Simple Night, collective dreamtime: happenings witnessed by none yet dimly perceived by all.
Closing Time. ULTRA MAX, though avowedly open 24/7, steals a few hours for itself.
Those inebriates left huddled inside are wrapped up in the space closing in, crushed in its bosom, all the air rushing out, hardly noticing. Either it cannot touch them, or they are used to it by now.
Just before the doors are locked and the lights killed, the two Butchers extract their flensing knives, fully charged, from their outlets, give them a test-whir, and zip their white plastic suits.
Out the Service Exit, quickly past Culvert City, into the Fields. Two jolly rippers on the loose, singing old Irish drinking songs.
First Field: Cows.
Both Butchers switch their flensing knives on. A great whirring crops up.
One Butcher holds his vibrating blade in one hand, squeezing it tightly enough that its muffled buzzing and whirring carries a tune. It becomes an instrument, at once enchanting and soundtracking the scene.
The other sets to work on the Cows, lying on their bellies with their heads raised to learn, through the dark, what’s afoot. Wielding the flensing knife high yet expertly above his head, he cuts into the first Cow’s throat, then down its back, splitting its spine like a narrow log.
Rather than blood, what’s copious is feathers.
As the one Butcher continues to play his spell-casting song, the other carves the Cow, shrub-like, into a number of Roosters
After removing each hunk of mammal flesh, he switches the knife to a gentler setting and shapes it into poultry, coaxing it back to life.
Both Butchers jump for joy when the Field is complete, Roosters swarming their shins.
As the one Butcher continues to play his spell-casting song, the other carves the Cow, shrub-like, into a number of Roosters.
He then switches the knife to a gentler setting and shapes it into poultry, coaxing it back to life.
Both Butchers jump for joy when the Field is complete, Roosters swarming their shins.
They move on, the hours before sunup extending long and luxurious before them. More than once, they stop to snack on the candy they’ve tucked into the zippered pockets of their plastic suits.
The subsequent conversion factors, one Field at a time:
Pigs - Lizards
Goats - Children
Horses - Carp
There is no net loss of life.
In the morning, the Butchers are back behind their counter at ULTRA MAX, open again in full denial of having ever been closed.
The farmers take to their Fields and survey the changes wrought. They have long since become accustomed to the fallout from these periodic waves of change, neither questioning nor seeking to explain their nature beyond the acceptance that every profession has its occupational hazards.
They tend, as best they can with the tools they have, to their new flocks, with the understanding that, so long as one continues to live, one must continue to work.
Closing Time. ULTRA MAX, though avowedly open 24/7, steals a few hours for itself.
Those inebriates left huddled inside are wrapped up in the space closing in, crushed in its bosom, all the air rushing out, hardly noticing. Either it cannot touch them, or they are used to it by now.
Just before the doors are locked and the lights killed, the two Butchers extract their flensing knives, fully charged, from their outlets, give them a test-whir, and zip their white plastic suits.
Out the Service Exit, quickly past Culvert City, into the Fields. Two jolly rippers on the loose, singing old Irish drinking songs.
First Field: Cows.
Both Butchers switch their flensing knives on. A great whirring crops up.
One Butcher holds his vibrating blade in one hand, squeezing it tightly enough that its muffled buzzing and whirring carries a tune. It becomes an instrument, at once enchanting and soundtracking the scene.
The other sets to work on the Cows, lying on their bellies with their heads raised to learn, through the dark, what’s afoot. Wielding the flensing knife high yet expertly above his head, he cuts into the first Cow’s throat, then down its back, splitting its spine like a narrow log.
Rather than blood, what’s copious is feathers.
As the one Butcher continues to play his spell-casting song, the other carves the Cow, shrub-like, into a number of Roosters
After removing each hunk of mammal flesh, he switches the knife to a gentler setting and shapes it into poultry, coaxing it back to life.
Both Butchers jump for joy when the Field is complete, Roosters swarming their shins.
As the one Butcher continues to play his spell-casting song, the other carves the Cow, shrub-like, into a number of Roosters.
He then switches the knife to a gentler setting and shapes it into poultry, coaxing it back to life.
Both Butchers jump for joy when the Field is complete, Roosters swarming their shins.
They move on, the hours before sunup extending long and luxurious before them. More than once, they stop to snack on the candy they’ve tucked into the zippered pockets of their plastic suits.
The subsequent conversion factors, one Field at a time:
Pigs - Lizards
Goats - Children
Horses - Carp
There is no net loss of life.
In the morning, the Butchers are back behind their counter at ULTRA MAX, open again in full denial of having ever been closed.
The farmers take to their Fields and survey the changes wrought. They have long since become accustomed to the fallout from these periodic waves of change, neither questioning nor seeking to explain their nature beyond the acceptance that every profession has its occupational hazards.
They tend, as best they can with the tools they have, to their new flocks, with the understanding that, so long as one continues to live, one must continue to work.