CARCASS CABLE

That sound is still so strange to me.

And just what sound would that be?

The squelching sound of the hook through flesh.

They’re sacks of meat. No more, no less.

I sometimes wonder who they were before.

It’s not our job to think.

Aren’t you the least bit curious?

No. I only worry ‘bout the stink.

There’s the bell. Another batch. It’s like the Hydra’s head.

Well put. For every one we hang, ten more arrive. An endless stream of dead.

At least that means we’ll always be employed.

Makes up for gloves and aprons soaked in blood and gore.

And I think I’m starting to understand ‘bout not guessing their old life or name.

Good. Because once they’re on the cable, everyone’s the same.

They send them down.

We send them out.

So many mouths to feed.

Hell of a job we have, my friend.

Hell of a job indeed.