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satanic goatslayer
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Today was an interesting day for me. I was hired on as a full time butcher at the local slaughterhouse, which I believed to be the ideal position for myself. I woke up at around 4:00 am, packed a lunch, threw on some grubby clothes and headed to work.
I entered the slaughterhouse through one of the delivery bays in the back. I was greeted by a gruff looking bushman, who asked me what my name was. I replied “None of your business, Hairbag, you can simply call me Botulism.” He laughed, as though I was joking, but I did not correct him, being my first day on the job and all.
He took me on a tour of the facilities, which were in obvious violation of numerous health code standards. I’ve worked in worse, so again, I did not say anything. I put my Iron Maiden bandana on, lit my crack pipe up, and asked him when lunch was. He told me to stop smoking crack, take my bandana off, and lunch is whenever he tells me it is. I knew right then that there would be problems between us, but I shrugged it off and continued with the tour.
We came to my workstation, which was fully equipped with some interesting machinery that I had never seen before. He showed me how to use the machines, and gave me a list of tasks that I was to complete today. He left, so I took a swig of shine out of my flask and began with the day’s work. Basically my duties were packing meat over to the grinder/slicer etc and making it into different cuts. I even threw some brains and other various organs into the ground beef just to spite the Hairbag.
5 hours later, Hairbag came in and informed me that it was time for lunch. I had one hour. I went outside to the corner store and shanked the 10 year old who was playing video games in the corner. He slumped over and died, so I proceeded to go behind the counter and steal all of the chewing tobacco. I use it for seasoning. The 30 something woman clerk asked me what I was doing, and I replied that if she couldn’t tell, that she might as well just drink a beaker of chlorine and finish what Cerebral Palsy couldn’t. She got angry and grabbed the phone in what I assumed was an attempt at a 911 call. I snatched the credit card machine and bludgeoned her to death with it, making sure to thoroughly pulverize her skull and brain matter. I slopped the skull and brain bits into a ziploc bag, which I save to use as confetti for weddings.
I hauled the two corpses into the slaughterhouse and began to hack them up into manageable pieces with the industrial sized cleaver. Hairbag walked in, shrieked and ran away. I pulled out my trusty shuriken and tossed it into the back of his skull, temporarily paralysing him. I walked over to his body and simply stomped his skull and ribs until blood flowed from his eyes and mouth, indicating that he was ready for the grinder. I finished hacking the bodies up and then put them through the grinder. Now I had a hundred or two pounds of quality humanburger to eat.
After lunch, I realized that with no boss to report to, I had no more work. I packed up my things and went back home, where I proceeded to drink myself into a cloudy Absinthe haze. I realized that I need a job where I don’t have people coming in and questioning my actions. I was thinking about being a gravedigger, but I’m not quite sure if the demand is very high right now. My toothless East Indian friend tells me that he can get me a job working with old people at a retirement home, but I can’t deal with senility, so I’m thinking of gutting him with a sharpened crowbar.
Days like this remind me of a quote I once heard.
"There is no scarcity of opportunity to make a living
at what you love; there’s only a scarcity of resolve
to make it happen."
Or keep it happening in my case.
A french philosopher I met once told me about a similar story, but I hate french people, so I scalped him, dipped his brain in eggs and fried it up like french toast.
I entered the slaughterhouse through one of the delivery bays in the back. I was greeted by a gruff looking bushman, who asked me what my name was. I replied “None of your business, Hairbag, you can simply call me Botulism.” He laughed, as though I was joking, but I did not correct him, being my first day on the job and all.
He took me on a tour of the facilities, which were in obvious violation of numerous health code standards. I’ve worked in worse, so again, I did not say anything. I put my Iron Maiden bandana on, lit my crack pipe up, and asked him when lunch was. He told me to stop smoking crack, take my bandana off, and lunch is whenever he tells me it is. I knew right then that there would be problems between us, but I shrugged it off and continued with the tour.
We came to my workstation, which was fully equipped with some interesting machinery that I had never seen before. He showed me how to use the machines, and gave me a list of tasks that I was to complete today. He left, so I took a swig of shine out of my flask and began with the day’s work. Basically my duties were packing meat over to the grinder/slicer etc and making it into different cuts. I even threw some brains and other various organs into the ground beef just to spite the Hairbag.
5 hours later, Hairbag came in and informed me that it was time for lunch. I had one hour. I went outside to the corner store and shanked the 10 year old who was playing video games in the corner. He slumped over and died, so I proceeded to go behind the counter and steal all of the chewing tobacco. I use it for seasoning. The 30 something woman clerk asked me what I was doing, and I replied that if she couldn’t tell, that she might as well just drink a beaker of chlorine and finish what Cerebral Palsy couldn’t. She got angry and grabbed the phone in what I assumed was an attempt at a 911 call. I snatched the credit card machine and bludgeoned her to death with it, making sure to thoroughly pulverize her skull and brain matter. I slopped the skull and brain bits into a ziploc bag, which I save to use as confetti for weddings.
I hauled the two corpses into the slaughterhouse and began to hack them up into manageable pieces with the industrial sized cleaver. Hairbag walked in, shrieked and ran away. I pulled out my trusty shuriken and tossed it into the back of his skull, temporarily paralysing him. I walked over to his body and simply stomped his skull and ribs until blood flowed from his eyes and mouth, indicating that he was ready for the grinder. I finished hacking the bodies up and then put them through the grinder. Now I had a hundred or two pounds of quality humanburger to eat.
After lunch, I realized that with no boss to report to, I had no more work. I packed up my things and went back home, where I proceeded to drink myself into a cloudy Absinthe haze. I realized that I need a job where I don’t have people coming in and questioning my actions. I was thinking about being a gravedigger, but I’m not quite sure if the demand is very high right now. My toothless East Indian friend tells me that he can get me a job working with old people at a retirement home, but I can’t deal with senility, so I’m thinking of gutting him with a sharpened crowbar.
Days like this remind me of a quote I once heard.
"There is no scarcity of opportunity to make a living
at what you love; there’s only a scarcity of resolve
to make it happen."
Or keep it happening in my case.
A french philosopher I met once told me about a similar story, but I hate french people, so I scalped him, dipped his brain in eggs and fried it up like french toast.
