Guilty Pleasure

     "Just another fucking day in Liberal, America," Jake said sarcastically.

     "Just another fucking day at The Butchery," Ricky corrected.

     Jake, a high school sophomore, is a twiggy person in too-big, dark-colored clothing that moves like Jell-O in his more energetic moments. A self-proclaimed 'punk rocker,' he lives up to the stereotypical portrayal of a goth of the United States. He sits on the rear bumper of an old Volkswagen Passat, a car with the bone structure of a tank, nodding his head to a hymn of System of a Down.

     Ricky, a high school junior, would be a candidate for future bouncer employment; to say that he has 'filled in' would be an understatement, and one wonders how his frame holds him aloft. He is the owner of the sedan and reclines in the back with his feet sticking out the end.

     The Butchery: fueling point for the bodies of the affluent and well-known. Owned and managed by obscure  - but upstanding - citizens who are members of the Conscientious Entrepreneurs for Profit, CEP for short. Bleeding hearts who serve bleeding hearts (unless ordered well-done) to other bleeding hearts.

     The music slows and fades, signaling they are one song late in clocking in. Ricky groans, stretches and rocks himself to a sitting position.

     "Guess it's about time," he said, spitting onto the asphalt.

     "Matter of fact, it is," exclaimed Jake, entering one of his brief euphoric, energy-laden bursts. He dances about the lot throwing jabs at the air behind Ricky, who is closing the hatchback.

     Ricky began plodding toward The Butchery, across the small parking lot along a two-lane road in a sparse part of town, with Jake still dancing around him.
     
     The boys were getting an advance lesson in a topic their peers didn't yet have to face: 'the real world.' This is a politically correct time in America, and also a time when the number of jobs available since their birth will have largely desiccated by the point of their graduation. They saw no harm in dropping out of the educational queue and getting a head start to lock in a position in life. Besides, there aren't many people remaining in the country willing to do the dirty jobs that still had to be done.

     Everyone has appetites and desires that seek fulfillment, perhaps it's genetic, but not everyone has the alacrity to provide for those appetites. In the case of The Butchery, the plutocratic customers desire meat from fresh and well-treated animals, and the well-to-do management wishes to provide it for a price. However, neither party comes from that thin slice of society with the willingness and know-how to get its hands dirty.

     Enter Jake and Ricky. Each shoulders half of a double door at the back of the restaurant. They walk a narrow corridor lined with cages of chickens and pens of pigs, the wall covered with an inventory of butcher's tools, and enter the kitchen.

     A squirrelly looking man in an odd bellman-like suit faces the two dogs who entered with a stern look and pursed lips. He speaks with a squeal that raises pitch every fourth or fifth word.

     "Where have you been? Dinner service is just a few hours away," squeaked the little concierge.