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Unformatted text preview: one hand and a steel
hook in the other. They grab the meat with their hooks and attack it fiercely with their knives. As they hack away, using all their strength, hook in the other. They grab the meat with their hooks and attack it fiercely with their knives. As they hack away, using all their strength,
grunting, the place suddenly feels different, primordial. The machinery seems beside the point, and what’s going on before me has been
going on for thousands of years — the meat, the hook, the knife, men straining to cut more meat.
On the kill floor, what I see no longer unfolds in a logical manner. It’s one strange image after another. A worker with a power saw slices
cattle into halves as though they were two-by-fours, and then the halves swing by me into the cooler. It feels like a slaughterhouse now.
Dozens of cattle, stripped of their skins, dangle on chains from their hind legs. My host stops and asks how I feel, if I want to go any further.
This is where some people get sick. I feel fine, determined to see the who...
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- Spring '08