A piece of meat walks into a butcher shop. The piece of meat says to another piece of meat standing behind the meat counter, “I’d like a piece of meat.” The second piece of meat gestures toward the meat display. “Which piece of meat?” The first piece of meat doesn’t know. “Sad meat?” suggests the second piece of meat. “Happy meat?” “Is there any meat that is just meat meat?” says the first piece of meat. “I want meat meat.” “Meat meat?” “Meat meat.” The second piece of meat climbs over the meat counter. The first piece of meat wraps its arms around the second piece of meat, then places the arm-wrapped meat in a bag. The first piece of meat takes the second piece of meat home. The first piece of meat grabs handfuls of meat off the second piece of meat and smooshes the meat into itself. The second piece of meat also takes handfuls of meat off the first piece of meat. A man wearing a police uniform kicks down the meat’s front door. He enters. “Where is the meat?” says the man. “Here we are,” say the pieces of meat. “Which one of you is the meat?” says the man in police uniform. “Here we are,” say the pieces of meat.
The man in the police uniform gathers the meat in his arms. “There you are,” he says. “There you are.”
The man in the police uniform removes his police uniform. Under the uniform, he is meat.
He was meat the whole time!
The meat meats mix their meats with the police meat. “Here we are,” they say in unison as they merge in the hot, hot sunny spot on the meat’s floor right there in front of the kicked-down door. “Here I am.”
Somewhere deep inside the meat’s house, a telephone rings.
The meats remain in the sun.
The phone rings again.
The meats do not move.
Somewhere far away in a vast gray building, a meat inspector is calling the meat.
The meat inspector leaves a message after the meat’s beep:
“I’m calling about a meat recall,” says the meat inspector. “I’m calling to call back recalled meat,” says the meat inspector. “Call me back.”
The mixed meats never call back.
The meat inspector sends more meat police.
The meat police mix with the meat.
The mixed meats never call back.
The meat inspector keeps sending meat police.
The meat police keep mixing with the meat.
Eventually the meat inspector expires.
Eventually the mixed meat visits his grave.
Eventually it digs him up and mixes its meat with the meat of the meat inspector.
“There you are,” says the dead meat inspector.
“Here we are,” says the mixed meat. “Here we are.”
//
Rick Claypool is the author of Leech Girl Lives. He lives in Pittsburgh. For more, visit rickclaypool.org.