Chapter Ten
The Slaughter of Innocence
Larry
Larry’s fourteenth birthday would always be the one he remembered.
He wasn’t such a skinny kid anymore, and he had grown several inches.
He was now five-eleven. Clyde was five-ten and said Larry would grow another inch or more.
He had also started getting a little peach fuzz on his face and short curlies down below.
His mother looked at turning fourteen as a sinful time.
Larry now understood what his mother had said about touching himself.
The boys at school talked about it constantly.
Since Clyde also considered it a sin, Larry did it as seldom as possible.
He’d wake up in a state of distress and feel dirty when the signs of his sin covered the sheet.
His father never explained this to him, and Larry never asked. He could not admit to his sin.
But sin was not what he was thinking about that day. This was Larry’s first trip to the slaughterhouse, and he had trouble containing his excitement.
Cityside Meats was an industrial gray fortress of concrete and steel.
His father explained on the drive over that the inside, like the butcher shop, had a stark division between two worlds.
In front were the holding pens, where the animals waited.
It was sectioned off from where the real work was done.
Larry would be able to see the inner mechanics of slaughter, and his entire body felt antsy.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Slyme,” a large man said.
“David, it’s good to see you as well. I’ve told you about my son. This is Larry.”
The boy stuck out his hand, and David shook it graciously. His grip may have been a little too firm for shaking a child’s hand, but Larry didn’t wince. He, however, did manage to cast the man a glare.
“Come to see what happens behind the scenes?” David asked, not really expecting an answer.
“I want to see how the animals are killed,” Larry said truthfully.
“My boy wants to understand all aspects of the business,” Clyde said proudly. “He takes after me.”
David stared at the boy. “Your dad has a keen eye for choosing the best product,” he said. “Nothing gets past your old man.”
Again, Larry bristled. His father was far from old and was younger than David. This time, his expression had David taking a step back. He laughed nervously. “Well. Let’s get the tour started.”
They entered the front area, which immediately assaulted Larry’s senses in a good way.
Layers of odors much stronger than those at the butcher shop assailed him.
The front area was filled with nervous animal energy combined with urine and feces.
The pigs were crowded together, their pink-and-gray bodies pressed against metal bars.
Some stood still, while others jostled nervously.
Their eyes seemed to reflect a confused placidity, punctuated by the occasional tense glance.
Larry’s heart rate accelerated as he watched the animals move down a narrow chute while making noises of distress.
“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 he couldn’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.