Guerrilla Fiction

There are so many ways to skin an animal, and there are so many animals to skin. We stopped eating them for that exact reason, which really was: the randomness of it all. Who got to decide that we’d treat chickens so badly but that dogs were man’s best friend? In any case, best friend status didn’t stop anyone from eating dogs, at least not in China, where I lived for those few years and I saw them hung up the same way as they did the chickens, hook in their mouths in the glass box of a hawker’s stall. None of the creatures, without language, ever got to tell their story.

Who gets to tell a story? I fed my mind through the sausage machine, and it spat out five. I wanted to hear hundreds. It’s greed that put all the blood on my hands.