Page 18 of Long Pig

“The real work happens in the next room,” David said.

“It does,” his father agreed, “but this is where I look over the stock. The pigs entering the chute are a little skinny for my taste. Look at that group in the holding pen.” He pointed to the pen marked number six and walked closer.

Larry noticed how much more relaxed these pigs were than the animals that had entered the chute. He also agreed with his father on their size.

“Good eye as always,” David said. “This is lot 420. How many do you need today?”

“Let me check the other lots first,” his father said and began walking to each individual pen. He came back to lot 420. “This is the one. I’ll take four.”

“Good, good,” said David. “I’ll have this lot processed next.” He motioned to one of the men standing off to the side, pointed at 420, and the other man nodded. They continued the tour again.

They entered a humid, brightly lit chamber, and much like the cutting area of the shop, the floor was slick with water and blood. A chain hung from the ceiling, leading to a long, conveyor-style line of large meat hooks.

The thick, coppery smell of blood was everywhere, clinging to the walls, rising in a hot steam from the floor, and coating the inside of his nostrils. Interwoven was the pungent, almost sweet scent of steaming fat and burned hair. It all mixed with a deep, musky, and vaguely sour smell of offal and stomach contents. The combined stench coated the back of Larry’s throat, and he fought a satisfied grin.

As the pigs moved closer to their fate, they became more agitated until stark fear showed in their eyes. Grunts and squeals cast an undercurrent of nervous sound that rose to a panicked crescendo as they were moved down the final chute.

A man held a stun gun that gave a quick, sharp pop. The front animal went limp. Another man dragged it forward while another sliced the pig’s throat.

Larry was fascinated by the look in the pig’s eyes immediately before it was hit with the stun gun. It knew death was coming, and there was nothing it could do to stop it. He continued to study each animal as it met its fate. Then David spoke up, interrupting his enjoyment.

“Their legs kick when they’re placed on the chain, but they’re past the point of pain,” he assured Larry. “They slice a small incision just above the hock joint, and the gambrel, which is actually two hooks, holds the pig's hind legs apart, so it can be hoisted and moved along the overhead rail system. The process is quick and efficient.”

It’s too quick, Larry thought to himself.

He wasn’t sure if that was the moment he knew something was very wrong with him or very right, but the memory would return again and again, as his awakening.

Larry turned his attention to the workers, who were clad in bloody rubber aprons as they worked with practiced efficiency. He followed his father and David further down the line as the process intensified.

The carcasses were placed in scalding tanks, scraped clean of hair, and then eviscerated. The internal organs—guts, hearts, and livers—were a cascade of sizes and colors, as they spilled out. Next, the gleaming white carcasses were stamped and moved to a cold room to hang.

“By watching the process, you can see the attention to detail,” his father said. “Fear toughens the meat. Here, they do the killing quickly, and it’s why I buy from them.”

Larry wanted to see a place that didn’t do it quickly. He wanted to study the animals’ eyes as each one met death. But hecouldn’t say these things; he could only feel the crushed spirit of the animals and revel in it.

He noticed something else. The human element was mostly silent. The workers communicated with simple gestures or sharp, single words. The dominant noises were the terrified animals, the clank of chains on the hooks, the sudden pop of the stun gun, and the constant rush of water from hoses used to clean the floors of gore.

In Larry’s young eyes, this was paradise. Everything from the smell of fear to the blood and feces made him eager to visit again.

“Can I go with you to the beef slaughterhouse next month?” Larry asked as soon as they were back in the car.

“You are a good son,” Clyde said, but didn’t answer Larry’s question.

It was okay, Larry knew he would be going with his father from now on.

Chapter Eleven

Butchery of the First Degree

Willow

Dale and Willow remained quiet when they went back to search for the marker. They didn’t discuss the man. Willow knew sound traveled, and it was most likely not a good idea to talk about him until they were back at the house. Ten minutes after the interaction, Dale spotted the metal spike they’d been looking for.

“Strange,” he said after he lifted it from the dirt. “Usually, these things are far enough in the ground, they don’t move.”

Using GPS, Willow located the spot where the marker should have been, and Dale pushed it in.

“Are we going to look around further for clues?” she asked.