COWS

by Matthew Stokoe

On the bus to the meat grinding plant the cereal and fruit fed faces of the other passengers made him feel haggard and polluted.

Killing is an act of self-realisation, it shows a man the truth of his power.

BS. I’ve come to a conclusion that humans should be classed in two groups - the civilised ones, the ones who used their brains to get us to where we are now. They’re the architects, artists, poets, philosophers. The other group are troglodytes - muscle mass and nothing else. They’re for lifting and carrying heavy things. They’re also the most vocal, vulgar and aggressive and love to call themselves “real men”. These men belong on Animal Planet.

"It smells like your birth. I didn't expect this from you, Steven. You've started a game with your darling mother, haven't you? Those years in your room with that fucking mongrel and your precious TV, doing nothing but wanking and picking pus out of your face, and you think you can just crawl out and wipe off the slime? Just reach into your box of dreams and slip one on like a coat? You sorry fuck, you're not strong enough to do it."

Mother of the Year Prize nominee.

Steven served the shit with slices of white bread. "Eat it while it's warm."

Surreal

"Sure, dude. And maybe I take it up the arse. We saw you hiding out there at the side of the plant this morning, twitching and jumping. Cold turkey, man." "Bullshit." "That supposed to be funny?" "What do you mean?"

She died feeling clean, the happy weight of the poison resting outside her, pressing against her hip.

Oh, Lucy...