Few things are as enjoyable as a night spent among friends being hit with big sticks. I’ve got a nice goose egg coming up on my collarbone. Thank Pete I’m not in the corporate world anymore.
At one point, a security guard popped by to check on us.
“No,” I said, “we’re cool.”
I’m sitting in the living room while the Scarab and the Cap’n play chess. Replete with burgers, the roommates are sprawled out on the floor. We might have had a few beers.
Cap’n Raspberry had some cows once. I met them, back in Fort Bragg. One was black. They were cows, you know, your average kind of beast. Tonight I fried up the black one, mixed with salt, pepper, and a little marmalade. I ate mine covered in onions with a little farmer’s cheese. I’ve got the hookup, you know.
I tell you what: those cows never knew inside. They never knew pain and fear. The Cap’n's father walked up to them one day and said “today is the day,” and then shot them in the head. Then they sent the meat out to be butchered and we are eating the white packaged results like we are eating ourselves, slowly, inside. The meat is in the chest freezer, and when it thaws, it bleeds.
Sometimes I watch the blood pool at the bottom of the bowl and I think about the vibrant throbbing existence it came from. It’s not a bad way to go; today’s the day for a bullet in your head. Watching Fast Food Nation I was struck by our acceptance of cruelty in death. This meat is happy. I can taste it as I roll it, rare, on my tongue. I have no fear. The bitter grey depression that is corporate meat can never compare to this.
The meat is juicy and rich, with touches of outdoor wildness to it. I think mine could use some sri racha but the boys are out. I should probably get out of the habit of eating so much damn sri racha anyway.