Mackerel. Sweet, oily, smooth, unspined mackerel. Last time I was pushing mackerel, I didn’t know how good I had it. I struggle with the mackerel, shoveling armloads through the hole. Fuck ’em if I’m going too fast, this is the last one before break. Let them go faster. I can feel the muscles in my arms, as well as my legs, cramping up now. When I bend over to use the shovel, my back is burning. The fucker who took me off the slime line wanted to kill me. That’s what the looks meant. They tried to bury me in a fish pile, and if I lived, I’d have the most miserable job on the fucking ship.
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