The Slaughterhouse 5-2 (Long. Part 1) *GROSS. DISTURBING*

[Doc Rocknocker]

*MOD EDIT - Read at your own risk. Very long, very disturbing story with very graphic details of animal slaughter and the inner workings of a slaughterhouse.

So, howdy campers.

Back yet again with another tale from the Late Paleocene, (when I was but a wee lad of 1.97 meters and 22 stone; i.e., sometime late last week…).

Well, it seems that I was enrolled in one or another campus’ of the University of Wisconsin where it was demonstrated that someone of my ilk, you know: white, male, high school graduate, good grades, from a firmly Anglo-Saxon extraction; was yielded absolutely zero in the form of ‘Student Assistance’; i.e., cash to go to school.

In other words: if I wanted to go to University, I had to get a job.

Well.

That sucks.

Especially in the late 70’s.

Damn.

I could have relocated to Canada.

But, I hate maple candy and Moosehead.

Besides, it was 4 hours north.

Anyways.

Being the sort of type that was continually listed as “off the chart” when it comes to insurance charts, I had very little choice in my preferred vocations. Or, more to the point, there were precious few jobs available in those late 70’s the didn’t include tightening the same lug-nuts for 18 hours a day or bouncing drunks out of the local grogshop.

I possessed a certain amount of grey matter that precluded the former and a tiny amount of self-respect to deny the latter.

Then, there came the advert in the local daily:

“Wanted: Slaughter-hands”.

Slaughter-hands?

“Slaughter-hands?”

Well, this could be interesting.

So, bright and early, sometime around 11 o’clock, I show up for the obligatory interview scrum. There were fully 400 people queuing up for exactly 3 jobs.

Yeah.

I know.

You’re thinking: “Sure, he gets a job.”

Yeah, hey.

I actually DO get a job.

Given my size, situation, and state of affairs (i.e., poor, studently, and willing to do just about anything (but…just about) for a buck)); I was offered a job in the local slaughterhouse as a “loafer”.

“Loafer”?

Getting paid for doing what I usually do in front of the TV?

Ummm…Not quite.

‘Loafing’ was basically doing just about any sort of shit job anyone else in the slaughterhouse didn’t want to do. Low-man-on-the-totem-pole sort of stuff.

And I was to be a loafer.

Can’t really complain, though. I’d put up with a lot of shit for $22.50 an hour.

“Where’s your Union Card?

“Union card? What Union Card?”

“Union dues are US$195. Due immediately.”

“$195?” (“Oh, Holy Fuck...the crowds are going restless…”)

“Jenkins G. Christ. Can I pay you after I get my first check?”

“Nope. Due right now. Pay up or you can’t be in the union, and if you’re not in the union, you don’t get paid…”

Catch-22.

I reiterate: “This sucks.”

I therefore suck up a weekend complete without whiskey, decent beer, & red, red wine; and a month-full of Spam, potted-meat-food product, Walter’s Bock and chicken pot pies; I pony up the $195.

Ouch.

That hurt.

But, then again, I am gainfully employed.

My first shift consists of carrying portions of freshly-killed cow carcasses (about 150-200 kg; so don’t even think about fucking around with me) from the killing floor to the refrigerated trucks; all curiously bearing the “Monfort Beef” logo.

And then, it gets better.

Southern Wisconsin.

Just north of Chicago.

Utterly (no pun intended) rural.

Pastoral. Bucolic. Countrified.

No one knows what’s really going on.

Ummm…Never mind. Forget I ever mentioned Jimmy Hoffa. No, really.

Back to our story…

There were thousands of beef critters per day (we operated 24/7); led up the chutes, to a rather ignominious conclusion. These were destined, after a certain amount of flagrancy, to emerge as your Big Macs, Quarter Pounders (“Big Royals” in other parlances) and “Beef-n-Bacon” burgers in your local fast-foodery.

But, herein lies a tale: once a beef critter is selected to attend a short course at the local abattoir, it leads almost a charmed life. Sure it gets whacked and tracked, but it is done with the utmost delicacy. There are Jewish Rabbis making sure everything is Kosher (quite literally). There are certain Christian sects (most notably: PETA; which, to me, are most notably un-Christian, but, then again, I am an unrepentant atheist) wanting to ensure the cattle’s last minutes are most comfy (but how reciting Gospel at them achieves this is well beyond human ken) and Imams of the Muslim persuasion (assuring the beeves are croaked halal, and the swine haram; I beam a bit proud to recollect that this is 1979, by the way, and in the heart of the good ol’ Midwest US of A), who insist on maintaining that certain methodologies are adhered to and that everything is done according to their mythology.

Me? I was just in it for the money (funny how things never change…).

Besides, there were worse jobs than lugging ponderous sides of beef around. I could have been made a “shithook” (one who cleans up on the kill floor, seems that cows tend to get rather loose bowels after they’re “treated”). Or a ‘gut-buncher”, whose job it was to gather up the entrails after the primary butcher splits the fresh carcass, and sends saleable by-products (intestines, tongues, brains, etc.) down various “slurpholes”; although why anyone would want a cow’s stomach is well beyond me.

So, it came that there was once this Friday (Yes. I’m actually getting to the “Sucky Customer” part of this rather windy discourse…) that three individuals (not to be later referred to in the narrative as “The Three Stooges” (way too easy, and too derivative), the “Three Un-wise men” and/or “Those fucking idiots”)), curtailed their non-Worpolian activities, sallied forth, and infiltrated our place of purveyance, to try and negotiate the vendage of some of our less less-than-cheesy-comestibles.

With appropriate apologies to Michael Palin and John Cleese.

In other words, they tried to “purchase” some sausages.

“Shop’s over that way”, related Bruno (another co-mutant from the planet Huge), pointing to the west.

“This is the slaughterhouse, you don’t want to be here…”

“Oh. Sorry. Ok, ‘eh.”

And they abruptly left.

Or so it was thought.

Or so they thought.

Anyways, back to work: I was manning the bolt gun. (Aside: for the uninitiated, the ‘bolt gun’ kills the animal and renders it instantly unconscious without causing pain. A ‘captive bolt gun’ (the variety employed where I was employed) has a steel bolt that is powered by either compressed air or a blank .32 caliber cartridge. The bolt is driven into the animal's brain. It has the same effect on the animal as a firearm with a live bullet. After the animal is shot the bolt retracts and is reset for the next animal. A captive bolt gun is safer than a firearm. Just thought you might want to know…)

Hey.

It was my turn.

“Phff...thump.”

It wasn’t terribly pretty, but at least I was promoted off the slop floor...

“Phff...thump.”

“Phff...thump.”

Looking up, I see three bewildered looking cretins, going slowly from glowering redneck to a rather unusually docile greenish-hue.

‘Who the hell are you?” I inquired.

“Phff...thump.”

“Ummm…erf…”<long hard “get-back-down-there, breakfast” look> “we want some sausages.”

“Phff...thump.”

“Man, you guys are really lost. The shop’s over here...this is the killfloor.”

“Phff...thump.”

[Goggle…heave...retch] “Oh, man. Stop that.”

“Phff...thump.”

“What?”

“Phff...thump.”

“Jesus Christ. Stop that!”

“Phff...thump.”

“Jesus Christ. Stop what?”

“That. That’s disgusting!”

“Yeah. So? It’s my job.”

“Phff...thump.”

<ever rising gorge…>

“Bathroom’s over that way…”

“Phff...mooooo…..” “Hmmm…needs a second shot”, “Phff...thump.” “Ah, that’s better”.

Gaak. Argh. Retch.

Suddenly in a creditable impression of the 1936 version of Jesse Owens; they, as one, sprint for the exit.

(Continued in Part 2)

[Doc Rocknocker]

The Slaughterhouse 5-2 (Long, Part 2)

(Continued from Part 1)

“Phff...thump.”

“Idiots.”

Some people.

“Phff...thump.”

Just another day at work.

After a few hours of all this, I decided that it’s ‘break time’ and head, surprisingly enough, to the ‘break room’, to have, well, ‘break fast’ (working 3rd shift does have certain disadvantages). I am joined by 5 or 9 other unfortunates working the graveyard shift, and as we sit around drinking our coffee and smoking our smokeables, the talk turned, as is inevitable, to “Shop Talk”.

“Damn”, sighs Tony, one of our master carvers, “I sure do get tired of all the traffic on the floor.”

A chorus of “Yeahs” and “Fuckin-A’s” percolate through the break room like our late night java fix.

“During the daytime, it’s actually worse”, complains Randy, another master carver; “We get school kids who come out to the place thinking they’re going to see Farmer Brown and Bossie, but they get the film (circa 1950 ‘Troy McClure’-type stuff like “Beef Cattle and You!”). Then a demonstration of how sausage and shit’s made and then a walk through the shop” (meaning the factory where I worked and living cattle were transmogrified into Big Mac ingredients). “Probably gives’em nightmares for weeks.”, he chuckled.

“Or maybe, they get an appreciation of just how steaks don’t grow out in the fields, but there’s some real work involved to fill the meat department’s freezers at the Pig. (i.e., Piggly Wiggly, the local grocery chain).

“Well, Ya’sure. Maybe. But it’s still funny as shit when they walk up and see how the bolt gun works!”, chides Bruno.

“Yeah, hey. Like these 3 schmucks that were here just a few hours ago”, I reply. “’Looking for sausage on the killfloor.’ Total retards.”

“Yeah, who were those turds?”, asks Louie, “They seemed, I dunno, sorta hinky, even for goobs on a tour.”

“No idea”, I replied, “But Bruno’s right, they did turn the most incredible shade of green when they saw what I was up to…”

Indecipherable mutterings and ass-scratching followed as it was realized that it was time to get back to work.

It all settles into an almost hypnotic milieu of cattle in, bolt gun, carcass hang, (etc., etc., etc….I’ll spare you the detailed play-by-play).

Oh, did I mention that a slaughterhouse is one hot, humid place to work, even in winter? Well it is and I suppose I should because that’s an integral part of the story, and it was sort of wintery.

It was hot and humid on the floor (see?), so we usually prop open a door or two (not fully open, just a few inches) to let the steam, noise and cattle farts out and some desperately needed fresh breeze in.

But what breezed in next was neither fresh not particularly needed.

The back door burst open and then…

The three morons broke free.

“Mothers up, hand fuckers!”

“What?’

“I mean: “Hands up, motherfuckers.””

Well, that got our attention.

You have got to be kidding. <”Head in hands division.”>

There they were, the “Three Ignorami”, (for the lack of a better name), brandishing their weapons: one with a 12 gauge goose gun, one with a hunting rifle of one form or another and one brandishing a knife last seen in a Rambo movie, obviously recently liberated from the Home Shopping Network.

“I know payroll’s kept here for tomorrow. Gimme the dough!”, bawls the lead ignoramus.

Indeed, tomorrow was payday, and many, many of my cohorts were paid in cash.

Now, as a quick digression so one may reclaim their breath after all this hair-raising action, allow me to point out a few tidbits about this situation:
1. A long barreled, heavy shotgun is a formidable weapon, but not terribly useful in close or confined quarters.
2. A long barreled, deer hunting rifle is a formidable weapon, but not terribly useful in close or confined quarters.
3. A Home Shopping Network faux-Rambo knife is not terribly formidable weapon in any situation.
4. A slaughterhouse is chock-full of machines, beasts, conveyers, rollers and all sorts of other apparatus. It could be classified, if one were so inclined, as “close or confined quarters”.
5. There were 3 miscreants. There were approximately 40 floor workers.
6. Does the name ‘Custer’ ring a bell?
7. Of the 40 floor workers, most carry and are expert with huge, heavy and very, very, very sharp implements known as ‘butcher knives’. They also wear thick (1.5-2.5 cm) leather aprons (that go from neck to knees) and were capable of deflecting not only the errant swish of a very sharp butcher’s knife, but probably shotgun pellets and rifle bullets as well.
8. They were intruders that didn’t know the floor plan.
9. We were not intruders and did know the floor plan..
10. They chose a door where they didn’t realize they were fully visible to the 10 or so characters in the break room, behind them, on their breaks.
11. This is the part where things really start to get messy.
12. There is no part 12.

The three idiots (all sweating profusely in both their heavy parkas and heat of the slaughterhouse), were very intent on keeping the drop on the 5 or 6 of us on the floor, directly in front of them.

They, alas, were not so nervy as to look anywhere but directly at us, menacing us with their formidable, but not terribly useful in close conditions, weapons. I was wondering if I could loosen the bolt on the bolt gun and let fly a few rounds (a la Darkman) in their direction, but it was a captive bolt gun, so that option was out.

As it turns out, that wasn’t going to be necessary, after all.

In the blinking of an eye, the guys from the break room had quietly (well, not terribly quietly, a slaughterhouse is not exactly known for its tranquility) eased out of the break room and were standing directly, and unbeknownst, behind the trio of malefactors.

There were 4 or 5 master butchers, a couple of shithooks, a gut-buncher and a few carvers.

Directly behind them and they hadn’t a clue (sorry about repeating the bleedin’ obvious).

WHAM! Parkas down, heads clubbed, aprons whipped, firearms grabbed, weapons removed, groins kneed and groins kneed.

You said “groins kneed” twice.

“I like kneeing groins”.

Ooohh…it was messy.

We return to a scene of near serenity. The three troublemakers were on the floor, coughing, retching, relieved of their weapons, their plans and most of what little dignity they could muster.

“Well”, says Bruno, as he saunters up to the lead idiot and administers a solid size 13 to the breadbasket, “What are we going to do with these shitheads?”

Remember, we are in a slaughterhouse, and the thought of these three ending up as Jimmy Dean’s Breakfast patties surely was paramount on what passed for thought in their tiny, little minds.

Suggestions from the gallery:

“Skin’em!”

“Build a bridge out of ‘em!” (No lack of Monty Python fans here…)

“Chuck’em down a shithole!”

“Let’s give’em to Mongo!” (“No, that’s too cruel.”)

Well, Blazing Saddles did come out that year…

What actually did happen was that three of us larger types peeled these dipshits up off the floor and stood them against the far wall. They were too shocked, and in a reasonable amount of pain, to mutter much of anything beyond:

“Please don’t kill us.”

“Don’t worry. We’re not that nice”.

Did I mention that the walls of the slaughterhouse are lined with nice, thick wooden planks?

Well, they are.

So there.

Louie, Luigi and one or two of the other master butchers pick these idiots up, one by one, and proceed to nail them to the wall (so their shoes were 6 or so inches off the floor) with their large, heavy butcher knives.

No, not through anything vital, just through their parkas, jeans and fleshy parts. Of the eye in the third miscreants case.

No. Not really. They didn’t draw a drop of blood hanging them on the wall, but these characters were well and fully immobilized and quite unable to move.

At this point either their pain subsided enough or reality, in its never ending quest for enlightenment, broke through, and these three realized just what sort of predicament they were in.

They copiously and in unison wet themselves.

“Well, shouldn’t someone call the cops?”, asks Randy.

“Yeah, I s’poze. It’ll probably take them at least a half hour to get out here.”, says Louie as he turns and leers in the reprobates direction, “I wonder what they’ll find?”

Well, with all this excitement, the slaughterhouse closed down as a crime scene and with nothing much else to do until local law enforcement showed; the butchers, carvers and even a shithook or two passed the time by playing an impromptu game of darts, or vertical mumblety-peg, if you wish.

After the initial subduing, there was never another drop of blood extracted from the three specimens tacked to the wall; but the bloody murder they screamed as each knife twanged into the wall bare millimeters from one or another vital area would have filled barrels.

After the Police removed the three ‘social butterflies’ and escorted them, shakily, to the local hoosegow, there was this huge mess that remained.

“I ain’t gonna clean that up!”, exclaimed one of my hirsute co-workers.

I later found out that he got a job in a quarry, mucking out slurry pits.

He found that job “exhilarating”.

I found another job, a long way away.

“Greetings from Yenesisk, Eastern Siberia.”

But, as they say, that is another story…

*30*

[Calud]

Awesome needs a new defintion.

[IT Grunt]

I'm glad my office is in a noisy server room, I couldn't stop laughing.

[Cyphr]

Awesome story although i bet you coulda tortured them by continuing to bolt gun the cows as they hung there eyes taped over..

[Lil Bunny]

That was awesome, dude. Hero, seriously.

[RecoveringKinkoid]

Great story, and wonderful in the telling!

You write like one of my favorite writers, Joe. R. Lansdale. Ever heard of him?

[marty]

You'd think they'd figure that, "Hey, these guys do a lot of hard physical labor for a living. Maybe it wouldn't be best to fuck with a group of people that are a whole hell of a lot bigger and stronger than we are, outnumber us, and know the layout of the building!"

Sounds like their common sense train derailed.

[Geek King]

Good story, good telling. And props for proper use of the "(long)" warning.

[Acolyte]

Ha! That's awesome.

Also, I have to ask, as a former (part-time) butcher shop worker, did any of them get threatened with the bone saw (Assuming it was in that room)?

For those who don't know, the bone saw is basically big fuckin' chainsaw used for...well, cutting the cow in half, and is the scariest tool anyone could ever work with.

[ChickenGoddess]

Oh my goodness I loved this story. It's totally hilarious.

[MadRocketScientist]

Oh GOD that was funny!

[Xieg]

Almost got meself in trouble here for laughing so hard. Truly an epic read.

[Tanasi]

What would have been real funny was to hang them by their ankles from the kill line over the blood tank. Maybe shave their heads with those very very dull boning knives.

[karma_gypsy]

So .... do you think those guys ever learned their lesson??


And where the heck did they get the idea to hold up a slaughterhouse .....? Things go in alive and don't come out the same way (well, 'cept for the workers).