Posted by Sawney Beane on September 27, 2006 at 23:10:02:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #75
THE LINE
by Sawney Beane
30 April 2000
1,331 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of implied non-consensual snuff and gynophagia. There are also two severed heads. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is actually several different thoughts that seem to go together somewhat. The existential desperation of standing in the line is the primary theme, and some other ideas crept in as well.
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The worst part of the whole thing is the line. I've always hated lines. My parents took me to Disneyland when I was a kid, and I hated the whole damned thing because of the lines. But then I was at least waiting to do something I wanted to do. Now, well it's just not fun having to wait in line to do something horrible.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not too pleased about the blade that is going to go through my neck when I get to the other end of the line. Still, if it has to happen, I wish they'd just come and cut off my head a week ago rather than sending me a letter ordering me to report to the processing facility for "conversion". At least that way I wouldn't have to think about my horrible fate for so long.
There are no clocks here, so I don't know how long I've waited. It seems like an eternity, and there is no end in sight, just naked girls lined up in front of me and behind me as far as the eye can see. That's no so far because the line winds around corners every fifty feet or so, so there's no telling, and it's infuriating.
I don't even have the luxury of conversation with some of the like-fated girls around me because all they can think and chatter about is what grade of meat they will become once they get to their final destination. I can't see how it possibly matters. If I have to die to make it, then there's no real difference between hamburger and prime sirloin. They can feed me to the dogs for all I care; once I'm dead it's not my concern.
But the other women here seem so fixated on that grading thing. "Will I be a whole-body roaster or will I be sliced up for parts?" "Surely I won't be bad enough to be ground meat!" "Maybe I could even be a live sale!" Actually, I am a little bit worried about that last one.
There's not much we know about what awaits us behind the final door except that most of us will start by being beheaded. Some will be bled to death for whole body sale, and a select few, maybe the most attractive 5 - 10 % will be kept alive and sold for live cooking or worse. I hope and pray that I won't be judged that beautiful, because it's just more waiting for the same horrible result as I see it. I think I'm safe, though, because I see several girls around me who are quite good-looking. I hope so anyway.
It's funny how different I see things now that I'm about to be on the pointy end of the fork. Of course now I think cannibalism is a horrible and unthinkable practice. But I didn't always. Before I was called up, I had my share of human meals. Not many, because the stuff is still quite expensive. But I enjoyed the rare delicacy when we could get it on special occasions. Most of the stuff I ate was draft meat like I will soon be. We weren't rich enough to buy the more expensive voluntary meat, which is mostly sold in the posh restaurants.
Ever since the meat draft began ten years ago, human cannibalism hasn't been exclusively for the rich. The government said it was necessary to combat over population and food shortages, but I don't know how much good it did. But allowing the middle class to enjoy human flesh seemed like a good thing last week. Now, of course, I'm entirely against it, but I'm probably a bit biased at this point.
When I ate human meat, I remember it as the best thing I'd ever tasted. It wasn't entirely the meat itself, which was good, but not that spectacular by itself. It was the knowledge that I was eating men and women, and I'm ashamed to admit that I relished the thought of what my meal had cost them. It made the meal so much more special. I know that makes me a horrible person, but many people seem to have the same reaction. Anyway, I'm to get my just desserts soon enough. A shame really, since at twenty-five, I was almost old enough to escape draft age. Bad luck.
I wish they didn't feel it necessary to segregate the men and the women. The drafted men are in an entirely different line on the other side of the building. As if we would be too shy to stand naked in a mixed sex line as we wait for the axe. Ridiculous! Right now if there were men in this line I'd be on the floor fucking anything I could get my hands on. That's probably why they segregate us.
A man just marched hurriedly past holding two girls' severed heads by the tightly tied ponytails they are wearing. He looks like a conversion worker getting off work with his bonus. The one girl is an Asian with blue-black hair whose face I can't see well. The other is a blonde. Both girls have shoulder-length hair in tight ponytails. If they had shoulders that is. I can see the blonde's face clearly, and it sends chills through me. She has a look on her face like she just realized where she was. She's looking like she just realized that it doesn't matter what grade of meat she is because she's about to become dead meat. She must have realized this just before the axe hit the back of her neck. I'm going to look just like that if I don't already.
Another notable person here is the woman who is making her way backwards in line. She has this incredible aristocratic arrogance and a really fake politeness about her. She says, "Oh, I couldn't possibly go before you; please be my guest and go first!" She came from quite far ahead of me and is already two slots behind me.
If she's really rich, she must have been annoying enough to her family that they chose not to buy her back. It's rare that really rich people die on the conversion line because of the buyback loopholes. If you pay the cost of a premium woman, you can purchase your loved ones as live meals. Technically, you are supposed to then eat them, but there is no set time limit and no one enforces it, so some people just live like that. They are effectively slaves and can be legally consumed by their buyers at any time. This can be a bit risky if the spouse who buys you back dies and leaves you to unsympathetic heirs. On the other hand, the heirs are usually your children, so you get by.
There is another way, however. If you're really rich you can pay triple the food price and buy someone back as a human, whereby they resume their former position, although they are still eligible to be drafted again until they are too old. Needless to say, my family wasn't in a position to save me in either of these ways, so I'm going to the chopping block. This woman who's going backwards in line must not be as rich as she lets on or she probably wouldn't be here.
She's not too bright either, because she doesn't realize that the serial number tattooed on her arse will ensure that when her number is up and she's not there someone will march back down the line checking all of our doomed rumps until they find her and drag her back to her intended spot. One thing this operation is not is sloppy. You die when you're supposed to die, period.
And that's what I'm going to do too eventually; I just hope it's sooner rather than later because this line is much more painful than anything behind that door.