A-1 or Worcestershire? by Yardier
It's 0830 AM Tuesday,
I've got two steers in the death pen.
In a few moments, a .22 caliber bullet will terminate their cud chewing bliss and out will come the butcher knife shining bright in the morning Rosedale sun.
Off in the distance, somewhere in the future days of summer, the light sounds of children laughing and pool water splashing will co-mingle with the yum, yum grunts of approval from adults chewing (while talking) great home-brewed BBQ steak.
Just beyond the cross fence out behind the pool, a dark, dried, and hardened piece of blood-stained earth surrounded by fading impressions of cloven hoof prints will go unnoticed by my summer guests. They will hold their children just high enough above the fence to point out the chickens and, the oh, so cute, summer chicks scratching away at the remnants of last year's soothing sounds of steers mooing for their evening hay.
They will not make the connection.
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