The Slaughterhouse

The worst part about working in a slaughterhouse is listening to the death rattle churned out at quite literally break-neck speed. Its chorus sounds around the clock like the white noise of an orchestra unable to find its tune. By the time that the cacophony slowly drifts across the frozen earth, over the railroad tracks, and into the comfortable confines of Karl Heninger's office, it sounds akin to a high-pitched scream. It is as if the character from Munch's masterpiece has been breathed into life and sits across from Heninger with its bottomless gape, watching over him as he types away at notes on his keyboard. Simultaneously, as if competing in an assault on the sensory system, the unmistakable stench of manure wafts into the room. Together they infiltrate Heninger's body through the half-smoked cigarette that is lazily pursed between his lips.

After signing off on a fresh set of memos, Heninger sighs and stands slowly but deliberately to close the corner window of his office that overlooks the entire slaughterhouse complex. It is not the affliction of the senses that prompts this action, but rather the simple need for a release from the mindless monotony that characterizes the daily life of a bureaucrat. After three years working at the slaughterhouse Heninger no longer pays any heed to the familiar backdrop of his surroundings. He works in a state of near complete numbness.

While he walks back to his trusted computer screen, Heninger adjusts the placement of the overly thick moon-shaped glasses that have come slightly askew across his gaunt and expressionless face. He scratches at the emerging bald spot on his scalp and once again takes his seat. Before long Henninger is re-immersed into the intricacies of his work and oblivious to the sights and sounds that reverberate through his office.

As the Manager of Animal Transportation, he is tasked with the scheduling and delivery of all shipments. It is Heninger's job to import animals from the abundant eastern farmlands surrounding the slaughterhouse in order for them to be processed and given 'special treatment' at the last stop on their journey.

Therefore, despite appearances to the contrary, Heninger belongs to the most dangerous class of all human beings – a functionary ready to follow orders without asking questions. With every new series of keystrokes produced on the computer screen in front of him, Heninger determines the fate of hundreds of soon to be arrivals. Like their predecessors, they will soon begin the arduous process that will ultimately see them arrive by trainload. In a few weeks' time they will appear via the main gate of the slaughterhouse through which nothing returns.

In order to keep up with the demands of his superiors Heninger is under constant pressure to increase the overall output of the slaughterhouse. As a result, an ever-increasing number of animals are packed into each shipment, locked away in carriages designed to fit cargo of half the size. Without access to open air throughout a voyage that sometimes lasts several weeks the animals have no choice but to defecate where they stand. It is this stench that they carry with them as they are unloaded and awaiting their turn to be processed. Eventually, the aroma drifts over to Heninger's office and thus completes the chain of events that set it all in motion.

It would be reasonable to pose the question as to how Heninger could be so nonchalant about a position that graces him with the puissance to become master over death itself. When he first started the job Heninger quickly learned that the cliché 'ask no questions if you want to hear no lies' aptly applied to his new career. One day shortly after commencing his position, and having reached a state of near paralysis due to the horrific sensations resounding through his office, Heninger had made the mistake of scurrying across from his office to take a peek inside at the workings of the kill floor.

For those unfamiliar with the terminology, this is the area where the animals are given their 'special treatment.' Heninger's nerves were feeble at the best of times, which was something his colleagues ridiculed him about relentlessly, and fed into his incessant cigarette consumption. The mere sight of blood made him queasy, but what he saw that day would have made even the hardest of individuals go weak at the knees. The kill floor is a master case in ingenuity with the capacity to process several thousand animals each day. As he watched machine slash through flesh as if it was nothing but thin air Heninger was torn between the sheer horror of his surroundings and the brute awesomeness of its efficacy; the rawness of its power.