Pigeon Variations - Ch 32 - Natural Birds

The warehousemen were talking about the moral dilemmas of eating chicken. “If you don’t know whether that chicken was a person, how can you eat it?” asked John.

“Because of the taste,” said Paul.

“What are you on about?”

“Real chicken tastes like chicken, right? Whereas you know something’s up when it’s a person.”

Pyser was loading a pallet with boxes of tampons. The three of them worked on the top floor of the warehouse, where household and personal hygiene items were kept. This was Pyser’s empire. When he got the job, he imagined himself being manly, driving a forklift truck, but instead he was left walking aisles, picking deodorants, detergents, hairspray, gels, bog rolls, condoms, lube and panty liners, listening to these two jokers for hours on end.

John was incensed. “It’s cannibalism. How can you not see that? The bird you’re eating was once a human being.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“Yes you do. That’s why you should go for chicken with labels on the packs, clearly stating it’s 100% natural bird.”

Paul was a man of conspiracies. Believe nothing. Trust no one. The official media was a wall of lies. He was in his 50s and still lived with his mum. “But it’s twice the price and how do you really know whether it’s bird or human? All because the label says so. Really?”

Cannibalism was a huge issue for governments and the media after cases of Human Avian Transitions accelerated. Companies were found to be farming transitioned birds and real ones together. Supermarkets didn’t know what was going on with their suppliers (or claimed not to). The whole food supply chain was in disarray.

Pyser kept his views to himself. He felt pretty sure that he wouldn’t be eaten as a pigeon in the UK, whereas if he’d transitioned in France – different story. He felt sorry for people turning into ducks, turkeys and pheasants. There were plenty of poor buggers who ended up as chicken Kievs.

“What do you reckon?” said Paul to Pyser. “If a human turns into a bird, does it matter if you eat it?”

“But the flesh,” shouted John, “they’re made from human flesh and bone.”

“Alright,” snapped Paul, “let him speak. You sound like Charlton flamin’ Heston in Soylent Green.”

“What are you on about?” yelled John.

Everybody was having the same conversation. It was all over social. Conversations at bus stops. On the tube. In Parliament. Congress. The Reichstag. Snore off. Pyser pushed his pump truck to the lift, hearing the wheels rolling over the ridged metal floor.

“What do you think?” said Paul.

Pyser slotted in his earphones and pressed the button for the lift.

Better to pretend he hadn’t heard.

Besides, he was beyond talking. They could all stew in their own fear and ignorance.   

The pair of them, and everyone else like them, could do one.