Storymania - The Human Weezburger by Rachel E Smith

The Human Weezburger
Rachel E Smith

Of madness and horror my face must have bore an abundance of when into that gruesome room my feet did step. And in said madness and horror I do tell this story, so forgive me friend when memories and timelines fail consistency. However, I am clear on that I know that it began before I, your dear Amanda or Mandy (or other numerous pointless names in which I have been called), was born. So I shall start there.

In history, we humans always were arrogant and full of pride, resulting from an intense superiority complex. It should not surprise you, reader and friend, that in this manner of immodesty we have used, abused, and befriended creatures unlike ourselves, being our food, our hunted, and our pets. This was the norm, as it still is today, and any thoughts that complied not with the first mentioned practice were perceived by the masses as strange and unusual. The odd bearers of these strange and unusual thoughts had a name, and they called themselves vegetarians. They have long since disappeared, of course, and are now mocked in modern History textbooks which chronicle events dating as far back as to the year 2000, which seems decently far enough in the past to deem unimportant. But history buffs are a strange, eager, discontent group of people, always wanting to know more. Perhaps what I now tell you shall be put in a History textbook, someday, though I doubt it.

This was all fine enough, as it were, but us humans were as well discontent and grew restless with our fine beef patties and turkey slices. Animals were crossbred by means of modern science, for the sake of creating new meats. And this satisfied for a while, as it should have (for the chicken-pig meat is delightfully lean and full of flavor), though restless once again we grew, and we went about the task to discover yet more meats, better ones, and healthier ones. In this search some lovely meats had been invented (I must admit – I was far too partial to the weezburger) and then at last, came the perfect solution.

Of course, there was some controversy involved at first, as I read on page 132-140 in that darred History textbook, but it was settled as humane under the following conditions: That the humans bred were without brain activity other than simple functioning processes, so that in effect they were not human at all, but merely mindless animals that were made with human body parts; and that each package containing such meat (later dubbed Huem) had a label urging consumers to heat well.

And this was the very label I was reading on that hot Monday afternoon, though now it sickens me so that I must force myself to tell you this. I had had a very long day, in which numerous requests to speak to different important peoples involved in a local headliner were rejected. Just as my mind wandered (as it always did after such a day) into the realm of kicking myself for ever getting into journalism (me – a journalist! Fancy that!) an extremist group of protestors proceeded to surround me as I clutched the frozen package.

They wore various shirts opposing my soon-to-be-purchase (reading things as “We are all human! Don’t be a cannibal!”) complete with stickers, pins, leaflets and the like. They yelled things to me as I held the Huem tighter and backed into the freezers containing more of my favorite sandwich flavor (I must now force myself further). In their rage and fury I heard none of what they said, other than a single girl saying in a low, calm voice: “Why don’t you go to a Huem slaughterhouse, as a journalist, and find out for yourself?” This I heard, and then the yelling turned into a cacophony of demands towards me writing an article about the evils of a nearby factory (little did I know!). With the meat under my arm, I pushed myself from the angry mob, and bought my food. After all, I just wanted to go home and make dinner.

As I unlocked and opened the door to my small house, I heard the phone ringing inside. I quickly shut the door behind me and, throwing my purchases on the table, picked up the phone, with an exasperated “hello?”

“Is this Amanda?” An unfamiliar voice asked as I leaned against a nearby wall.

“May I ask who’s calling?” I said, learning from my years experience as a journalist to first know whom you are talking to. There was a pause, and audible breathing.

“I’m calling on behalf of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Homo-sapiens, and we…”

“I’m not interested,” I said sharply, hanging up the phone and retrieving the Huem from the grocery bag. As I cut into the plastic wrapper, the phone rang again. I went to pick it up, but decided against it and let it ring.

Over the next several days since then I received 10 phone calls, 3 house visits, 4 emails, a letter, two disguised salespeople, and a postcard, all from your dear PETH organization, wanting me to make a visit to the slaughterhouse. Finally, with a click of the phone, a slam of the door, and a rip of the paper, I cried, “all right! I’ll go! I’ll go!” And that was that.

I felt like I was being held by gunpoint as I stepped out of my car with my tape recorder, pencil, and paper, even though I was alone. My feet were shaky as I slowly closed my door, which made more sound as it shut than I had hoped for. The factory loomed over me like a big jack-in-the-box found in an old museum with a big sign for the kiddies: DO NOT TOUCH. The windows and doors even resembled a sneering face, just like the pumpkin faces that used to be cut a long time ago, before we had machines to do that for us. I slipped the tape recorder into my pocket and walked over to that gaping mouth, that door, fiddling with my entry badge in my jacket pocket all the while. I saw several men leaning against various rotting objects, such as old pipes, fences, cars, etc. eating sandwiches that I was sure came from inside the old building. All in all, the place looked ancient, and I even wondered had I out beaten the health inspectors to this visit. A man standing at the door lazily asked me for my ID, which I immediately retrieved and showed to him. As he looked over my name and picture, I caught him also discreetly glancing a bit lower, much to my distaste, though I turned the other cheek as I was let in.

Much opposing to the outer appearance of the factory, the interior shone like something from a smash futuristic hit such as “THE YEAR 5500: THE NEXT CENTURY” or “A THOUSHANDYEARS FROM NOW IN 6400”. Everything looked new, working, and efficiant. I could see several robots carrying out simple tasks, and as I looked around at the abundance of machinery, I saw few actual humans. It was mindboggling all of the metal, and as I looked at it all in awe, I was greeted. I was greeted by a tall man with a protruding belly. I estimated he was most likely about 347 ½ lbs. Roughly.

“Welcome to your local Huem meat factory, I am the manager, you may call me Mr. Bill Holedan,” he told me with a big smile. I was almost afraid he was going to hug me with such friendly disposition. Luckily, he did not. He instead straightened his tie and showed me to his office, where I were to conduct the interview.

Now, this interview was to be taken in the means of gathering his opinion on the recent outbreak of PETH extremists, and was not, be any means, a bash or hurtful story about the factory itself, despite what those darred hippies wanted to believe. I started off the interview politely, as expected:

"Lately there has been an extraordinary number of members of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Homo sapiens, whom are now targeting their protests against this factory. May I have your take on this?"

"Well, certainly," he was much more serious now. "I find it darred-disgusting that good people, just like you and me, can be coerced into such madness and deceit. This factory was founded on good ol' American values, and is not a manslaughter-house, as I heard one PETH kook call it. The humans bred here are not of sound mind, nor are they human as you, me, or even the crazy PETH members. They are just bodies in which we take the meat, with less brain activity then that of any other meat-bred animal such as a cow or pig. And nobody ain' opposing that now-a-days." We both laughed, and as our laughter died the sound of the recorder playing could be heard, as a reminder to myself of my job, thus I continued.

"You used the words coerced into madness and deceit. Are you suggesting that the PETH organization itself is run under foul play?" He thought about this a moment, and cleared his throat.

"Well, now, I'm not really sure how the organization is run, and I hardly wish to take a disliking to an organization with such an admirable name. However, I do know that what they are saying about my factories are downright lies! I am not a crook, my workers are not crooks, and this is not a place of murder! Next question." I flipped through my notes, and asked him another question in which he would undoubtedly answer furiously.

After the interview was done, and the recorder power switch went "click" as it was no longer needed to record, I asked Bill Holedan if I may interview some of the workers as well, knowing fully that I could without his permission. He, of course, obliged, and he led me through the factory in search of an actual human employee. He found one in the back of the building, and I asked him the same series of questions, or at least similar at that. As I was interviewing my second lower-class worker, I heard what sounded like screaming from the furthermost back room. I expressed my concern, and Bill laughed.

"Just because these humans are bred without souls, doesn't mean they don't have voice-boxers." He laughed as if he made a great joke, and I half-heartedly laughed along, uneasily. I was just about to continue my interview when I heard another scream, a bit louder this time. Once more, I expressed my concern. And once more, Bill made a dumb joke just to laugh at it. This time, however, I asked him if I may see the backroom to aid me in writing my article. 'Y'know, show those darred hippies what's really going on.' He looked a bit unraveled and whispered, "it's a little messy. Pretty girls like you don't want to get your nice clothes all bloody." I told him that I didn't mind, that I had plenty of clothes. He tried once more with, "well, I don't know about that. Pretty girls like you don't wanna see such a bloody mess back there. My wife certainly don'." I told him that I still didn't mind, that I can handle blood. I didn't wait for a third excuse as I heard yet another scream, and walked straight to the door and waited for him to open it. As he fumbled for his keys, I saw sweat running down his forehead. Then the door was opened.

The walls were filled with blood, the floor was filled with blood, and the ceiling was filled with blood. Everywhere I looked, I could see the red rum. And I saw a girl of her mid-twenties with a fair bit of meat on her being carted to this big red machine, with her resisting and screaming all of the while. She turned to me, and said clearly, "help me. Please, help me!" And as I watched this girl, all of my proper decorum was replaced with twice spoken of madness and horror. Here I started my tale, but here is not where it shall end, for I am in a cell now. As they saw my outrage at this sight, they took me by force to the back of this back room, which was lined with prison-cells full of lost-looking women and men, all naked (as I am as well now, for I was stripped of my nice bloody clothes upon entering this cage. I know not what awaits me next, but I sure as hell have a good idea.

Bill is speaking to me. He is telling me that I came at the wrong time, that usually the people being killed are as they are supposed to be, and those people do not scream. That girl was just a worker, who had seen too much, he tells me. Normally people like her don't get killed, but sometimes they do. He tells me then that I as well had seen too much. He lets the rest to my imagination as he exits my prison, leaving me to my regressing mind. My animal instincts I feel take over. I can no longer tell this story, at least until this terrible urge to scream and thrash has subdued.

I am better now. The animal instincts are gone, and I find myself trying to cleverly plot my escape, with no luck so far. I know that that girl is dead, murdered, and I force myself to not think of my own fate. I tried for a bit to speak to the other humans in my cell. One female, one male. And they were kind to me. They didn't speak, but they hugged me and were as affectionate housecats, or infants. The male studied me carefully as the girl tried lying on me. After awhile of this I grew a bit disgusted and pushed them away, though they wouldn't leave me be. But now as I look out my bars I realize that I am the one going away, not them, at least not for now, for I see Bill and the worker I interviewed walking towards me…opening the door. It is my turn now, so farewell. I give up, and perhaps someday when you are eating a weezburger or hoewburger or, particularly, a huemburger, we shall meet again.