Marlon Malady: The lone voice of reason in an insane world
“I wonder where the meat comes from?” I ask my girlfriend, Porschia.
“What?” she asks, with that “Oh, here we go again,” look on her face.
“I wonder where the meat comes from?” I repeat.
“You know where it comes from,” she retorts. “Cows, pigs and sheep. Now come on.”
Usually I would let this go, but as my mathematical mind spins through the detail I find I can’t.
“No, I mean where does it all come from?” I continue.
“Why is this so important now?” Porschia asks. “Come on, I want to get back to watch TV Burp.”
“Because think about it for a sec,” I begin. “How many pieces of meat must be sold here in a week?”
“I don’t know,” says Porschia as she swivels her weight on one leg in quiet exasperation. “A thousand?”
“I would think probably more like ten thousand bearing in mind the shoppers that come through that door.” I retort, gleefully.
“So?” she asks.
“Well, there are four supermarkets in this area alone. If they all sell about ten thousand chops a week, that makes forty thousand chops a week. That would be over two million a year in this area alone. Factor in other supermarkets across the country and there simply wouldn’t be enough meat to go round.”
Porschia furrows her brow and picks up a big piece of rump.
“What’s that then?” she asks pointing at the picture of a guy, between thirty and forty-five, wearing an Arran sweater, ruddy-faced and smiling as the slight stubble on his chin catches the sunlight as he poses outdoors. Next to the picture it states that “All our meat is sourced from local farmers”.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I reply. “He looks like some kind of farmer model.”
“Farmer model?” she asks.
“Yeah, you know,” I come back at her. “Some guy who gets paid to look like a farmer should look.”
She looks at me like I’ve gone completely Tonto but I’ve got the bit between my teeth now and I am not about to let go. As we stand there on the brink of an argument a young guy of twenty walks by, his defeated stoop and pale complexion seeming even more defeated in his harshly coloured supermarket uniform. I dart forward and stand in front of him.
“Excuse me!” I shout. He has fear in his eyes as I stop him in the aisle. I see Porschia role her eyes and shake her head as I press on. “Where does all the meat come from?”
“All our meat is sourced from local farmers.” he mumbles back.
“Really?” I question him. “Surely there aren’t that many local farms around here. This is more of an industrial area is it not?”
“I don’t know, I just work here.” he says.
“Leave it, Marlon.” Porschia comments. People are now starting to look at us but I really feel like making my point now.
“Can I speak to your supervisor, please?” I ask the young man.
“Okay.” he says and wanders off, relieved that no more difficult questions are about to be propelled his way. A few minutes later a stodgy middle-aged man comes our way in a pretend butchers outfit.
“Can I help you, Sir?” he asks as if the twenty year old hadn’t briefed him.
“Where does all the meat come from?” I ask, yet again.
“All our meat is sourced from local farmers.” he states cheerfully. It’s becoming apparent that something’s up from the uniform way that they answer. I’m not happy.
“Can I speak to your manager, please?” I say, dryly.
“Oh my God! MARLON!” shouts Porschia.
“One second, honey,” I say before continuing, “I want to know where the meat comes from and I want to know now.”
“Can I help you, Sir?” a voice comes back. I turn and a tall thin man looking like a modern Clark Gable glares back through eyes so dark you would swear they were black.
“I want to know where the meat comes from?” I say.
“Really?” he responds.
“Really.” I retort.
“Come with me, please.” he says. I turn and flash a satisfied smile at Porschia as we walk into the back of the store. As the elegantly suited manager strides purposefully through the backroom I find I am, as always, taken aback by just how damn big these places are. Huge aircraft hangars piled high from floor to ceiling with everything from spices to floor cleaner. Through the aisles we wander to an elevator with one of those grilled doors you expect to see in old hotels. He pulls it back and gestures us inside. The manager presses a button and we go down what feels like five or six floors underground. The concrete above feels quite oppressive now as we trundle ever downward. Part of me expects to see some kind of underground bunker complete with missiles and a maniac stroking a white cat.
The lift stops.
The manager pulls back the grill and Porschia and I walk out to a sight that will haunt me till I die. In a space the length of three football fields are cages; hundreds and hundreds of cages and inside are people.
“You asked.” said Clark Gable, glibly.
Porschia and I wander over. Most people simply sit there, a defeated look on their faces; some are eating, a couple some way back are having sex, but nobody cares. Most people are just staring at a number of big-screen TV’s watching some standardized American import.
“This is barbaric.” says Porschia. I want to agree but all I can do is stare at the human spectacle before me.
“It’s survival,” the manager remarks. “Supplies are diminishing, grazing land is decreasing. It is natural in such circumstances to make the best use of the resources we do have.”
“Where do they come from?” I ask. “Are they homeless…drunks…strays?”
“We don’t feed our customers any old crap,” says the manager with a chuckle as we stare at a section of the community simply forgotten by family and friends, “And we certainly don’t go looking for it.”
“Where does it come from then?” asks Porschia.
“Usually,” the manager continues, “It comes to us!”
There’s a huge clank behind us as three walls of a cage seal magnetically attaching us to the other poor saps here. Instinctively we run forward and grab the bars. The electric shock jolts us back and throws us both hard to the concrete floor.
“There are always some idiots who have to ask questions,” begins the manager, “Always someone who has to pry that little bit more. As long as human curiosity drives people to ask questions there’ll never be a shortage of fresh meat.”
“You can’t get away with this!” I shout. “Human meat doesn’t taste like lamb or pork or beef!”
“You’re right,” the manager replies with a smile. “Human meat is virtually tasteless. We add the flavours to it, to make it taste the way it does. That’s the joke you see. It isn’t that all our meat is sourced locally…it’s that all our meat is SAUCED locally. Goodbye.”
Porschia and I scream at him defiantly as he leaves, but both of us realize it’s a futile gesture. I shout at those already here why they didn’t warn us and one man with sunken eyes and death in his voice looks at me and says “The more people that come, the longer some of us might live.”
Porschia starts screaming at me that it’s all my fault and I’m a stupid bastard; as I look around at faces void of hope I find it hard to disagree with her.
That’s what I would’ve wanted my last column to be. That’s the story I would’ve told, but I can’t. Instead I’m stuck in this cage without hope of parole. The only destiny that awaits me is an appointment with a cleaver. Porschia used to cry every day, but after the first couple of months we realised how much of a waste of energy that was. Every other week new faces come in; every other week old faces go. The big screen TV’s show CSI, NCIS and Lost, mixed with a blend of VH1 and the Box. We don’t know what’s going on in the outside world and clearly no one knows what’s going on in here.
It’s not all bad news though. We’re six months in now, and Porschia and I have been asked if we want to take part in a breeding program as they’re preparing for the next year’s lambing season. We weren’t thrilled at first but at least we’d survive a little bit longer, although it won’t be much of a life for the kids.
But that isn’t the worst part, that isn’t the thing that keeps me awake at night or affects my appetite. No, the worst thing is…WE’RE BOTH VEGETARIANS!
“I wonder where the meat comes from?” said Norman Russell.
“Who cares!” yelled his wife. “Just pick up ten chops and get a move on! It’s our Come Dine With Me night, tonight!”
Norman picked up the chops and threw them on the trolley and moved on in delicious oblivion.
So there you have it. A creepy tale to accompany your weekly shop. The whole time I was reading this I was thinking, "I'm really glad I eat more Quorn than meat these days." Until next time readers, I will leave you with the old Crimewatch farewell, "Don't have nightmares, do sleep well" but if your neighbours don't come back from their trip to the supermarket, you might want to call the cops!
