Animal Dominion

The story and images below are quite intentionally graphic. They are drawn from candid footage that was allegedly captured from within the meat processing industry. See “Hormel Supplier Caught Abusing Mother Pigs and Piglets” at http://www.peta.org/. Whether you think meat is murder or meat is delicious, the question of livestock treatment is put on the table.

"Dex, you will be working for me," the scrawny man indelicately asserted with scarcely muffled pride. His stretched t-shirt wardrobe hung low around with sunburned neck.

"Yes, we all want to welcome you to the Horrel family," the well-dressed woman sitting to his side then quickly interjected.

Dex, sporting a pronounced grin that suited him well, replied to each, "Thank you, Maston, Shelley. I look forward to working with both of you." He cast an acknowledging glance to each correspondingly.

"That is all I needed here," Shelley resumed, "so I will leave you in capable hands." On that queue, the group stood up in unison around the conference table. And after the parting handshake, she exited the scene.

Now solidly in the Maston's capable hands, Dex looked to him for instruction. The newcomer brimmed with an unusual excitement, even for a first day on the job. Maston, however, assumed his new role as boss with decidedly muted eagerness. The pair made their way out of the conference room, and, asserting his newfound position of authority, Maston turned suddenly and began leading the way down the hall. Dex took several wide steps toward his escort but found he could not quite catch up.

"So how long have you worked here?" Dex queried, simply to break the mood.

"Long time," Maston answered tersely, while not loosing a beat in his forward stride. With conversational efforts unrequited, Dex's mind quickly transitioned to the surroundings.

The hallway was flanked by rows of dingy cubicles, and the air whispered the subtle murmur of office equipment and competing personal radios. As they walked, Dex's eyes jumped from poster to poster hanging on the walls, with pink cartoon pigs recounting monthly quotas, facility accident statistics and mandated workplace postings in various languages. Finally, the two reached the hallway's end. There a metal door stood, showing its use by a cluster of handprints at reaching level.

"This is the shop," Maston squawked, giving a brief glance toward Dex while pushing open the door.

The sounds, previously muffled, were now at full effect. They were an irregular array of clanking, banging and porcine snorts. But next was the smell. It was one of feces and rot, and it came as an expected, yet still overpowering presence. To Maston's disappointment, though, Dex handled this introduction with considerable aplomb. He took in the hellish panorama, spanning as far as one would care to see and filled with a maze of pens, sties and cages.

"Whatcha think?" Maston blared.

"Let's do it," Dex shot back.

With an expression of pride, Maston continued forward toward a small metal fence delineating a narrow path that ran parallel to the personnel aisle. The path was choked with distressed pigs, each anxiously probing forwarding into the rump of the next. In distant view to each side were fellow workers, each encouraging the pigs to proceed along the path with the brutal swings and jabs of metal canes. One such cane was resting against the segment of metal fence in front of the pair. It was not long before Maston snatched it. With a look of deeply seeded satisfaction, he then proceeded to bring the cane down upon the backs of the panicked animals.

"Let's go, boys!" he exclaimed. Dex, meanwhile, watched with a deadpan stare.

"Don't be afraid to hurt 'em," Maston instructed as he repeatedly brought the cane down. Despite the shrill screams of the swine, the deep thud of hard metal on thick flesh resounded.

After observing for a moment, Dex stepped forward and reached for the cane. Maston halted his assault. His expression of pleasure faded with Dex's approach. Returning the eye contact, he relinquished the baton to the novice. Dex seized it firmly and immediately began to swing with authority. In an apparently purposeful barrage of shouts timed to the blunt landings of the weapon, his tactic emerged. It was a subtly softer style than Maston's, yet certainly stronger of an imposing will. The animals responded quickly by streamlining their formally chaotic thrust into an organized march forward.

After a moment, Maston stepped up. "Alright," he said, "I'monna show you the Thumper."

Satisfied that he had mastered the task, Dex nodded in agreement. "The Thumper," he echoed.

The two walked a short way against the flow of the swine fodder and toward the start of the procession. It became clear that the path connected a network of gates, which were selectively opened to guide the animals from their pens and to their next ordeal. Now arriving at the back end of the line, only the weakest pigs remained. These were the animals that could not manage the march. As Dex took in the sight, Maston approached with a new, maniacal tool. It was a filthy and well-worn pneumatic device with an enclosed channel that captured a large steel bolt. With a press of the trigger, the bolt would shoot down the length of the channel and protrude violently from its end.

"This is the Thumper," Maston shouted. And no sooner had he made the statement than he swung the gun onto the forehead of a suffering animal. He then fired. The animal's skull was instantly crushed into its brainpan, and its already lethargic state transitioned smoothly into death.

But the show was not over yet. Attention was immediately drawn to an approaching ruckus. Two handlers stomping through the muck of the pen were swinging the familiar batons against a single struggling pig. The fattened animal was making his best effort to escape, despite both his hind legs being broken. Finally, the pig collapsed in an aisle adjacent to the pen, and these men receded into the muck to round up the next straggler. Maston raised the pneumatic gun to Dex, who grabbed it with characteristic confidence. The intention was clear. A natural, Dex positioned the gun onto the exhausted animal's forehead. The safety ring at the end of the shaft engaged against the pink flesh, and after a second passed, the trigger mechanism activated. Without hesitation, Dex yanked the trigger and fired. The slumped animal immediately came again to life, with ears erect and mouth ajar as if in an expression of shock and agony. The creature stumbled hopelessly on its two able front legs. This continued briefly. But the agonizing spectacle gradually settled as the pig succumbed to its inevitable end. Throughout, Dex examined every detail of his first kill. He had once again showed his promising prowess. Maston, though, feigned a dejected disinterest.

"Alright, let's try the little boys." The two men proceeded to another nearby area and stopped at a small plastic tub of squealing piglets. Retrieving another of the myriad Thumpers, Maston handed it off to Dex as he simultaneously fetched a small piglet from the tub. Holding the piglet by a single hind leg in front of Dex, the implication was again clear. But Dex hesitated.

"You scared of it?" Maston prodded.

Recognizing the challenge, Dex's lips pressed together with resolve. He positioned the gun in time with the rhythmic writhing of the squirming piglet, carefully anticipating every undulation. Dex's habitual sneer was conspicuously absent, as he precisely pulled the trigger. The writhing continued but now in a much different pattern. And after a moment of this, Maston unceremoniously dropped the injured animal to the floor. No congratulation was offered for the successful execution of the act. Instead, Maston chose his words thoughtfully. "So the little boys are hard?" he boasted.

Dex for the first time looked genuinely confused. "That was gratuitous," he replied. "There's no return for the company in that." It was true. And Maston grimaced at the truth in it.

"Alright, we'll do some runts then. There's a couple in this box." Maston reached and grabbed another piglet that was quite smaller than the one before. He then extended it to Dex.

Taking it, Dex asked, "What do you want?"

"Take care of it," Maston replied derisively.

At a loss to the canonical approach to the matter, if one were even in place, Dex simply positioned his grip around the piglet's legs. Then in a wide arc, he swung the animal downward against the splattered concrete floor. The effect was drastic, and the limp body hung from Dex's fingertips. Prompting to discard the animal, Maston's eyes then broke off to the side.

"Alright then, we'll do some Pinnchin'," Maston decided. His gaze returned as he reached down and retrieved some crude shears from the bench where the tub of piglets still rested. The shears were suffused with encrusted blood, except in the areas worn clean through routine use.

"What'chu do is you snip off their tails n' their balls."

An amateur student of anatomy by his own accord, Dex took the shears and performed the task. Despite the strong grip pressing into the piglet's abdomen, the tiny animal still found strength to scream. But Dex sailed through the assignment with typical adeptness and alacrity.

By this point, Maston's attention had moved elsewhere. He had discovered that the expunged runt had in fact survived his swinging pile driver and was one of the few still struggling for breath in the discard pile. This fact was now of great importance, as Dex soon found.

"You call that dead?" Maston taunted. "That boy could jump up and getcha." Maston jabbed into the broken body with a firm finger. The weary eye instantly came alive under the strain, and the small legs began to kick futilely.

Dex weighed how to handle this peculiar situation. He decidedly placed the shears back on top of the bench from which they had come. Then with a quick and broad step, he positioned himself between Maston and the second plastic tub of discarded young. This move was startling to the bullying man, causing him to cower back instinctively. Dex then landed his fist forcefully into the small body. He pressed hard, vividly expressing the musculature of his arm.

"How long should I hold him like this?" Dex demanded, with a glare appropriate to the affair. "I could go all day."

Bested in his own progression of horror, Maston plotted a covert retreat. "Alright, I'm gettin' lunch," he said after a pause. He then turned and began walking away.

Sensing that his successful navigation of Maston's gauntlet could easily devolve into a Pyrrhic victory, Dex took a breath. "Yeah, I could eat."

The two men made their way to the cafeteria. It was early for the midday meal, but both men retrieved their lunches and sat down at a nearby table. One revealed a ham sandwich, and the other, pulled pork.

Dex again attempted to spark a conversation. "There are a lot of people who definitely couldn't bare to work in a place like this."

"Whadda you mean?"

"Well, ya know, the 'meat is murder' people - who care about animals' feelings."

"Yeah, I know animals have feelin's," Maston jumped in. "I hurt 'em all the time," he quipped with a self-congratulatory smile.

"Of course they do," Dex retorted. "That's all they have, like little automatons, guided by pure instinct."

Maston's grin faded instantly as he showed himself not to be impressed.

Recovering the conversation, Dex continued, "All it is is whining. If they really wanted to change the situation, they should define the new business case. They oughta demand that customers of the meat processing industry certify the treatment of animals. Talk to supermarkets, chain restaurants. Don't just avoid meat personally in silent protest. What does anyone care about that?"

Maston took another bite from his sandwich.

"Why don't they demand, for example, that web cameras be installed in processing facilities? Spread the word no one buys without it. Anyone can monitor at any time. Knowing you're being watched, that you're accountable, now that's change. … There'd be a lot less senselessness around here."

Maston remained unimpressed but now developed signs of contempt. "You know what PeTA is?"

"What?"

"Protection for ... the Environmental Treatment of Animals"

"Well, I suppose that's exactly who I'm talking about. But they're so bogged down with not eating any meat at all. No one relates to that. What animal in nature meets a clean end? Death is part of the deal of living, ya know. … The real issue ought to be their lives."

"What do you think about them PeTA boys?" Maston followed in a provocative tone.

"I'm sure they'd be delicious," Dex said with an amused grin. His snide comment failed to defuse the tension. Sensing a need to back off, Dex relaxed his posture, "Frankly, Maston, it just has nothing to do with me. I’m enjoying this pulled pork just fine."

"Yup" was Maston's incredulous response. He quickly finished the final bit of his ham sandwich, crumpled the bag from which it had come and returned to his feet. Dex, only half way through his meal, remained seated. Without even a glance, Maston then turned toward a door and exited the room. Dex, meanwhile, continued his pulled pork.

Upon returning minutes later, Dex had finished his lunch as well. "Back to it then," he prompted.

"You gotta do some sweepin' " Maston responded.

Returning to the floor where pen that had been emptied that morning, both men had fitted themselves with a chest-high ensemble of rubber pants and boots. Dex, with shovel in hand, began shoveling the foul sludge that coated the floor as instructed. At the same time Maston, from a distance, went to task spraying down the gate and surrounding metal fence with a short hose. Dex's zeal for the work faded as the weight of the fecal slop fought against him, occasionally sending out splatter from each slap of the shovel's spade. Maston, on the other hand, quickly finished his work. "It's a big hold," he said. "I need it cleaned out today." And with that, he made an unrepentant exit.

Countless, monotonous hours passed, one sloppy shovel stroke at a time. But unwilling to acknowledge the hardship, Dex continued unabated. Eventually, lighting in other areas of the factory went dark one section at a time, but Dex pressed on. Belied by the constant artificial lighting overhead, night had fallen by the time Maston finally reappeared.

"I thought you'd forgotten me," Dex said, feeling relieved by the return.

"Oh, I didn't forget about you," was Maston's simple reply. "There's one more thing tonight. I'monna show you the Pit."

Masking dismay, Dex acknowledged and the men walked single file deeper into the bowels of the facility.

"Where is it that we are going?" Dex inquired with suspicion, as this late-night quest reached deeper and deeper into the emptied building.

"You'll see," was the next simple reply. Dex remained in tow, his mind racing.

Finally the journey seemed to be reaching an end. Maston stopped in front of a door framed by various piping and conduits. The door was simply marked “Compressor Room.” Maston rested his baton against the wall as he fumbled with the lock.

Reliably, a Thumper rested nearby. After fishing something from his pocket, Dex stealthily reached and grabbed it. He then began manipulating the end of the gun, weaving and twisting. Any sounds were masked by the prominent drone of machinery from all directions in the area.

With the door now swinging open, Maston retrieved his baton and stepped into the darkness of the room. "Let's go, boy. Come on in," he trumpeted against the background of noise.

Ensuring slack on the hose for this pneumatic weapon, Dex followed cautiously. His eyes struggled in darkness to see that Maston was proceeding forward.

"Now, what is this about, Maston??"

"Ya know, I ain't so sure you ain't one o' them PeTA boys. But it's time, I'm fixin' to find out."

Upon hearing this, a wave of clarity replaced Dex's look of distress. As Maston began a sweeping motion to turn and strike, Dex reacted in his own artful defensive. He quickly raised the Thumper and put it to work through the spine of his attacker. As before, his aim was a marvel of fluid precision, carefully anticipating the move. Maston's spine shattered, his lap pitched forward and his trunk dropped straight downward. His body came to awkward rest, folded on the floor at Dex's feet. And once Maston's vision began to see again through the pain, the image was an unwelcome sight. Dex stood there, examining every detail of his next kill. No spirit of PeTA was in fact found to be at work, only the Thumper.

Writings Page

Home