Confessions of a Corrupt Vegetarian

For the past ten weeks, I’ve been absent.
Sure, everyone thinks I’m still there, but this is part of my ruse. My deception. My caper, if you will.
Get to work everyday, 7 am.
Punch in, standardized bleached equipment on. What a process.
Sterilization, full body uniform, gloves, mask. Stiff upper lip.
We cannot show emotion in the factory. We do not have coffee breaks, cigarette breaks or lunch breaks. Besides, after decapitating and gutting a few thousand chickens before noon, who really wants a turkey club?
Not I.
I always wondered why the uniforms couldn’t be another shade. White only makes the slaughterhouse seem more cartoony, like they were trying to make a bad joke with the colour scheme.
The red you see splattered unceremoniously on the white: that’s blood. Get it? Chickens come here to die.
Hardy fucking har.
How does it feel to have the pancreatic juices, the stomach remains, the liver, the flinching heart-the insides of a thousand animals splattered all over your arms, your chest, your hands?
We are told to give the company response in the employee’s manual: ‘they are poultry, not animals. I, as an employee of this corporation, am simply a part of the natural process of nutrition.’
I don’t really care either way. I’m a vegetarian.
Kind of a paradox, would you say? Perhaps. But I’m not here to pretend I am an activist. I don’t give a shit about the chickens, seals, belugas, whales or women’s rights.
I’m here to steal.
Between Tormented Ted, my chronically angry section manager, and Dowdy Dorla, the fat unit supervisor, one would think it impossible to conduct this operation.
But I charm. I cajole. How do I manage this task in such a sterile, anti-social environment?
I happen to know that Dowdy Dorla will feel loved if you graze your hand slightly to hers when punching in and out. Add a sweet, earnest smile and maybe drop in a quick comment about her cats when no one’s looking-and you’re golden.
Tormented Ted. Create a problem, a diversion. Why did the thousands of discarded beaks and claws get stuck in the machine, creating a revoltingly odorous stream of overflowing goo on the assembly line floor? ‘Gee, Ted. Must’ve been maintenance down in line 23B. I hear they’ve got an illegal on-the-job gambling ring going on. Downright irresponsible, if you ask me.’
Draw negative attention to anyone but yourself. Commiserate with the managerial staff.
Bye, bye, Ted.
What some people don’t know about humanity is that everyone is so focused on themselves that they often fail to notice the obvious.
Which gives me the five seconds I need to slip out through ‘Danger High Voltage’ door A.
By the time Dowdy Dorla has stopped daydreaming about me nurturing her cats as though they’re our babies, Ted is also back from yelling at the innocent people in 23B. But I’m gone, baby, gone.
And then, it’s impossible to notice an absentee through the vast ocean of white and red. That’s their flaw, you see: they can see us move, and are alerted by any sudden movement. But they cannot count us. So I guess the joke’s on them.
But, you ask, what then?
Well. Have you ever wondered what happens to the discarded guts of all the ‘poultry’ we kill?
Officially, we are supposed to say we dispose of it biologically. Whatever that means. Usually, it all ends up in big landfills somewhere far far away where everything rots and creates diseases.
Here is where I come in. Suppose a competing corporation wanted to maximize profit on their discarded chicken organs?
Legally, they cannot mash up their own remains, add chemicals, artificial flavoring, preservatives, and label it ‘meat’.
However, if someone from a competing corporation, enables them to swipe massive amounts of discarded chicken organs from their own slaughterhouse, they can then discreetly add them to their production.
I am that special someone.
Technically it’s not really illegal: the ones at the top can claim they didn’t know what was going on.
Just like, where I work, if massive amounts of waste suddenly disappear, nobody really cares. One less headache for the CEO.
What the competing company pays me is pocket change for what I give them access to, but for one person-let’s just say, another few shipments and I’m set for life.
Then they will use someone else. The trick for them is to always switch it up, that way patterns don’t form, so those activist assholes never get on our case. I’ll be washing my hands clean of this job any day now. Passing down the torch to some other anonymous white and red body.
We all turn a blind eye to the processes, we all make money. Everyone’s happy, right?
Except you, perhaps. The uninformed consumer. But then again, you’ll never know who I worked for. How were those hot dogs you ate at your family barbecue last weekend?
Like I said, I’m a vegetarian.