Grueberfest 06: Idle Hands Are the Devil's Workshop (663 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: Grueberfest
Rating: 1.94 on 28 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Anansie (View user info) at 2006-10-10 20:08:43 EDT
Alan Daughtry slit throats for a living.
Generally, before he even walked into the slaughterhouse, he put on about seven pounds of chain mail. He didn't really need it, since he was one of only two stickers in his work space, but you never knew what could happen. He'd seen things. Make a wrong move and you could easily get gutted. It usually happened with the new people. They'd be easily distracted, turn around to quick, and stab somebody nearby. It happened all the time.
The cows came at him, one after the other, each suspended by a hind leg. Slit, slit, slit. After the first one of the day, he was drenched in blood. The face guard only blocked so much. The floor was covered in a mixture of blood, meat, and shit that came up to just above the ankles. The drains couldn't keep up with it. The speed of the line flung it everywhere. The knee high boots he wore didn't do much good.
Slit, slit, slit. A single cut to the carotid artery. They were knocked out, but if your cut was even a few inches off, you can bet they wouldn't stay that way. A few months ago, a newbie had made a horrible job of it, and the thing woke up, bleating and gurgling, shaking against the chain, until it finally slipped out. Its leg had caught up in the machinery of the conveyer, and snapped. The line was stopped for hours. The newbie was fired immediately. Production could not be slowed down like that. Not at pennies a pound. Idle hands are the devil's workshop, as his grandmother used to say.
On and on he worked. He was an automaton. An arm to a vast robot. Sometimes when he got home, he had to massage his fingers and arm to uncurl them. But he came back every day. Why, he really couldn't really articulate. The blood didn't bother him. The shit, the gore, none of it bothered him. Not even the smell. But his body screamed every night for him to stop. It couldn't keep up. Standing for hours in the same position, his body a slave to the same motions not just day after day, but second after second.
The pay. He supposed the pay was what kept him there. He was just another poorly educated Southern hick, but at Smithedale Foods, he didn't have to be paid like one.
---
"Sit down, Alan." Grant Ballantine gave him a Hollywood smile, and motioned to the chair in front of the desk.
Alan was not used to walking around the plant without his chain mail, Wellingtons, and slicker. Sitting here in a faded plaid flannel and double-kneed Dickies, he felt like some sort of interloper. Ballantine's smile did not make him feel at ease, although that was doubtless the intent. Instead, it made him even more uncomfortable. On the killing floor there were no smiles. Just the blank face of the other sticker and the slack-jawed tongue lolling of the cows. He was ready to get back to it.
"Do you know why I asked you to come in for this meeting today, Alan?"
"I really don't, sir. I don't understand. Ted's not anywhere near as good as me. He might slow production down. I should really get to wor-"
Ballantine raised a hand. "That's something I wanted to talk to you about, Alan. How long have you been on the kill floor? Two, three years?"
"Four actually."
"Four, yes."
There was an awkward silence as the district manager cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on the manager's desk. Then he looked back up at Alan and shined his glaring white teeth again.
"Well, Alan, I've always said it. You're a natural sticker. Four years, and you've never missed a cut. How many cows would you say you've killed?"
"I-"
"Let's see, one every ten seconds, ten hours a day... minus the break of course, for four years... I never was good at doing math in my head but I'd say it's in the hundreds of thousands, wouldn't you?"
"Well, sir, at first it was every fifteen seconds, but that might be about ri-"
"Yes, I'd say you are an expert at this point. But the thing is, Alan, as good as you are, I don't think you are cut out for this type of work."
Alan blinked. He sat like a dumb cow himself, processing what Ballantine had said.
"Sir," he bleated. "I don't think I'm cut out for anything else. Please, I need this job."
"No, no. Alan, don't worry. I didn't mean it that way. Forgive me. What I mean is, I think you are cut out for something more. I've talked to some of my superiors, and we'd like to promote you."
----
The only time it had ever gotten to him was in his first week as a sticker. For months he had been a knocker, the one who shot the cows with a bolt stunner. But one of the stickers had gotten his arm caught in the conveyer belt and had to be hospitalized. God knows why a sticker would be fucking with the conveyor belt, but it hadn't surprised him. Workers often pulled extra duties at the plant. After they fired him, management had come to Alan with what they called, "an excellent opportunity." He supposed it was true. The pay was a few dollars more an hour, and that could really make a difference at home. This was back when his house was still a home. Fast forward a few days. The floor manager was calling him a "natural sticker." He really did seem to have a knack for it, for hitting just the right spot. Even now, he'd never made a wrong cut. But he had made one mistake that first week.
Slit, slit, slit. This was back when it was only one throat every fifteen seconds, before they'd sped it up to ten. He tried to be a good robot, letting the tunnel vision set in. There was only the knife, the throat, the blood, and the endless motion of his good arm raising the knife, making the slash. But he'd been distracted. By the only thing that really ever could distract him. Women.
The plant was not regulated to only male workers. There were quite a few migrant women working in the trimming section. They were packed tight in there, shoulder to shoulder, each bearing a long, thin knife, with which they'd cut the fat off the meat that came down the belt. The pace was fast, as it was everywhere in the plant. Sometimes, after months of this, a worker might become prone to muscle spasms. A worker's arm might jerk hard, with that long, thin knife, and find an opening in the chain mail.
----
Alan stared at Ballantine. He began massaging his cutting hand. As eager as he was to get back to work, his body was grateful for the break this meeting afforded. He turned Ballantine's words over in his mind. Promotion. That would mean more money. Maybe less hours. Maybe. His mind worked slowly. After twenty years of nothing but physical labor, Alan's brain was out of shape.
"I understand you might like to think about it. I really can't take no for an answer though, Alan. We've already asked Ted to take your place on the kill floor."
"Uh... um."
"That's why I gave you the day off. Your new job... it's a night job. I want you to be at the Stanton Plant about eight tonight. Do you know how to get there?"
"Uh... yes. It's a bit farther than I'd like to drive, but-"
"Oh, I know. Don't worry. We'll make it up to you. You'll find that your new job has lots of perks. One of those perks is a free dinner, tonight, before work. Just be at the Stanton plant tonight at eight."
"A little late for dinner, isn't it?"
"Not at all. Besides, we need to give you the tour at about nine so you can start your work at ten o' clock."
"Oh. Okay. The pay is good?"
"The pay is excellent. This is an excellent opportunity for you, Alan."
"Okay. I'll be there."
"Great! I'll see you then." Ballantine shook his hand and flashed his teeth one last time before motioning him towards the door.
---
That day, Alan had heard a scream so loud it reached his side of the plant. One of the trimmers had had a muscle spasm and jerked her knife into her neighbor's gut. The single scream of the gutted woman was followed by those of her neighbors.
It hadn't registered at first what he was hearing. He was caught in the unending pattern of slit, slit, slit, and his ears had gained that foggy sort of hearing you get at this type of job. It was like having cotton balls jammed in there. But after the other women chimed in, he realized what he had heard. And he had made his mistake. He turned around, and backed up a few paces.
SLAM! First rule of sticking. Watch where you stand. The cow sliding along the belt above him hit him with enough force to knock him off his feet. His face guard came off as he sailed through the air, coming to rest face down on the concrete floor. In the blood. And the shit. And the little bits of meat that floated in it. And before he had even realized what happened, his mouth had opened and drawn it all in, in a shocked gasp.
It coated his face, his hair. It was in his nose and ears. It was in his fucking mouth. He could taste the bitter coppery blood mixed with what could only be the taste of cow feces. He shot up like a rocket, coughing and spewing. The taste was unbearable, the thought of what he was tasting was even worse.
He had been lucky to have blocked much of the impact with his hands, saving him from a bloody nose and mouth that could have easily become infected. So it was back to work, of course. Management could not have him slowing down production. Already his fellow sticker had stopped the upper belt and was staring at him expectantly. They couldn't afford to let any more time go by. No, not at pennies a pound.
---
Alan pulled into the Stanton employee parking lot at 7:45. He was accustomed to being early for his shifts. He didn't expect this new job to be any different.
He had wandered about his house all day, feeling useless. It wasn't like at night, when he had established routines to keep him busy until bedtime. He had tried sitting in his chair and sharpening his knife as he usually did after dinner, but it just felt wrong without Jeopardy in the background. He never knew the answers, but he liked hearing all the useless facts. They never stuck for long. Back when Jeannette had been around, he had been able to remember them a little. He'd tell her one in the mornings when she got home from the hospital, right before he left for work.
"Hey, Jeannie, did you know that Incan soldiers invented the freeze-drying?"
"No hon. I never knew that. I'll see you tonight."
Now he could never remember them. He didn't really have a reason. It's not like the cows gave a damn who invented freeze drying.
He supposed he'd eventually be able to come up with a routine. Maybe at his new job, he wouldn't even need a knife. Maybe they wanted him for management. He thought that would be alright. He'd get out of this physical labor before it broke his body. He wouldn't have to retire as early. Yes. That would be good.
He got out of the car and walked into the plant... into a reception area. Reception area? Already he could tell this place was going to be nicer than the old one. A pretty young blonde with hazel eyes looked up at him. She surveyed him, head to toe, with a snotty glance. Then she smiled. Her teeth were lovely. Her smile was lovely. Not a bit insincere.
"You must be Alan. Mr. Ballantine told me to expect you." She glanced at the clock. "You're early. Have a seat and I'll call him."
Alan sat and waited. He busied himself with some magazines on the table. They were all industry publications and not very interesting. At exactly eight o' clock Grant Ballantine appeared.
"Hello, Alan. How are you tonight?"
"I'm doing good."
"That's wonderful. If you'll follow me?"
There were two doors. One of them had a window, through which he could see offices and cubicles. The other had no windows. He assumed this led to the production area. It made sense. People who worked in the offices really didn't need to see what went on there. What was odd was the amount of office work that went on here. It was unusual to have offices and production in the same building.
Ballantine led him into the offices. This was completely different from what he was used to. The smell of the thousands of cattle being herded and slaughtered apparently did not reach this part of the building. No blood. No shit. No throats to cut. Everything was clean and organized. The men wore ties and slacks and black or brown oxfords. The women wore dressy business suits and lovely pastel blouses with knee length form fitting skirts. He could easily get used to this.
He followed Ballantine into an elevator at the far end of the office section.
"You really are getting an excellent opportunity Alan. Wait until you see this."
The doors opened up on a large dining hall. Employees on break sat at tables, relaxing, and enjoying themselves. This in and of itself was astounding to Alan. At his old job, no one relaxed. No one had time. Breaks were short and if you had time in the morning and an appetite in the afternoon, you brought a sandwich.
But the dining hall itself... the last time he had seen anything so nice was when he took Jeannette out for their first date. This was even nicer. The tables were glass, with cloth skirts underneath the tops. The napkins were cloth, for god's sake. There was a sunroof which gave diners a view of the stars. He wondered what kind of work they did that afforded them this luxurious treatment.
Ballantine brought him over to a table of men in suits. Nice suits. Even nicer than Ballantine's.
"Gentlemen. This is Alan Daughtry. The man I told you about."
"Have a seat, son." The eldest of the gentlemen motioned toward one of two empty seats. "Grant tells me you're a whiz on the kill floor."
"Uh, yeah. A natural."
"Yes, yes." A waitress appeared, wearing a black skirt, vest, and tie. "Donna darling, I'd like you to bring this man the Veal Scallopini. You don't mind if I order for you, do you Alan?"
"Um... no. I suppose that's alright." He didn't really care for fancy food.
Alan's eyes began to glaze over as the men discussed business. Occasionally one of them would say something about investments and stocks to Alan; he'd smile vaguely and nod. Occasionally during a break in the conversation, he'd attempt to interject with one of the jeopardy facts he remembered.
"Did you know that the... uh... Mayans invented freeze-drying. No, wait. That's not right. Um-"
The food arrived and saved him from the awkward stares of the men in suits. He bent over it, and grabbed the nearest fork. He shoveled a few bites into his mouth without looking up. He was surprised by how good it was. The way the soft meat practically dissolved in his mouth, its juices mixing with the scallops to create a symphony of taste. Symphony. That was pretty good. A half hour with these suits and already he was coming up with poetry. He glanced up from his plate, to see six sets of eyes staring at him intently.
Ballantine smiled. "Enjoying your food, Alan?"
"Yeah. This is great. It's great. Gosh, I don't think I've ever had anything this good."
"Excellent."
---
A half an hour later it was time for the tour. He was given a familiar-looking chain-mail suit and some tall boots to wear. It was a uniform that everyone that entering this part of the plant was required to wear. Ballantine himself wore one.
The sounds of whirring machinery bounced through the air. Like his old plant, it was void of conversation. But, unlike his old plant, the pace was noticeably more relaxed. Hunks of meat ran along the conveyor belts, being cut and manipulated in various ways. They passed a vacuum-sealing area where finished cuts were being packaged. Alan didn't recognize the meat. It seemed too pale to be beef.
"Let me ask you something, Alan. Do you know how much money we get per pound of beef at your old plant?"
"Not much. Pennies."
"Yes, pennies. That's why we have to keep up production, why there are so many injuries. Do you know how many injuries we have a year here at Stanton?"
He surveyed the pace of the workers. "I dunno. Maybe a hundred?"
"We only have about twenty a year, Alan."
"Holy shit!" Ballantine smiled. "Oh, I'm sorry sir, I shouldn't talk like that, you bein' a DM and all..."
"Don't worry. I'm used to that reaction. We keep the pace here slow for a reason. You see, at Stanton, the meat we prep is worth much more than pennies. Take a guess. Go ahead. Just take a guess."
"Um... maybe like eight cents." Eight cents seemed pretty high to Alan.
Ballantine laughed. "Hardly. Alan, I want you to know that we get one hundred dollars for every pound we sell at Stanton."
Alan's jaw dropped. He couldn't believe it. In the meat packing industry, such profit was unheard of.
"How did you enjoy your dinner, Alan?"
"It was great. I said that."
"Of course it was. Did you know it wasn't really veal?"
"Really? What was it?"
"I'd like you to follow me. I want to show you where you'll be working."
-----
At first, Alan tried to tell himself that what he was seeing couldn't be real. No way. This didn't happen. This was not happening.
"It's always a bit of a shock the first time. I'm used to it by now. Alan, did you know that human flesh is one of the premier delicacies in America? It's not served in restaurants of course. Not *public* ones, anyway. We mostly ship to private homes. Oh, the occasional back alley restaurant, yes, but we can't really afford to be too public."
Human torsos whizzed by him, headless and limbless, attached by hooks to the belts. They went into a machine that sloughed off the skin, emptying it into a huge vat beneath. When the vat was full, the machine would stop for a few seconds to empty its contents onto a new belt. The skin was then conveyed to a part of the factory, one Alan couldn't see. The skinned torsos continued down the line, stopping in front of workers with large knives. The workers hacked gingerly (if such a thing was possible) away at the meat, portioning out different cuts. It was slower, more delicate work than cutting beef. Some men reached inside, pulling out various organs and throwing them in labeled buckets: liver, lungs, kidneys, heart...
Ballantine grabbed his arm and led him to a different area. Men with large hacksaws cut hands and feet from disembodied limbs. They dropped them in buckets at their feet which were occasionally switched out by young, mostly Latino men. The limbs were then skinned before being sent farther down the belt. The belt stopped in front of a large group of women. They used long, thin knives to portion out different cuts of meat. Chunks of flesh were flung to the floor, and rested in stinking pools of blood. The area was kept very cool, as cool as a refrigerator. It still seemed hot. He realized it was because the bodies were still fresh. And warm.
They reached the point on the line where the bodies were still intact. Here were more men with hacksaws, chopping them, reducing them to torsos, sending the limbs and heads down separate conveyor belts. He could see further down men with mechanical knives working on the heads, slicing the flesh, plucking the eyeballs, reducing them to meatless skulls before sending the skulls themselves into a large machine. He could hear the sounds inside that machine. The sounds of saws coming up against bone. Underneath the machine was another vat. He could not see what was being deposited there, but he could guess. It seemed nothing was wasted at the Stanton plant.
"Here we are." Ballantine pointed ahead. "The kill floor."
----
In the morning when he got home, he sat in the chair and sharpened his knife. He had to keep it sharp. He couldn't let it get dull. A wrong cut might cause the product to wake up. It might struggle. It might get free, fall onto the belt. Make noise. It might actually try to escape. This type of thing slows production. This could not be allowed. Not at a hundred dollars a pound.
Family feud played in the background. It wasn't the same as Jeopardy. But he was better at Family Feud than he was at Jeopardy anyway.
He asked himself why he came back every day. Why, he really couldn't really articulate. His mind screamed every day for him to stop. But he kept going.
Sixty dollars an hour, a company car, and a nice long break around lunchtime. He never ate lunch. Alan had actually lost about thirty pounds in the six months he'd been at Stanton.
---
He had begun a bit of a game. He got the idea from a movie. He tried to see if the person whose throat he cut looked like a celebrity. He had a bit more time here. The bodies only came at a rate of one every twenty seconds. With so much extra time, he had to come up with some sort of distraction. He tried to stay busy. "Idle hands," and all. But it was a lot harder here. He had come to think the opposite was true anyway.
He not only reacquired tunnel vision since starting at the Stanton plant, he had acquired a sort of tunnel hearing as well. He had to. It wasn't like at the old facility. Cows all sound alike. They all scream alike. They aren't as smart. They don't realize what's coming. It wasn't like that at the Stanton Plant.
They were suspended by their feet, heads hanging down. Sometimes they were as slack-jawed as the cows had been. He grabbed each one by the hair, brought his good arm up, and made a single clean, neat, cut across the throat.
Slit, slit, slit. Body after body came down the belt, suspended by its legs. A single cut to the carotid artery did the trick. Alan never missed a cut. Sometimes they'd shit themselves. Feces would slide and drip with the blood and bits of flesh to the floor, but not before covering Alan. The faceplate was never enough. The slicker was never enough. The boots were never enough. When he got home, he was always covered in it. He always smelled like shit mixed with blood and the sickly sweet smell of flesh.
Alan Daughtry got his promotion, but he still slit throats for a living.
User Reviews
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-04-03 08:20:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You see, this is why I'm a vegetarian.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-11-06 23:50:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm flipping through The Walking Dead 5 right now.
Did you manage to pick it up yet?
Submitted by coley (user info) at 2006-11-06 20:14:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Sacrilicious: mine too. Too bad I'm not smart enough to have started collecting them all. Maybe that will be my new nerd hobby. Collecting favorite reviews.
Nah, too much effort. I'll stick with plate spinning and unicycle riding.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-11-06 19:54:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by coley (user info) at 2006-11-06 19:49:14 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-11-06 15:58:44 (#)
Ranking: 0
I swallow, then I regurgitate it into my child's mouth.
Wait a minute... I don't have any children. Damn, who was that kid?
==========
*dies*
===
Yeah..that was pretty much one of my favorite reviews ever.
Submitted by coley (user info) at 2006-11-06 19:49:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-11-06 15:58:44 (#)
Ranking: 0
I swallow, then I regurgitate it into my child's mouth.
Wait a minute... I don't have any children. Damn, who was that kid?
==========
*dies*
Submitted by lordofthepost (user info) at 2006-11-02 00:38:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Always awesome to see you posting here
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-10-19 10:49:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-10-19 10:48:57 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-19 10:46:13 (#)
Ranking: 2
Your title actually did spark some cool ideas. I've got a few beginnings I can go back and work on when I have more time. So, thank you for that.
My best idea, the one I probably should have went with if I really wanted to get some writing done, probably would have been WAY too long for a single post.
=======
Hey I say go for it and write the thing at a date when you can, then just between us we can compare how the two posts do. Would that work for you?
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-10-19 10:41:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-19 10:33:27 (#)
Ranking: 2
You deserved a better match up voltage, and I'm sorry I couldn't get my entry in on time. The truth is, even though I attempted to write something, I found it nearly impossible to do so. The thought of my schoolwork piling up was looming in my head, and I just can't justify blowing my assignments off. Not only that, but it was very difficult to write fiction when I was worried about other commitments. Good luck in future rounds. Hopefully your next opponent will rise to the occasion.
=====================
*sniffle* DON'T LEAVE ME PLEASE!
*SNIFF* IT'S JUST LIKE WHEN MOMMY LEFT WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME MOMMY THAT MADE THE BAD MAN COME BACK AND TOUCH MY THIGHS!
You gotta do what you gotta do Anansie. I am disappointed because I tried to bring game to this as I respect your writing immensely but if you were unable to I am sure you had good reason. Maybe we shall meet on the field of battle another day.
Submitted by FilthyAssistant (user info) at 2006-10-18 22:26:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You might wanna check this out if you haven't seen it yet:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1925114769515892401&q=orwell+rolls+over+in+his+grave&hl=en
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-10-12 21:34:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I gave you your next title.
It's called "Specter Specter on the wall"
http://www.ubersite.com/m/94353#2182094
Quit calling me at home.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-12 18:28:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-12 18:27:54 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-12 12:58:32 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-12 12:45:40 (#)
Ranking: 2
black bra with white panties?
HELLOOOOO???????
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh, don't play. You'd hit that six ways from sunday.
-----
I wasn't talking about that...MY lingerie matches - I don't go around like some ghetto hootchie who got dressed from the 99 cent store...
Submitted by shark25 (user info) at 2006-10-12 16:32:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very nice!
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-10-11 14:40:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-11 12:29:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Mooooooooooooooo
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-10-11 12:10:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I was trying to eat some monster cereal when I read this last night..and..ew.
This was great. The only thing that bothered me a tiny bit was that I don't think there was any mention of where the people were coming from. I know that facts like that can often go unmentioned in some stories, but I couldn't help but wonder about it in this one. Still, it was wonderfully written and gets my vote.
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-10-11 11:42:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuck me running this was good. Yeah it's possible to see the "it's people" thing coming during the dinner, but whatever. This wasn't so much about the twist for me as the telling, and the details. You really didn't have to give a lot of information about the slaughterhouse, or the kill floor, but you did and the story is better because of it. This wasn't so much a matter of reading for plot as reading for pleasure. Fantastic.
Oh, and I'd have clamored for a +3 button if you'd mentioned a Judas Cow.
Submitted by Method (user info) at 2006-10-11 10:06:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 YOU HAVE A BAJINER
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-10-11 10:05:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by ScarfaceMN (user info) at 2006-10-11 09:51:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Damn... that's a good story.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-10-11 08:57:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
*barf*
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2006-10-10 23:36:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
niiiiiiiice
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:29:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
FunFunFun!!!
Submitted by forensicgirl3 (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:53:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This makes me want to go stick a MoFo
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:40:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
It's kind of hard to hide it, so I really didn't try to, Connor. I figured most people would know what was up pretty early on, so I tried to focus on being descriptive.
Submitted by ConorJS (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:35:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
It's pretty good but could you have made it any more obvious that IT'S PEOPLE! SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:23:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
And I can't believe you beat me by 5 minutes.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:21:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
What's that website that sells tofu that tastes like human? Hufu or something? Now THAT'S fucked up.
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:15:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Yeah, it's long. Fuck off.