Fever Dreams

Any plebeian half-brained dimwit should know that things labeled with "alcohol" generally should not be set on fire. On the bridge, however, which overlooks the murky brown waters of the city, lay many who were considerably more stupid than plebeian, half-brained dimwits, and therefore found it positively hilarious to set alcohol-labeled things on fire. I watched this from inside my penthouse as I read my new edition of Ishmael by Daniel Quinn, and I did find it mortifyingly symbolic-- the literal burning of bridges. Perhaps this flame represented the way the rest of the world would go down: detached and without allies.

Soon after the bridge incident, the deer came to my attention. Deer have two main natural predators: pumas and bacteria (e.g., disease). Humans had eradicated entirely the disease that hunted these beings, which would have been good for the pumas. The only issue was that humans had overhunted the pumas as well. I was a little more than miffed that, of all animals to be overpopulated, it was the deer. These foolish mammals did little more than eat, sleep, reproduce, and get entranced by the glare of headlights. Of course, I was foolish back then as well and could not see the irony of my irritation.
One thing I learned about deer from this time is that they eat. A lot. Almost overnight, grass became an endangered species. After the deer had stripped the forests and prairies of their grasses, they headed for the urban areas. It was the most congested traffic I had ever seen. Millions—millions of deer would cross the roads, stampeding toward the last patch of grass left somewhere in a strip mall downtown. Then, the deer fell away as well, one by one.

The deer were gone, and we soon realized that there was no more food for us to eat. Before we could fall into a full-fledged crisis, a brilliant researcher in the government suggested maximizing caloric intake through the processing of available conspecific tissues—cannibalism. Human farms were set up within the week, and the government ordered the "weak" from the population to be sent for the greater good. Instead of eating Carl's Jr., people were now eating their neighbor, Carl. 
The Sunday after the proposition, the newspaper front page cried out at me to "call your human farm today! Tours now open!" An article followed, calling for activism and to call the human farm and demand humane solutions. I picked up the phone and dialed the number, but not for activism. Instead, I booked a ticket for a tour.

The people practically stampeded towards the tour bus. The tour guide looked like he'd been yelled at by his manager, although, to his credit, he still found it in himself to smile and say, "And to your left...!" I almost pitied him, a simple cog in a larger machine.
He led us to the gift shop, where children crowded excitedly near the farm equipment on the display, which was not limited to tasers, a wide assortment of guns and ammunition, and different kinds of knives. The kids pressed their faces as close as they could to the "equipment," and to them it seemed almost a pity that the glass was there at all. 
Tourists shoved their cameras everywhere and anywhere they could, entranced by the process of creation. Their very being was being enabled before them—no other occasion called for photos quite like this one!
By the end of the tour, I had at least four too many arms of the meat they were selling. By my first bite, I realized that the meat didn't taste quite the same as the meat we'd sacrificed—the kind we used to eat. By the second bite, I was satisfied. 

I had never been satisfied before. Perhaps this was a part of how I became one with the stampede.

On the way out of the building, the staff pulled participants in the tour aside for a "routine health screening," a perk, I supposed, of being a part of the tour. 
They ran tests on me, and I suspected nothing until I caught a glimpse of the technician's screen. Instead of "blood pressure," it showed my "caloric yield"—my eyes flitted around to the sides of the room for an escape. Taking note of the security personnel by every entrance and exit, I determined there was none. The clinical white light of the building hurt my eyes, and the smell of the meat from earlier on my breath made me nauseated.  
I was reminded suddenly of the burning bridge I had seen all those weeks ago. Or was it months? Time seems like a nonlinear thing once you're sure you are going to die. I wondered if that bridge had really meant something to me. Perhaps it had been symbolic in securing my fate of a lonely ending.

I was led after that to a "farm"—a slaughterhouse. They had me kneel in front of the window that overlooked the sewage waters of Earth. I felt almost grateful to my two murderers in front of me; at least they allowed me to see the sky and water before my death.

For the first time in a long time, I found it in me to use my voice. I was not a particularly religious person at all, but still, I said:

"I will be avenged when you are all in hell."

The employees held a sharp tool parallel to my neck. They looked as if they wanted to laugh.

"Look around you," one of them said. "Are we not already there?"

And I looked once more at the green, polluted sky and the repulsive murkiness of the river. In the mushed-up colors of the sky, I could have sworn I saw some blue.

The dim lighting of the slaughterhouse played colors on the window, and the corners of my lips curled up slightly with pleasure.

What a beautiful day it is. It's a shame I didn't realize it sooner.