Casablanca

There is a room in this city, somewhere, where all fears and terrors exist.

Behind the Betelnut palms and Indian mango trees, across the busy highways and pocketlanes; away from the glorious flyovers that dot the traffic areas of this city, there is a room.

A white room. Floor tiles of grout. Wall filled with fungi. Moisture in the air. Cracked paint, yellow lights, uneasy stench. In the day it isn’t much, it’s just a steel door, padlocked. No signages, no adresses, just a number 833 on the side of the door. But during the night, everything goes alive.

In the wee hours of the morning, two dirty bodies hobble outside its steps. Smoking. Taking shots of the local rum. Ice. Coffee glasses. Now these two heroes just pass their bottles and pass their time, smoking, breathing noxious smoke, drinking alcohol, waiting for the time.

The truck comes in.

The noise from the machine sounds like a gobbled-up ogre stuck between two gears of in a toothpaste factory. Noisy against the silent atmosphere, at a time where all is asleep, and the fuckers are awake. Another two cronies come out of the truck cabin and drags two bodies out from the truck; they heave as they pull. They sweat as they carry. They agonize in the plight.

Spirits who pass by watch along. Souls working for souls across the seas, answering their phone calls. They just watch in amazement.

As the heroes carry the two bodies inside the White Room, the two waiting beasts stand up, pay up, and close the door. From there they nozzle the two beasts. They leave their butts on the plant box beside, and throws away the rum bottle on the other side of the road.

Electrecute them. As the beasts squeal and cry in terror and pain and horror, they stab these pink bodies with steel rods. They bathe these monsters with water and stick them with steel rods, sparking, illuminating the dark white room against the yellow incandescent light. The heat is bearable, but the stench is not; it makes the atmosphere feel heavier than it really is. Beating down on our two workers’ shoulders.

One takes a hammer and a nail. One holds one body in place. One takes the nail and pinpoints it in the beast’s forehead. One hammer shot.

The squealing ends.

Blood spurts out like a fountain of youth; endless, warm, hot, living, alive, exciting. They gut the beast’s neck and cut through the body. Blood flows in torrents. Our heroes’ feet are smudged in the red rivers, flowing all through out the Casablanca. The white room, with white walls, with grimed tiles; it floods with blood.

They work. They chop. They cut. They bleed.

The morning after, our heroes retire and sleep in their pig pens. It’s been a hard night’s work slaughtering. After they’d deliver their wares into the markets, spreading each limb and finger and testes to its rightful, peaceful, place, to be bought, to be cooked, to be eaten.

It’s not easy to be a pig and work in a slaughter house.

It’s not easy to be a pig and slaughter humans for a living.

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