The alarm has been ringing for the last half an hour. I finally get myself out of bed, get dressed, grab a coffee and head out. It was just another day. The weather was a lot warmer; I guess at least something is changing. I wave at Mr. Crickleton on the way to work. That’s quite the usual too, he is always reading the newspaper outside when I’m walking past. I picked up my green gloves on the way inside the farm and walked over to the cage in the far left. It was a routine now; I have done it for so long. I pulled out the chicken amidst the screeching and struggling. I’ve learnt that if you hold it just below the neckline, none of its struggling will ever work. The rest of my day is gruesome. I’ll spare you the details and just say there’s a lot of blood and awful smells. People always ask me how I can do this every day. They ask me, Hans do you no feelings? It’s a job, a job alone, I tell them. I can’t please everyone. I have to empathize with either the suffering chicken or my suffering family. The choice couldn’t be clearer. I leave at the end of the day, money in hand.
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