Read Online Cows by Matthew Stokoe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew Stokoe
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Psychological, Technology & Engineering, Mothers and Sons, Alienation (Social psychology), Animal Husbandry, Agriculture
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his body, when it fugued out and got sick, seemed to agree with the cow. His head, though, was greedy for change and, not knowing the correct path to take, but unable to pass up a chance at happiness, slipped into neutral and waited for the decision to be made for it.
Cripps led him on to a slaughter platform and pressed the butt of a boltgun into his hand. The slaughtermen were peripheral, the world was a grabber and a cow being maneuvered into it. Around him there was nothing else, except the dead feeling that everything now was inevitable and beyond his control. It was going to happen—wholesale slaughter for hours on end. Not yesterday’s single cow, not the separated viewing of cow death pornography, but participation in what Cripps said made these men what they were.
“You remember the feel of the gun. Good. Hold it firmly—this and your cock will raise you from your weakness. Do it, boy. I shall watch for a while.”
Steven blew a hole in the cow’s head, felt the animal’s collapse in his own body and a fine spray of blood on his face.
Gun swings back on its chain and slaughtermen drag the still shivering cow out of the grabber and hook it up to the conveyor. Then back in again, press hard against the next cow’s head and pull the trigger.
He puked over the third cow before he killed it.
Dimly, at his side, he was aware of Cripps wanking. Aware, too, that it was over him and not the dying cows. But it meant little. He was inside himself, watching himself kill and unable to stop. Working faster and faster in sprays and fountains and gouts of blood and brain and slivers of skull and arcing jets of shit. Working fast to burn through the fever, to have it finished. But it wouldn’t end and Cripps spurted come against the side of his leg, and his back and arms ached with the weight of the boltgun and his clothes stuck to him with blood and sweat and his hair was plastered down flat.
The cows kept coming, and each one took something from him: shavings of sensitivity, perception, care. He was being robbed, violated. One of the few parts of himself he wanted to keep was being cauterized into hard scar tissue. Between waves of nausea and desperate silent pleas that the loss not be permanent, the idea crawled in that the cow in the vent had been right. He was scared. But the straight-jacket of events tied him to the platform and kept his hand on the gun.
He began to phase out of perception. He dipped into long troughs of redness where there was nothing but the swaying of his body out over the guardrail and the distant jerk at the end of his arm. During these periods he did not see or hear or taste. He knew only motion and he let it rock him to sleep, into a void where the horror of bovine death became a buffer against itself.
And then he would be back again in the immediacy of it all, feeling every ridge of the gun, seeing individually each hair on the back of the cow’s head, each minute globe of blood as it danced in the air. Then, colors were concentrated, as though the dye of every object was collapsing in on itself, turning dense and hard.
On the last of these awakenings he found himself pressed against the side of a cow, down on the slaughter floor with six other men and Gummy. His dick was in it, through a hole in its hide. It was wet in there and the organs slid around unpredictably. A slaughterman held arms with him.
Gummy was shrieking down at the ass. His face dripped shit and he twitched through some kind of jig as his leathery cock splattered come over the flanks of the animal.
“Now ya know what a cow’s for, dontcha, ya little bastard? Now ya know what old Gummy meant. Thought I was just a fuck with a chewed-up mouth, didn’t ya?” Gummy threw his head back and shouted at the roof, “God Jesus Christ, I love cows!”
No one listened to him.
Cripps was alone, buggering a heifer, watching the slaughtermen through eyes glazed with the exultation of whatever truths he saw opening before him
Cripps led him on to a slaughter platform and pressed the butt of a boltgun into his hand. The slaughtermen were peripheral, the world was a grabber and a cow being maneuvered into it. Around him there was nothing else, except the dead feeling that everything now was inevitable and beyond his control. It was going to happen—wholesale slaughter for hours on end. Not yesterday’s single cow, not the separated viewing of cow death pornography, but participation in what Cripps said made these men what they were.
“You remember the feel of the gun. Good. Hold it firmly—this and your cock will raise you from your weakness. Do it, boy. I shall watch for a while.”
Steven blew a hole in the cow’s head, felt the animal’s collapse in his own body and a fine spray of blood on his face.
Gun swings back on its chain and slaughtermen drag the still shivering cow out of the grabber and hook it up to the conveyor. Then back in again, press hard against the next cow’s head and pull the trigger.
He puked over the third cow before he killed it.
Dimly, at his side, he was aware of Cripps wanking. Aware, too, that it was over him and not the dying cows. But it meant little. He was inside himself, watching himself kill and unable to stop. Working faster and faster in sprays and fountains and gouts of blood and brain and slivers of skull and arcing jets of shit. Working fast to burn through the fever, to have it finished. But it wouldn’t end and Cripps spurted come against the side of his leg, and his back and arms ached with the weight of the boltgun and his clothes stuck to him with blood and sweat and his hair was plastered down flat.
The cows kept coming, and each one took something from him: shavings of sensitivity, perception, care. He was being robbed, violated. One of the few parts of himself he wanted to keep was being cauterized into hard scar tissue. Between waves of nausea and desperate silent pleas that the loss not be permanent, the idea crawled in that the cow in the vent had been right. He was scared. But the straight-jacket of events tied him to the platform and kept his hand on the gun.
He began to phase out of perception. He dipped into long troughs of redness where there was nothing but the swaying of his body out over the guardrail and the distant jerk at the end of his arm. During these periods he did not see or hear or taste. He knew only motion and he let it rock him to sleep, into a void where the horror of bovine death became a buffer against itself.
And then he would be back again in the immediacy of it all, feeling every ridge of the gun, seeing individually each hair on the back of the cow’s head, each minute globe of blood as it danced in the air. Then, colors were concentrated, as though the dye of every object was collapsing in on itself, turning dense and hard.
On the last of these awakenings he found himself pressed against the side of a cow, down on the slaughter floor with six other men and Gummy. His dick was in it, through a hole in its hide. It was wet in there and the organs slid around unpredictably. A slaughterman held arms with him.
Gummy was shrieking down at the ass. His face dripped shit and he twitched through some kind of jig as his leathery cock splattered come over the flanks of the animal.
“Now ya know what a cow’s for, dontcha, ya little bastard? Now ya know what old Gummy meant. Thought I was just a fuck with a chewed-up mouth, didn’t ya?” Gummy threw his head back and shouted at the roof, “God Jesus Christ, I love cows!”
No one listened to him.
Cripps was alone, buggering a heifer, watching the slaughtermen through eyes glazed with the exultation of whatever truths he saw opening before him
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