Down on the killing floor, they called it processing. The panicked fresh ones would come stumbling blindly in, bowels loosening in a feverish inhalation of blood and fear. Burly arms would clamp their neck in a brace, a moment's resistance and then bang.
(more) Bleed out. Up on the chain. By the heels.
Peeled neatly by a skinning machine, corpse after corpse, sheet by sheet, shoe after shoe.
The endless line of bellies, distended gut sacs, glistening purple with promise.(less)