Posted by Menagerie on July 27, 2004 at 21:05:59:
LIVE AT FIVE
(LIVE AT FIVE. Three people sit at the anchor desk; a young man with a winning grin and careful coiffure turns to his partner, a slim redheaded woman with a perky smile.)
BILL: ...and tune in tonight at eleven; Melissa will be back with her report on a highly successful agricultural venture south of town. Bet you’re looking forward to your first trip to a hog farm, Melissa.
MELISSA (frozen smile): Oh, it’s quite exciting that a business right here in the county has customers as far away as Asia and Arabia.
JEFF (on the other side of Melissa, the weather geek who’s Bill’s doppelganger): You bet, Melissa; E-I-E-I-O!
(They all laugh)
MELISSA (Still smiling broadly as the brass fanfare theme music comes up): See you tonight, everybody.
(Lights dim, camera zooms out, microphones killed as the music swells.)
MELISSA (Looking down, stacking her copy): Very funny, assholes.
BILL (Smirking): Have a good time at your “exciting business”.
It was the last thing Melissa wanted to do; she could have been in a big city at double the salary, covering budgets and crime, instead of driving to a hog farm with a scared, skinny intern to interview a guy who sells pork overseas. But the guy was an old friend of the boss, and when the boss heard how well the operation was doing he called his buddy and persuaded him to open his doors to their cameras. Then, he told Melissa, “Go.” So, she went.
Debbie, the blonde intern, was talking a mile a minute; Melissa would just give her a tired smile and a “Right,” or “Sure,” once in a while. Melissa envied Debbie her slimness; she herself had a bit of a plump bottom, was a little heavy in the thighs. Wait’ll you put in a few thousand 12-hour days on Twinkies and Big Macs, girl, she thought, as she turned off the county highway onto the private gravel road; the sign read, MAGRUDER’S INTERNATIONAL MEATS, NO TRESPASSERS, and the aroma of hogs was in the air.
The armed guard stopped them, radioed ahead. Pretty tight security for pork, Melissa thought, as he smiled and waved her through. A heavy-set man gestured them to a small parking lot, helped them unload the camera and equipment. “I’m Billy Weston, the plant manager, Ms. Towers,” he said, sticking out about five pounds of raw meat he used for a right hand. “We’re sure glad you’re here; we’re all real proud of Mr. Magruder.”
“Sure,” she smiled at the hick, thinking, Oh, brother. “Glad to be here.” Debbie was fumbling with audio cables. “This is our summer intern, Debbie Barton.”
“Pleased,” said Weston, turning with two arms full of their equipment. “I’ll take you there.”
Harold Magruder was six and a half feet topped off by a beaten old Stetson, and acres of crows’ feet surrounding neon blue eyes. “Melissa Towers, Live at Five,” he boomed out when the familiar-looking redhead entered his office. “We’ve got a great story to tell.”
Melissa didn’t find it all that interesting. Magruder had parlayed political connections into a marketing angle; he moved meat into countries that owed his benefactors a favor. Of course, throughout the interview, he insisted that the difference was quality. “I give ‘em what they want,” he drawled, looking earnest. “Magruder’s processes the very best.”
The obligatory tour of the hog confinement and packing plant followed. Melissa was bewildered by all the armed guards; for a slaughterhouse? Men wearing shades and denim shirts packed pistols; when Melissa came to a locked door and put a hand on the handle, a guard immediately blocked her way. “Off limits to the press,” he said, not especially politely. The hogs scurried around, uninterested. “What’s back there?” she asked Magruder, pointing to the door.
“Experimental feeding,” said the boss, with a glint in his eye. “Gotta stay ahead of the competition. We’re going to do more than just pork. Some of these foreigners like all kinds of meats.”
“Like what?” she said.
“All kinds,” he grinned, looking right into her eyes, and shooed them to the next stop.
Oboy, thought Melissa sullenly, the packing plant. Rows of hog carcasses hung from hooks; plant workers carved primal cuts from them. A squealing porker met his end on the kill floor, hanging by his rear legs. “No assembly line here; each hog is cut with TLC,” boomed the entrepreneur. Eagerly, Debbie panned the line of hogs and the busy employees with her camera. They walked past the machinery as Magruder explained the hide singer and the head splitter, showed them a cooler with stacked boxed of meats and more carcasses. A second cooler, a smaller one, was padlocked. “More experiments?” asked Melissa, smiling. “Valuable inventory,” came the response.
They moved on out to the main grounds, took some exterior shots, brought out a few employees to talk about how well the company paid. Melissa noticed the two, both men, eyed her and Debbie up and down as they answered the few brief questions. Magruder himself had a fixed, thin smile, arms crossed, rocking slightly back and forth. “That all?” he asked Melissa. “You know, old Freddie asked me whether I wanted to do this, I wasn’t so sure. Then he told me he’d be sending the great Melissa Towers, and I said, hell, yes, send her on down. I’m sure you’ll make me look good, just a mumble-mouthed old farmer and all.”
“Oh, you were great, Harold,” she assured him as they shook hands; his meathooks were rough and weathered, hers soft and warm. “Watch for us tonight at eleven.”
“Whaddya think?” Debbie asked breathlessly on the way back.
Melissa frowned. “About what?”
“All those guards,” said the irrepressible college kid. “And the locked rooms. I grew up around hogs; you don’t lock doors during the day. What if there’s a fire or something?”
“So he’s paranoid,” scoffed Melissa.
“Maybe more,” Debbie shot back. “He does all those deals with the Arabs and Asia. Maybe drugs.”
Maybe, thought Melissa, and she started thinking. Thinking about getting one of those big city gigs; thinking about winning an award. Thinking about spending the next twenty years with Bill and Jeff. “There’s a back road that takes you by the farm. Let’s get back and cut this up...and make a late-night visit.”
(The trim redhead stands in front of the hog building, holding a microphone; the graphic reads, MELISSA TOWERS,LIVE AT FIVE)
MELISSA: Harold Magruder was a man with a dream, and now he’s achieving that dream. His “Magruder’s International Meats” ships pork right from here in Owatonna County all over the world--because, he says, his meats are the best.
(Cut to Magruder close-up in the confinement building, hogs grunting in the background)
MAGRUDER: Well, all it took was about ten years of hard work, but with the help of some government trade missions we’ve made inroads. Some places that have never bought American meat before--
(Cut to the packing house, the meat being processed as Magruder’s voice continues over)
MAGRUDER: --found out we had something special to offer, and we can’t even keep up with demand anymore.
(Long shot of the building, with several guards in the picture; Melissa’s voice over)
MELISSA: But Magruder says he has no plans to expand to new facilities; if he did, he says, he couldn’t keep as close a watch as he’d like on the business...
They cut the headlights on the beat-up station van at the bottom of the hill, took the path behind the dark buildings. No guards; there was a searchlight, but it only illuminated the front and main grounds. Grabbing a hand-held camera, Melissa led the gulping, wide-eyed Debbie to a side door of the hog building and used a nail file on the padlock. “You learn a lot in this business,” she whispered as the lock popped open; she slipped in.
The porkers were snoozing; Melissa stepped carefully along the path in the darkness to the locked door. “Get this ready,” she said, handing the intern the camera; Debbie swallowed hard, switched it on as Melissa jiggled the file in the door, heard it creak open...
More pens; these were complete cages, with what looked like more pigs inside. “Get ready to shoot,” Melissa said, and switched on her flashlight. They weren’t pigs.
They were people, all women, all naked, all in cages. A few of them stirred with the light, looked groggily at the gasping Melissa and Debbie. The newswoman quickly surveyed the room; there were fifteen, twenty, twenty-five women, looking at her with empty eyes, looking at her through iron bars--
Every light in the place went up. “Evenin’, ladies,” said Billy Weston laconically; he was flanked by four guards. Wearing shades, even at night. “Boys,” he nodded, and the men rushed to seize the women’s camera and flashlight, then stood on either side of them.
Melissa finally found her voice. “What is this?” he demanded. The fat man grinned.
“Just like Mr. Magruder told you, Ms. Towers,” said Weston. “These foreigners, they like all kinds of meat.” And with another nod, the guards grabbed the news anchor and the student by their arms.
Weston got right in Melissa’s trembling face. “You would not believe what them Arabs will pay for the body of a young American female. Learned about it from Mr. Magruder’s friends in the State Department.” He held a huge paw in front of Melissa’s face, stuck an index finger under her chin and lifted it so their eyes locked, and smiled. “We’ll make more from this roomful of young fillies than we would if we killed every hog in the county. Spend the month procurin’ ‘em, got suppliers all over the state. Runaways, biker mamas, hookers...” His grin got wider. “Can’t recall we’ve ever had a news reporter before.” And with that, the two women began to struggle, desperately.
“We drug ‘em ‘till the time comes,” said Weston. “Orin, shoot up that one”--motioning to the blonde student--“but not our star; get ‘em ready for the kill floor.”
(A grim-faced young man sits at the Anchor Desk, reading from his TelePrompTer; over his shoulder, a graphic displays a police badge and the bullet-pocked word, INVESTIGATION):
BILL: Police in the Tri-County Area have been asked to assist in investigating the disappearances of several women from across the country, some from as far away as California and Florida. An Owatonna County Sheriff’s Department spokeswoman says many of the women had local ties; in one case, the husband of one of the missing women had worked for an area farmer.
(The graphic gives way to another one of a thermometer, the mercury comically bursting from the top of the bulb. The grim young man immediately becomes a smiling young man.)
BILL: Yet another record-setter today in the Tri-County Area. Tell us, Jeff, HOW-HOT-WAS-IT?
(Cut to Jeff, who’s clumsily superimposed over a beach scene.)
JEFF: Sure not a day to spend in front of hot TV lights, Bill…
“Is this how this works, Mr. Weston?” asked one of the employees; he had mounted the TV station’s camera in front of the kill floor and was fiddling with it.
The manager frowned, studied the machine. “I think so. Mr. Magruder was sure looking forward to this; I hope it works.” He called to the door, “Bring out the first one!”
The first one was a naked, chubby young girl with long, curly brown hair; her hands were tied behind her back as two workers walked her down the long corridor from the holding pens to the kill floor. Her bare feet flap, flap, flapped against the tiled floor; she stared down vacantly, with one worker or the other occasionally slapping at her flank with a flat stick to keep her moving. Weston scowled at her rounded tummy and bouncing boobs; low yielder, but that was how the Japanese liked them. He eyed the tattoo of a heart on her left breast; I’ll bet, he thought, there’s another on her fanny just like it.
They marched her onto a scale. “One-four-eight,” one of the workers called out; she stood passively, awaiting the order that would end her life. “Hoist her up,” said Weston.
“Sure, boss,” said one of the men as he tied a rope around the girl’s feet, cinched a hook around it and triggered the hydraulic, hauling her upside down into the air. Her eyes began to show fear. Deftly, another employee slit the girl’s throat and watched calmly as she choked on her own blood, blood that ran to the floor and trickled toward a drain. As she gasped for air, he split her open and removed her entrails, separating out the liver, kidneys and other organs; they brought a premium in some countries. Her plump, naked carcass was still by the time he finished cleaning her torso and picked up the pressure rinser. A few blasts and her pale body glistened with the moisture, dripping on the cement floor and mingling with the blood as it swirled through the grate. The carcass rotated slightly; there it was, the butt tattoo.
“Okay,” said Weston. “Got that?” The man working the camera pressed a button, peered into the viewfinder, and made an OK with his thumb and forefinger.
Weston turned and yelled again toward the room, the room full of cages, the cages full of women. “We’ve got a quota to fill tonight; keep ‘em coming!”
They came; slim and fat, youthful and mature, black, brown and white. Each nude, with her hands bound behind her; each flanked by two employees, who would slap at her to keep her moving and joke about which parts of her body would be the meatiest, how she would grade. The well-built brunette housewife, handed over by her furious, cuckolded husband, Magruder’s old farm hand; the skinny, strung-out Latino girl who hadn’t even needed a sedative, her petite feet dancing to a tune only she could hear; the woman who was blonde above but not below, huge knockers diminishing into a wasp waist. Each dumbly being led to slaughter, the numbers hollered out as she crossed the scale to let Weston know how much human meat she’d add to the pile. Each split open as she writhed, upside-down, at the end of a chain.
The work sped up a notch as the workers began butchering the carcasses into primal cuts—the thighs, wrapped in cheesecloth, would be soaked in brine or hung in the company’s smokehouse; the torsos, split down the backbone, separated into loins and ribs, and packed into cases for those overseas customers who craved such delicacies. The mysterious, padlocked door was opened to reveal a meat locker and more women hanging from hooks—headless, eviscerated, stiffly swinging and swaying as workers brushed past them, bringing in waxed cardboard boxes full of meat to stack against the metal walls.
Finally, just one caged woman remained--Debbie. The young intern was dragged roughly from her confinement, hauled to her feet and shoved to get her started down the long, last corridor. Nude and docile, she plodded slowly to her doom at the end of a neck chain; long, lean legs met ripe young buttocks and a plump pussy; a flat belly below small breasts. A worker kept her moving with an occasional slap on the ass; her eyes were wide and vacant. Weston said, “Where’s the other one?”
A worker laughed. “In the washroom.”
Weston frowned. “Well, don’t damage her, or Magruder will be sore.”
“One-one-five,” another employee called. Debbie stood dully on the scale. Weston ordered, “Mr. Magruder is thinking about this one for the company picnic, so leave the carcass whole.”
Melissa’s screams were muted as, one after another, male organs were shoved into her mouth. The redhead was nude and bound belly down on a rickety old table, her hands and feet tied to the four legs, as Magruder employees penetrated her from both ends. The washroom door was cracked open; through her blurry eyes, tears streaming from the corners, she could see one naked woman after another being led down the aisle from the roomful of cages, prodded along by men; the men came back alone. The dick in her mouth exploded, filling her throat with waves of jism; she gagged as it was withdrawn, only to have another take its place, forced deep down her throat. Once, just once, she had bitten; a strong hand on her throat made her realize her vulnerability, her helplessness. Behind her, a worker grunted as he grabbed at her hips and plump thighs, sliding rapidly in and out of her; the other, the one with his cock in her mouth, laughed as he clenched her bare shoulders and said, “You know, I’ve dreamed about this ever since she came to town!”
The small table squeaked as the man behind Melissa thrust slowly, deliberately, repeatedly against her loins, finally emptying his load; she felt it leaking out of her, and then another cock slid rapidly in to take its place, and began anew—in, out, in, out, as she bucked and jerked, as if trying to inch away from the twin probes into her body. The newswoman clenched her fists, curled her toes, strained frantically against her bonds; the rough table top chafed at her tender breasts and soft belly. She couldn’t quite reach the floor with her bare feet; rough hands ran over her soft, spongy flesh, fondling it, squeezing it. Ay ay ay ay she screamed silently to herself as the man mounting her from behind turned to rapid thrusts, his denim work clothes raking her naked flesh. Meanwhile, in front of her, yet another orgasm, another spurting dick, another mouthful of cum…
On the kill floor, Debbie swayed limply, her hollowed torso shimmering pink and white as the power rinser flushed the last drops of blood from her. Weston turned and yelled one more time: “Bring the other one.”
Zoom in on two men carrying a bound, naked redhead across the packing plant floor. She has a plump butt and thick thighs, large, flat breasts decorated with freckles; her face is contorted as she screams, non-stop, all the way to the kill floor.
The camera pans across the floor; hanging from hooks are parts of women—halves, quarters, torsos. The picture focuses on Debbie’s long hair suspended just inches above the floor, gradually moves up to her still face, her shoulders, breasts hanging on either side of her empty belly…up her long legs to feet tied together, a steel hook holding the ropes. Pan jerkily back down to the floor; the redhead has been laid on a stainless steel table, channeled at the edges and with shackles at the four corners; her bonds are untied and she is chained to the table. One of her captors stuffs a cloth into her mouth, muffling the screams; she continues to flop frantically. A portly man, wearing a white apron, steps in front of the camera.
WESTON: This is a primer for you beginners. We got here a young woman, maybe yield grade “3,”, especially thick through the rump (he gestures with a large, curved knife; the woman’s eyes widen with fright) and the legs (the tip of the blade traces along a thigh to a calf; he turns to the bound woman, then talks over his shoulder). First, the foot is removed like so.
(He deliberately drives the curved knife through her ankle, takes her foot and twists to loosen ligaments; a second cut, and the foot is removed. Her whines through the gag becomes shrill and unceasing; over them, he resumes talking.)
WESTON: Now, the foot can be used in soups; deboned and denailed, the toes can be appetizers, so don’t waste them! (He turns back to the woman, lifts the blade.) The leg is removed similarly; cut above the knee to break the ligaments.
(The round cut above and then below the knee, and he jerks the leg free, setting it on the table. The camera pans to the woman’s face; she’s shaking her head violently, sobbing into the gag, eyes closed, tears flowing.)
MELISSA: AHUHHNHUHHAANNHHH!
WESTON (off-camera): The thigh, of course, is a very important cut of meat, and very valuable in the trade. You cut through the fold of the buttock like so (The camera is still on her face as she stiffens and squeals into the gag, then tilts back to a close up of the knife slicing through the bottom of her thigh), in through the groin and across the saddle of the hip. The femur will pull right out of the socket if you do it right. (He pulls; her thigh comes free.) And there you are. (The camera zooms out; he is holding the thigh as the butchered woman thrashes on the table behind him.) This is kind of a “fatty” thigh, (holding the lump of flesh, bone protruding from each end, before the camera) and could be skinned and trimmed before wholesale, depending on the tastes of your customer…
“I happen to like it just fine,” said Harold Magruder. He was watching the video again, for the umpteenth time, as he carved a chunk from a thick slice of Melissa Towers’ thigh. Popping it in his mouth, he chewed and swallowed, washed it down with lager. “Just fine,” he repeated.
Down below on his private estate, the company picnic was going full swing. Young Debbie Barton was roasting over the barbecue pit; an apple was in the slim blonde’s mouth, and her hands and feet were bound to a spit that passed through her ass and out her brisket. Magruder peered down from his opulent office, said, “I do believe that young lady’s ready,” and sawed off another hunk of Melissa’s thigh. As if on cue, his employees lined up, plates at the ready, to get their choice cuts from the intern’s body. Billy Weston got up, headed out the door, paused. “You going to join us, boss? You usually do.”
Magruder waved his manager on, carved another himself another helping of Anchorwoman Thigh. “I believe I’ll make do right here, Billy,” he said, and paused the video—Weston’s blade was about to split Melissa’s belly down the middle—to switch on the news. “Besides, it’s time for Live at Five.”
(The brassy theme music booms out; the Moussed Duo, Bill and Jeff, flank a new co-anchor, a thin blonde.)
JENNIFER: Good evening; I’m Jennifer Monroe. At this hour, police say they’re still baffled by the unexplained disappearances last week of Live at Five anchorwoman Melissa Towers and a station intern, Deborah Barton.
(Still scene of Melissa holding the microphone in front of the hog building, and an inset of Debbie’s resume picture; voice-over continues):
JENNIFER: Towers, 29, and Barton, 20, were last seen in Towers’ car leaving the Live at Five parking lot last Wednesday night; the car has not been found. Police encourage citizens to call with tips at—
CLICK.