kind of psychological experiment.  They couldn’t actually mean to go through with cutting off that man’s leg!


   The women nodded to another guard, and she picked up the straight razor.  I saw her touch the man on the leg with it, and he flinched back, though he didn’t have anywhere much to go, given that he was already stretched pretty straight up and couldn’t back off much.  Then she started shaving his leg.  It was a dry shave, but the blade was sharp and she managed it without many nicks.


   So that was it, I thought.  All of the fake slaughter talk was going to end up with them just shaving his leg.  How could they play with us like this, I thought, angry with them for being so vile and careless with our emotions.


   The other lady was holding a bit of newspaper under the leg as the shaving went on, catching the hairs so that when it was over she just had to take the paper out the back end of the cart and let the hair fall to the floor.


   “As you can see, we shave the leg just before we skin it.  This simplifies the tanning process and reduces the time the leather will need to sit in the hair absorbing chemicals.  You will be allowed to either shave your legs one at a time, or both before the actual butchering begins.  I suggest shaving both legs, as once the first cuts begin, you time with the anesthesia starts and any delays increase the risk of your regaining feeling in the limbs as they are still being severed.”


   She looked at Jesse and asked, “What is your choice, pig ninety-two?”


   He exhaled a sound like, “Uhh!”  The head guard shrugged towards another guard who picked up the scalpel, but then the man said with a faltering voice, “The other leg first.  Here,” and he lifted his own leg up, bending it at the knee, and then laying it over the table as if he were half sitting on it with his ass just off the edge so that it was still below his neck brace from which he was otherwise hanging himself.


   “Excellent choice.  We’ll let you do the work yourself, pig, for being such a good first example.”  She nodded to the third guard as second one put a piece of newspaper under the second leg and then backed off to the far end of the cart in order to be out of reach of the man as he shaved with the lethal straight razor.  The third guard unfastened the man’s cuffs, taking them away and putting them into the toolbox.


   He shook his hands in front of him, fighting off the numbing of the cuffs.


   “The razor, pig.  Or do you wish for us to do all of the work for you?” Asked the head guard.  He reluctantly picked up the razor that was sitting on the table before him.  I saw him looking at the steel cable that held it to the overhanging pipe of the cart.  We were all calculating that, and we all knew that the extra foot or so of play wasn’t enough to formulate any reasonable assault upon the women.  It was only enough play to reach down to the ankle and get the shaving job done.  He had no choice he knew, and started shaving his right leg.  It was unbelievable that he could do it.  Then, as quickly as he’d started, the handcuffs came back out.  A wand was aimed at his side, and he put his hands behind him in defense, allowing himself to be re-secured.  The ladies helped him lift his right leg back down, and the moment of truth was suddenly upon us.


   They wouldn’t dare, I thought, having put all of my money on the idea that this was a psych deal meant to terrorize us and nothing more.


   “OK.  So far this pig has done better than most beginning animals.  Thus I feel quite charitable.  Now, of course, this is, as you know, the first animal.  In the future, you will all be expected to shave both legs without any of the hesitation exhibited in this demonstration.  Still, for a first animal, this has been quite well done, allowances being made for the lack of a good example from which to follow.  Matisha, you may proceed to the second part of the process,” the first guard said as she nodded to the second guard who was picking up the scalpel.


   She spoke as she worked, saying, “First we make a neat cut around the ankle.  The skin below the ankle is too thin to be of any use in the purse industry.”  She pulled the leather strap tighter, holding Jesse’s leg to the more snuggly as she slipped the tip of the scalpel across the top of his ankle.  I thought it was fake, the pressure being so slight, and the blood being so weak.  Jesse thought otherwise, screaming at the top of his lungs a few seconds later when the pressure of the ultra-sharp leg turned into a burning of real pain.


   “It will probably be a little hard to hear all of my instructions as the pig starts to squeal, but I will try to pause at key points in order to clarify the beginning and ending cuts in the proper order.  It is important that you cut the leather off in a consistent and neat manner, or the leather is of less value to the purse makers,” continued the skinning guard as she held the trembling leg as best she could while making neat inch long cuts, continuing the circle around the ankle.  It was hard work, I noticed, and not all that neat, though better than I could have done with such a jerking and trembling limb to work on.  She paused when the first cut was done all around the ankle.


   The first guard then injected, “As you can tell, it is much better for the pig if he has been injected with a spinal injection that eliminates the pain of the process.  Though experienced, Matisha simply can’t do a decent job of trimming the leather from the carcass.  We don’t fault the longpig for squealing and jerking about under such circumstances, though we are quite angry with a pig that makes us do this work ourselves and thus sets us all up for a bad skinning.  Any pig that makes us begin our work will, of course, have to pay a penalty.  At this time the pig may decide to finish the work himself, not having passed the grace period for a spinal, but of course we have the choice of refusal.  In any event, my personal policy is to assess ten minutes of extra pain beyond every minute of butchering as a price to be paid for not stepping up to the plate and helping us make a decent carcass of you.  Please, continue, Matisha.”


   Jesse screamed upon hearing this.  He yelled, “I can do it.  I can.  I promise.  Please!!!”


   “Now, now, we can’t demonstrate fully if we don’t get to some of the real work, pig ninety-two, so be patient.”


   Then she started cutting deep along the shin of the leg, pausing over the knee and working carefully where the strap was laid over the leg by shifting the leg up and back.  Then she was at the brass fittings, and started to work the scalpel right along the edge of the metal.  She continually explained the process as she went.  Sometimes we caught some of the words between breaths as Jesse yelled his lungs out.  He passed out for just a couple of seconds, upon which time Matisha managed to lift his leg some and work under at the top of his thigh, and then back around.  She was saying, “The fitting actually allows for a nicer cut at the top where the leather is thicker and of more value anyway, than it does near the ankle.  Penalty is assessed if the pig fails to cut right up to the edge and maximize its leather production.”  Jesse came back to his senses around the end of the sentence, and then screamed the last of his lungs dry as she started to peel the leather off of his meat.  It came off, sometimes with the nudge of the knife, with a sucking sound that I’ll never forget.  The meat actually came off of the thigh easiest, but at the shin it took a lot of coaxing by cuts to the sinew.


   Matisha spent a bit of time with a short knife, scraping away the sinew on the back of the “leather” before she draped it over the end of the cart and put the sinew into a disposal bin.  It was taking more time than I’d even imagined such a horrible thing could take.


   Jesse was yelling harder than ever, but the noise was a lot less, almost as if he’d yelled his vocal cords into threads.  I saw him pass out two more times before the, “leather,” was off of his leg, but it was never long enough to do him any real good as he was being made to endure the whole skinning without a drop of the chemicals in that precious hypodermic needle that he’d begged and begged right up to the point where real words were no longer possible from his babbling lips.


   I looked around, and every one of us was having trouble watching.  Every so often someone would look away, and when caught, one of the guards came over the aimed a wand at him.  We had no choice but to receive our instruction.  The next tool was a large serrated knife.  Without ceremony, the butcher set it down right on the meat at the very edge of the brass clamp and instructed, “The most meat is on the thigh, so we don’t waste any beyond that captured by the clamp itself.  Slice neatly and straight to the pig’s bone, using a sawing motion.  Once through, slice as best you can at a forty-five degree angle, to cut away as much as you can of the sides.  Then use the smaller, non-serrated knife to nick away at the meat under the bone until all that remains is the bone itself.  Scraping along toward the bone, you can leave a wide enough path to easily insert the saw and start the much harder job of sawing through the bone itself.  A good butcher can do this in twenty or thirty seconds, but a longpig is much less experienced and averages several minutes.  Don’t dawdle, piggies, because there is a lot of work remaining to do in butchering the loin and you simply cannot afford to allow yourself to live too long once you’ve become a carcass and have no further function in life than processing your meat for consumption.”


   She said all of this, of course, as she went through the process of cutting Jesse’s leg off and then sawing into his bone.  It took her a whole minute to finish and lift the leg of red meat free.  It was weird seeing it set down on the table sideways so that it was in easy reach of Jesse.  His foot looked perfectly normal, though bluish, while the rest of it was meat and an occasional white thread of fat or tendon.  It was almost as if I was sitting in an anatomy class, though I’d never been in one and only seen such things on TV.


   It struck me, through all of the horror, that my guess had been wrong.  This was no show.  This was real.  This was extermination.  I was really here.  I was really a pig to them, and really going to die!  It didn’t matter what I did.  Some sick puppy had come up with this method and was laughing at us, but it didn’t matter one bit because we had no choice.  They didn’t care if it was evil and they had been completely oblivious to Jesse’s begging and pleas.  We were nothing to them, and the only hope of altering our fate was to do as they said in order to ease the pain of our own deaths.  I felt utterly defeated.  My best option was to fully participate in my own destruction.


   When the leg was fully presented, Matisha smiled up at us, and the head guard said, “There we have a fully dissected loin.  The clamp prevents any bleeding beyond the blood that was in the leg to start with.  As you can see, the pig is in a great deal of pain and was not enjoying any of the experience.  My suggestion to all of you is to take the second option.  The work involved is not really all that difficult, save for our insistence upon clean cutting and maximizing the amount of leather and meat made available to the slave cooks.  Now, it is good to know that in cases where the pig has been uncooperative, slow at its work, particularly sloppy or otherwise disobedient, we find ourselves this far along in the process and disinclined to administer anesthesia well before this point.  This would mean that the pig would have to wait through the entire process if it has waited anywhere nearly this long to request the second option.  Further, as I have stated, there is a ten to one additional waiting period before we proceed to the extermination of the carcass.  If I were you, I’d opt for the second option and do as good of a job as is, well, I almost said humanly possible, but you know what I mean.”


   One of the guards attached the tool to the right leg’s clamp and tightened it severely, cutting off final circulation to the last leg.


   The top guard looked at Jesse, hooking a finger under his eyelid so that he could see her speaking to him.  “Do you wish for me to administer anesthesia, piggy?  If so, then you will have to slaughter your own right leg.  I’m worried that you might not be able to do the work after so much screaming and straining, but I’m willing to give you a chance, given that you’re just a demo pig!”


   “Yes.  Please!  I beg you,” he said, his voice a horse whisper of forceful air as he hyperventilated.


   The head guard picked up the hypo, and aimed it at his lower spine.  She stuck it well in, and then probed as the man moaned and twisted in his neck brace.  Then the plunger was pushed in, and a few seconds later we all noticed the man’s breathing come back to nearly normal.  His eyes blinked, and he looked at his severed leg as if it was the first time he’d ever seen it.  Obviously the pain had subsided, and though the rest of his body was probably racked with pain from the last few days and his twisting, I doubted he felt it by virtue of the comparison.


   Matisha continued with the demonstration, cutting the meat off of the leg muscle groups until several large steaks were laid out across the board.  The leg itself was then cut at the joints, leaving it on three basic pieces, lower leg, upper leg and a rather normal looking foot.  Then she cut the steaks with a few cleaves and then the knives, until it was in tiny filets.  When she had the filets down to inch sized bites, she put them into a metal bin until the bin was full.  Half of another one was filled before the meat was finished.  She started scraping along the bones, finding a few more threads of meat to put into the bins.  The upper leg bone was tossed into the bone box and the same process repeated on the lower leg until it was down to two long bones that were also put into the bone box when sufficiently white.  The foot was another issue, requiring a lot of focus upon each bone as they were ripped away from the each others and the tissue, leaving a final mash of boneless foot meat and sinew.  I think the foot took her more time than the whole rest of the job.  The third guard put a box on the table labeled, waste, and the mash was put into it as well as other waste products unsuited to either the bone or meat bins.


   Jesse just watched this dumbly.  Clearly he was in utter shock.


   “And with that, the left loin is fully prepared.  The pig is halfway to making itself into a completed and disposal ready carcass at this time.  Now, let’s see what the pig has learned,” said the head guard as she went around behind the pig and uncuffed it.


   It looked at its right leg.  An unpleasant liveliness returned to his face as he was forced to confront the new horror.  The guard to his right side nodded as if to tell him to go ahead and lift it onto the table so that he could make more of himself into meat.  He moaned, but then put his right leg up on the table with a strain far more than physical.  At that point he had his whole weight on the neck brace, but was able to relieve that some when the leg was up on the table.


   “You’ll need to use the scalpel first.  You see how nice it is now to have made the decision to shave the second leg early.  We do try to be considerate and not waste everybody’s time.  I’m sure that you’re far more eager to make yourself into a carcass and get on with burning yourself up now that you are halfway into the process, don’t you agree, piggy?  I said, don’t you agree?”


   “Uh! Yes,” he said, reaching down and picking up his anesthetized leg so that the knee was bent and he could easily reach his own ankle.  Without instruction, he proceeded, as if he’d come to some conclusion that rushing ahead was a far better option than anything else.  He stuck the scalpel into his own ankle in a way that had me thinking that he’d lost awareness that it was still attached to him.  “Oh shit!” He moaned and breathed as he made a circle around the ankle.  “Oh shit,” he repeated with each step of the process as he pulled a cut right up the top of the leg to the top of his thigh.  He reached in by his balls and started making a circle cut on his thigh where the brass clamp was cutting off his circulation.  “Oh shit!”  He finished the circle.


   The condemned man peeled his skin off, not too carefully, ripping it near the ankle, for which the head guard made a comment about how such hasty skinning was apt to win a carcass unwanted delays in his cooking process.  He reached for the big knife, but the head guard corrected him, saying, “You will need to scrape the back of the longpig leather clean, or we won’t be able to make a decent product out of the material.  What woman would want a purse with patches of sinew all over it?  We have to be careful to make something useful out of our pigs; this isn’t just for show, you know.  We make something out of your sacrifice, you little oinker you.  Go on, do it right or let us take over for you,” she threatened.


   The pig started scraping its own leg leather clean of sinew.  The look of horror never left its face as it worked over the skin that had once been such a familiar part of its own body, wincing at each scrape.  When the leather was clean enough, it gave it up and draped the finished product over the edge of the cart before quickly going back to the big knife.  It was as if it was in a race and just couldn’t hold itself back from the job as it quickly cut the meat as close to the brass ring as it could, right down to the bone, which it wedge clear and started sawing on for all it was worth.  The leg fell clear, and it grabbed at it, cutting the steaks off of it even faster than had the experienced guard.


   “As you can now see, longpigs, the pig has now reduced itself down to no more than a slaving carcass intent upon finishing before the drug wears off.  We should all be very proud of its willingness to serve the new order and make something of itself that we can all celebrate.  This is something you all should aspire to.  Do you see how eager it is to serve, even as it knows that it has ceased to be a growing pig and thus it no longer has anything of value to contribute to society other than its already surrendered byproducts?  I think that the demonstration is exceeding my personal expectations.  Notice how nicely the meat is being self-cleaved into neat bite-sized units and how the carcass has managed to quickly scrap the first bone white.  We expect each of you pigs to soon be self-processing and cost effective leather and meat manufacturing units.  Very good, carcass ninety-two.”


   We all did watch, and it was incredible to watch a man doing that to himself.  He was mad, of course, single minded in his haste to reduce his last leg bones, and then foot to meat and white bone matter.  The tiny foot bones went into the bone bin and the foot pulp into the waste bin along with other veins, tendons and scraps, and then all of a sudden, the table was clear of all but a few bits and some blood that trickled off of it and into a drain that conveniently sat just below the station.  I looked across the floor and saw that there was a drain under each of those four end stations, telling me much.  This whole receiving area had been designed as a butchering room, I realized.  It was a one stop operation.  This was the last place any of us was intended to see, I instantly thought as the man before us hang there loosely from his neck.  The brace wasn’t tight enough to strangle him, and his reduced weight probably helped him as well.  There he was, a carcass, I understood.  He had no legs.  Oddly, this left his cock and balls as the lowest part of him, them dangling down and vulnerable.


   The guards noticed this as well.  One of them came at him from behind and quickly put a plastic strap around his nuts.  She cinched the tie-wrap tight enough to make us all flinch.  The carcass didn’t feel much of anything and might not have even known it was happening due to his shock and the way the lady did her work from behind.  His anesthesia was still working, it appeared, as she took out a sharp pocket knife and took a souvenir of his balls and nut sack.  It was so quick and unexpected, and apparently not all that unusual, considering that neither of the other guards paid it much notice.  They probably had testicle collections of their own; I sensed from the general lack of interest they paid the collection.


   In fact, the head guard was busy unfastening the bar that kept the man isolated and when loose the lack of a bar across the far parallel track allowed him a clear lane towards the black glass window that we all were looking at with almost as much dread as we’d felt when we’d seen the bloody nut sack dropped into a small metal thermos.  The nut collecting guard went back to her job once she’d put her prize away, and shoved the carcass a couple of inches in the right direction.  The other guard was busy wheeling the butcher table away and off to the back of the room near a doorway where she parked it and all of its products and utensils.


   The head guard went to the glass door and pushed in a code.  The glass moved up into some slot in the upper wall, revealing a little room about five feet square.  At the top of the room was a grate with a wide pipe beyond it.  At the bottom was a large pan nearly four feet square, and around that about a dozen nozzles.  Oh, damn, I thought as recognition hit me; they were flame flues.


   The metal bins labeled bones and waste were both set into the bottom of the oven between the idle flame jets.


   The head guard simply explained the end of the process.  “The carcass will next want to hurry and get itself into the oven for burning.  We have no further use for it, but the suffering of knowing what is to come must be excruciating for the carcass.  This is unavoidable.  It no longer has any desire to remain living, and is at this point it is more than willing to assist as best it can at speeding things along.  This is a motivation above and beyond the simple fact that no more anesthesias is possible and any delays by either the carcass or by the need for punishment, is only further delayed by dallying about on the rails.  Come along, you useless carcass; let’s get you finished.  We’ve had enough fun with you and would like very much to help you kill yourself in order to assist the goals of the new order.  One less white boy.”


   The carcass looked around the room, and then over at the table of meat and bones.  Then it looked down at the brass rings that were the extent of its legs.  Finally it seemed stuck on the view of its balls free penis.  With a weakened body, it reached for the railing, and started to pull itself down the railway.  It didn’t slow one bit as it reached the oven and put itself in.


   It wasn’t even through turning all of the way around when it got tired.  The body had moved just enough to see the door come down before pausing from the strain of moving itself.  A light came on inside of the oven, allowing us all a good view as the carcass waited as it finished the job of positioning itself for final extermination.


   “Like most white men, it isn’t smart enough to remember all of its instructions, so let’s hope that the carcass remembers the final instruction from the video.  Remember?  It will have to push the heat resistant button inside in order to engage the burners.  I wonder if it can hear me inside of there?”  She raised her voice, saying, “Push the button, stupid, and burn yourself up for us, please!  Let’s get another white ass off my planet.  That’s right; that one, idiot!”  Then less loudly, “Like there are two buttons or something, dumb ass.”


   The man pushed the button as he wailed.  No problem hearing him scream his torment at having to do that himself, I realized.  Then nothing happened.  He started squirming on the rail, but it wasn’t from heat, I understood.  It was from the torment of waiting for what he’d initiated to start.


   “As you can see, we can either set the oven to light as soon as the carcass has initiated the request to burn itself up, or we can set it to a timer.   A third option is to allow me to make the final moment possible by pushing in another sequence of numbers that shorten the timer to just a few seconds.  It is much better, of course, for you to know that your final act of pushing the button will at least be quicker than this.  For demonstration purposes, I like to make this clear.  Now, as a demo, ninety-two has been quite excellent at helping us rid the world of one more white person.  He has even done a fair job of butchering his useful parts for the new order’s uses.  Therefore I feel that it is only right to finish this so that we can get the rest of you longpigs sorted out for the evening.


   She pushed in a code on the wall panel.


   There was a long pause.


   Then a jet of flame burst up from the floor on the near left side of the oven.  They watched it, as did Jesse as he flinched away from the flaming jet that was just beyond touching him.


   “Damn cleanings!  They always get carried away with that hose.  Ashes clog up everything when they aren’t careful,” said one of the guards.


   “I suppose we should try to do something about it.  It doesn’t seem to want to clear by itself,” said the head guard as she punched in a few buttons of code.


   “Shit!” Barked the last guard as she went to the tool box and pulled out a wire bristled grill brush.  The door opened.  We could all feel the room warming from the release of heat.  The guard reached in, scrubbing out the first right side flame nozzle and the second one down on the left.


   “That might do it,” she said, though it was hard to hear her for all of the wailing and whimpering the carcass just above and beyond her reach was doing.  The legs were dripping a little puss and blood, but she didn’t go in far enough to get dripped on.  She moved clear, and they closed the door again.


   “OK.  You can push the button again,” said the head guard in a voice loud enough to possibly be heard by the carcass in the oven.


   The carcass wailed like a banshee, but managed to jab at the wall, missing the button on the first three tries before hitting it with a click that we all could faintly hear.  The first jet lit, but no more.


   “Shit!  Here, let me try it,” said the second guard.  The door flew open, and she pulled a small can of lighter fluid out of her pocket, squirting a liberal amount on the carcass’s face and upper body.  They quickly dropped the door.


   “OK.  Hit the button again.  I think we’ve got it now,” said the chief guard.


   Another wail of effort, and the button was hit the first time.  A single jet ignited.  It heated the oven slowly, taking a half minute, it seemed, before I could see the building of some white smoke near the inside top of the oven window.


   The carcass, of course, was squirming all over in its neck brace, hands flaying back behind him as it attempted to keep his arms clear of the flame.  Then the body burst into flames, mostly over the upper body and head.  Arms started flying all over the place.


   In a second leaping change, the whole body then burst into flame, flames rolling out from under the mass of bleeding stumps as if it was some kind of log in the fireplace.  The leaping about only intensified as the carcass continued to live, somehow, in the midst of the burning mass or white hot flames.


   Next, the nozzles must have cleared, for two lines of nozzles suddenly shot lines of blue flame upwards to both sides of the white hot flaming body.  Black smoke rolled near the top of the oven, the body generating too much smoke to be handled all at once by the exhaust pipe up beyond the roof grate.


   It seemed like at least a full minute before Jesse stopped dancing.  Then what was left of him was just a lump, consuming itself in a rolling mass of human fuel.  We were made to watch it dwindle and then drop in two masses, head and torso, over and into the waste pan and bone pan that sat on the wider ash pan between the jets of fire.  Soon the whole oven window was one massive rolling flame.  The red panel of buttons showed a display of the heat, it reaching upwards and climbing to well over 1800 degrees Fahrenheit.


   “Well, we’re done here.  The oven will turn itself off in a couple of hours and need it will take at least a quarter day to bring the heat down and have a slave in here to trash the ashes.  No point in us waiting around for all of that, now is there, piggies.  I’m sure that you are all famished and in need of a little rest.  So, without any further delay, let us get all of this meat settled in,” said the head guard.


   She nodded to a second guard and a set of doors opened to the back left of the room, almost as if it was a second crematorium, but of course this one was a real door that went all the way to the floor.  It was steel, and looked very secure.  I followed the head in front of me as I walked through.  All forty-nine of us did, each a sheep in the hands of a mere three black females.




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