Meeting Meat

I was riding to work early the other day when a few places in front of me was a van belonging to a wholesale butchery called “Meet the Meat”. It was one of the funniest names I’ve ever heard of, and serves as the inspiration for this little story.

One might easily imagine a dark alley; the kind typically associated with shady drug deals and spicy Korean food. The patter of hooves could be heard in the distance, each one bringing the beast closer. Standing under a street light, a sheep glanced cautiously from one side to the other ensuring he’s alone. He wore an Armani suit, minus the pants of course. Stylish dark glasses told casual observers both that he’s up to date with the latest trends and that money really is no object. In one hand he carried a leather briefcase, a clear sign he’s indifferent to the suffering of his cow cousins. Confident he’s not being followed, he stepped into the blackness and knocked on a door at the far end.

The door opened silently and the sheep stepped into a darkened room. He wasn’t nervous; everything had been prearranged. The door shut silently behind him and a soft click informed him that he’s now locked in. The lights flickered briefly before illuminating the room, a bare dank hovel with little more than a table and 2 chairs.

Little Billy sat at the far end of the table. Also an Armani fan, his appearance was quite striking, though much of the casual effect he’d hoped to achieve was lost when one noticed his feet were nowhere close to touching the floor. The sheep sat opposite him and for a moment they stared one another in the eye. Without a word, the sheep placed the briefcase on the table and pulled out several papers. Little Billy scanned the documents briefly and smiled. Everything was in order. Little Billy removed a slip of paper from the inner lining of his jacket and slid it across the table. The sheep did not seem pleased but nodded curtly, indicating his consent.

They rose quietly and headed to the next room. Condiments lined the shelf covered walls and a heated pan lay in the middle of the blackened coal stove. The calm lining of the sheep’s face began to crack and for the first time he seemed to be little more than a frightened sheep, not the cool, calm and collected businessman the world saw. Wrapping a towel underneath his arms (or forelegs you prefer), the sheep turned his back to Little Billy and, while trying to preserve what little dignity of his remained, he removed all traced of wool from his body. Little Billy retrieved a fork and knife from a nearby cabinet and pondered for a moment over whether mustard would suit the occasion better than the conventional Worcester sauce. Eyeing a juicy thigh, he decided both would be required, but for different courses.

A harsh bleating pierced the still night air. The sizzle and smell of fresh meat whet the appetite of passers by, rousing their carnivorous instincts, making them yearn for flesh. And Little Billy ate wholesomely before drifting off to a peaceful sleep.