He fires a stun gun, one of them.
The other pulls her by the ear and curses.
She vomits. Her eyes twitch
back into their sockets
as her blood
tiptoes across the grime soaked overalls.
He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
She buckles and sighs.
The pulley wheel squeals
as they raise her like a flag. At full mast.
The knife is sharp.
A single cut up the belly,
branching before the udders.
A few swift moves at the hock
and the gristling sound
of a body pulling apart.
The disconnecting of connective tissue.
The thinning of fat. The skinning,
the baring of all.
In the fashion, he grins,
of removing a sweater. A remembrance
of peeling a kindred skin
from a paid-for whore he once had.
“She’ll knock you out,”
the man had promised
in his careless northern accent,
as he’d counted notes in a fat hand.
Saliva tickles his bottom lip.
His tongue slicks out to take care of it
then he sets to the carving
like every big man does
on a Sunday. He wipes
his forehead with the fat of his thumb. None
so big as me.
She’s so straightforward. Easy meat
like the slags in Delaney’s.
The other one holds her steady. He rips
through her flesh and, satisfied,
lays the pieces in a tidy way.
The tidiest, maybe, she’s ever been.