	Aaron rolled his car into the spot labelled 'visitor parking'. It was an industrial-looking lot nestled next to a fenced-off acreage marked with several bright, threatening signs that advertised various expensive security companies. In the distance, a blocky, T-shaped industrial building cast a long shadow in the morning sun: The Abattoir.
	He ducked as he rose from the seat of the car and zipped up his jacket. As an impala, a simple fact of his life was constantly trying not to catch his long, elegant horns on things like car doors, overhanging branches or low ceilings. Like most 'prey' animals, he had a slender, athletic figure which looked almost androgynous under the bulky jacket. He tucked a folder under his arm and unlatched the gate, locking it behind him. The grounds were green and expansive, and a plethora of livestock grazed peacefully almost as far as the eye could see. This place didn't look so bad after all, the gazelle thought to himself. 
	One of the creatures had taken up grazing near the fence. Aaron clicked his tongue as he walked closer. The creature flicked its ears, but otherwise paid no mind. It was a small specimen, maybe four feet high at the withers. It was tan in colour, and could have passed for a regular horse if not for the spiralled, scimitar-like horn near the end of its nose. “Cute little uni-poo, aint'cha?” Aaron grinned.
	The unicorns of this day and age were not the mythical creatures they once were. They didn't carry noble paladins into battle against demons and monsters, nor did they allow themselves only to be touched by the purest of maidens. Over the centuries they had been interbred and crossbred to such an extent that they were nothing more than 'designer' horses, bred by design to be elegant, docile and stupid. The specific traits of the species varied slightly depending on the unicorn's origin - unicorns in the cold north were usually thickly built, similar to Clydesdales or Percherons, whereas the arid south had slender, faster unicorns similar in form to Arabians. In spite of individual differences, there were a few traits that always separated the unicorns from their more conventional cousins. Unicorns, no matter how thin the genetic line, always kept their cloven hooves and sported a long, almost hairless tail.  They were also a consistently lighter colour than 'normal' horses: gunmetal grey instead of black, sandy tan instead of chestnut, and so on and so forth. And then there was the horn they grew upon reaching maturity – their signature feature and the unfortunate cause of their ultimate fall from grace.
	The horn of the unicorn was both a blessing and a curse. At first, it was thought to be the source of the mythical panacea, the singular cure to every single disease. It was thought that by consuming powdered unicorn horn in sufficient quantities, one could cure everything from cancer to the common cold. After several decades of experimentation, the more 'enlightened' countries discovered that the promise of the mythical 'cure-all' was false. However, the more primitive areas of the world were kept hoodwinked, and the 'third world' was willing to pay any price to attain it. When they ran out of natural resources, they paid in blood instead, and the price of the horn surpassed its weight in gold. Wealthy property owners bred them like rabbits, harvesting their horns the very day they reached the appropriate weight. However, once the horn was cut off, the unicorn was worthless.
	That was why this plant existed. Once the horn had been harvested, it would never grow back. That normally wouldn't be an issue – a hornless unicorn was still an exceptionally beautiful equine after all - but the wound from the harvested horn proved extremely slow to heal over, and it lead to serious infection followed by a lingering, painful demise in almost every case. The only humane way to 'treat' a hornless unicorn appeared to be euthanasia. At first, rescue homes and slaughterhouses took them at a fair price, but the market quickly became so over-saturated with hornless unicorns that owners couldn't even GIVE them away. Eventually, they ended up here by the hundreds, auctioned off for pennies on the dollar to be processed into pet food. In short, once the unicorn was de-horned, it was worth more dead than alive.
	Aaron didn't really want this job, or at least that was what he told his parents. But the plant was close by, they were hiring, it paid well, had steady hours and plenty of benefits. But secretly, he was . . . morbidly curious. That was the only way he could describe it. The thought of reducing such a beautiful and majestic creature to a comparatively worthless by-product was quite the power trip, especially since as a 'prey animal' himself, there wasn't much separating the two species.
	The impala gave up on trying to coax the unicorn closer and continued up the trail to the abattoir. His ears twitched at the sound of a squabble further up the road, near the main doors. A small crowd had gathered, cordoned off by yellow tape away from the main doors by two bored-looking law-enforcement officials. A pair of signs bobbed above his head, drawing his attention. One read “meat is murder”, the other read “family, not food”. The crowd yelled obscenities at the passing impala: “Traitor,” “murderer,” and “killer” were the ones he managed to pick out. He didn't even work here yet, and already he was loathed and reviled by this small handful of malcontents. He paid them a passing glance, but no more. He was able to pick out a ram, and to his surprise, a dobie bitch near the back. He took the insults in stride, giving the officers a salute and a polite “Good morning” as he climbed the steps and pushed through the windowless door.
	The inside looked like a construction office – crude and bare, but efficient. There was a cloak room on the right, and what appeared to be an administration office on the left. The door was open, and a uniformed jackal turned to face the newcomer.
	“You must be Aaron,” the jackal noted, squinting and pointing. “The only herbivore that would have any business within ten miles of here – uneducated sign-waving miscreants notwithstanding.” Aaron approached, unsure exactly how to take the remark. He offered a hand to shake, and the jackal rose to return the gesture. However, to his surprise, the jackal kept moving, showing him out the door and into the cloakroom. “I'm Lenard,” the jackal continued, “If you'll just follow me, we can get you changed and out onto the floor.”
	“I thought I was having an interview,” Aaron blinked. Even though the jackal looked a good decade or two older than he was, he still dwarfed the canine by a good six inches. It was odd treating someone so much shorter than he was with the authority that Lenard so clearly demanded.
	“You are,” Lenard grinned, pulling what looked like some sort of hazard suit from one of the many available. He pulled another one down for the impala and tossed it over. “I'm gonna learn more about you by taking you down the line than I ever would by listening to you yammering about your credentials. Toilets are to the right if you feel you're about to lose your lunch. Showers, too. Even with the suit, the smell of blood sticks to fur like you wouldn't believe.”
	Lenard turned around to point out the door leading to the showers, and Aaron noticed the word “BAWS” messily scrawled onto the back of the jackal's suit with what looked like felt pen. Aaron finished fumbling with his own suit and zipped it up. To say there were butterflies in his stomach was a massive understatement. 
	Lenard pulled open the door and stepped to the side. Aaron's eyes were immediately assaulted by the sight of a skinless, headless equine carcass dangling by its legs from a meat hook. The impala recoiled, and the jackal laughed. “Strike one,” he cackled. 
	Aaron grumbled. He was just startled, that was all. A sight like that would scare anyone. “That was a cheap trick,” he replied, holding a hand to his chest. 
	“And it works every time,” Lenard grinned. “Grab some ear protection and follow me.”
	The pair appeared to be in the main part of the abattoir. It was a very large, rectangular room, probably a good fifty feet from one end to the other, and maybe half of that across. The ceiling was high, and there were no full walls, only cubicle-like structures that served to divide the grand area into several smaller sections. Aaron could count at least several dozen unicorn carcasses in various states of slaughter, all hanging from what looked like some sort of track on the ceiling. He was pretty sure he saw at least one of them still moving, its opened throat gushing blood onto the cement floor. He shivered, goosebumps making his short fur stand on end. He was led to one end of the grand rectangular room towards a small walled-off section. A pair of floor-to-ceiling saloon-style doors dominated one side of the wall opposite a smaller door, left ajar. The jackal stepped through it, not bothering to look behind him to see if the impala was following. 
	“The kill-pen,” Lenard announced, pointing to a large push-cage in one corner. There was already a hornless unicorn in the pen, bleating nervously, like it knew what was about to happen. Another worker stood on a raised platform in front of the unicorn's head, with a strange device levelled between it's ears, connected to the ceiling by a rubber coiled hose. There was a weathered diagram on the far wall showing how to properly 'stun' the beasts before bleeding them out, along with three 'incorrect' methods to round out the poster. 
	A shot rang out suddenly, forcing the impala to jump. He turned back to the worker who held the strange device The downed equine shuddered and twitched, demanding attention for its last few seconds until it lay still. The worker – his large figure made him out to be some sort of ursine, most likely – opened the door to the kill-pen, lifted the unicorn's leg onto a waiting meat-hook, and pushed it away. The entire process probably took less than a minute, and Aaron just stood by, in shock, his eyes glued to the carcass as it pushed through the saloon-style doors to his left. It was swift, brutal, and altogether unceremonious. Aaron wasn't sure whether he was supposed to horrified or titillated. 
	“Shake your head boy,” Lenard said, placing a rough hand on his shoulder, “your eyes are stuck!” Aaron blinked, still a little stunned. “Why don't you give the boys in processing a hand?” he ordered the other worker. The impala watched him disappear through the door. “Alright boy, you and I are gonna tackle the next one. You ready?”
	Aaron blustered. He managed to stammer out a quick “uh” before his 'mentor' lifted the gate on the other side of the kill-pen and let another victim in from the grimly overcrowded stockade outside. He grabbed the rifle, talking as he turned to face the unicorn. “See, before we bleed them dry, they gotta be put under.” Aaron noticed that he wasn't climbing the stairs to get a clear shot, and instead was just pointing the gun at the horse from the ground, holding it rather awkwardly in one hand. “We used to have a rifle, but we eventually figured out that these beasties weren't even worth the cost of ammunition. A few years back we bought this fancy stun-gun, and it's paid for itself three time over since then. Say g'night, horsie,” he grinned as he levelled the bolt at her head and and fired. The unicorn recoiled with a frightened whinny, but seemed to shake off the impact. Aaron's mouth dropped. There was a huge, bloodied hole where its left eye used to be, and it was still standing. How could it handle that amount of pain, Aaron wondered. Was it even aware it had been shot?
	“Damn,” the jackal muttered as he casually walked over to the locker to chamber another round.  “My aim ain't what it used to be,” he sighed, pointing the rifle squarely behind the blooded, puss-filled pit where its horn used to be, and fired again. The unicorn dropped like a sack of bricks, landing squarely on its belly before rolling over to its left side, its legs twitching frantically before it finally lay still. A few silent seconds passed, and there was another twitch. Lenard hit it in the head with the butt of the rifle, and then again when it didn't react. “Good,” he chuckled. “Sometimes my aim's not as good as it could be. We gotta make sure they're real good and dead before we take'em down the line.” He opened the door to the kill-pen and lifted the beast up by a hind leg. He looked between the unicorn's legs and chuckled. “Not much of a stallion, were you?” he taunted before hoisting it up to one of the low-hanging hooks and pushing it across the room. 
	Lenard turned to his prospect. “You wanna try the next one?”
	“Uh,” Aaron stammered again.
	“C'mon! You want this job or not, boy?”
	“Yes!” he blurted out, perhaps a little too quickly. “It's just . . . fine. I'll try.” His short fur was standing on end. He had never even held a gun before, much less fired one into the head of a living creature. It was somehow sickly exciting. The next unicorn's life would be in his hands.
	Lenard reached through the gate into the stockade, pulling the third victim in by an ear. It bleated and whinnied, struggling to resist with every step. The jackal gripped the rifle in his other hand and cracked the butt of it against the unicorn's head. “Get! In! Here!” he barked at it, wrenching on its ear until it finally wobbled into the kill-pen. It was a tawny unicorn with pale specks around its flank and rump. It had a look of panic in its eyes, like it knew what was going to happen. Aaron shuddered. Could he really do this? Could he end an innocent life?
	The jackal didn't give him much of a choice. After locking down the cage, he shoved the butt of the rifle into the impala's hands and aimed the barrel of the gun between the unicorn's ears, right where it was supposed to be.
	“Push the button, son,” he demanded. Aaron didn't have time to think twice before his finger practically moved of its own accord. His hand wavered, but the jackal kept the stun-gun straight, and the rod drilled into the equine's skull. It didn't even leave a mark.  Down it went like a ton of bricks, dead before it hit the ground, body still twitching and convulsing for a few seconds as it tried to adjust to the sudden transition from life into death. It didn't even make a sound of protest. 
	Aaron could feel his ears flush. The only was to describe it was a 'rush': by his hand, this creature had ceased to exist. There was no higher power whispering in his ear telling him what do to, or that with great power came great responsibility - he got to decide that for himself. He gently put the gun down, trying to stifle a nervous chuckle. Lenard grinned.
	“This is your first kill, ain't it, son?” he nodded knowingly. It was written all over the impala's face. Aaron could only nod, giddy as a fawn. Lenard opened up the kill-cage and dragged the corpse out by its front legs. He lifted up one of the back legs and smiled. “Would you look at the gape on this cunt!” he cackled, “Must've been a broodmare or somethin', come have a look!”
	It sounded like more of a command than a suggestion, although secretly it was a command that the impala didn't mind obeying. He had never gotten a chance to look at a mare this close before. He stepped around the cage behind it. The jackal was holding up the dead mare's back leg with one hand and tugging on her vulva with the other, stretching it as far as he could. 
	“Wow,” Aarons blurted out.
	“You could probably fit a baseball inside this bitch,” Lenard laughed, letting go of the mare's genitals and pushing his fingers between her chubby lower lips. There was no muscle to keep them closed anymore, and there wasn't any way she could sidestep or pin her tail down to prevent the two males from exploring her most intimate regions. Lenard pushed his fingers under her tail up to the knuckle before pulling them out, fingering her corpse. 
	“Probably deep as my arm,” the impala said quickly, caught up in the jackal's enthusiasm. He covered his mouth right afterwards, instantly regretting what he said. Instead of scolding him, the jackal laughed gleefully. 
	“That's the spirit!” he replied, patting him roughly on the back, “Why don't you take a closer look? It's not like she's gonna say no!”
	Aaron hesitated. The door was closed, and his new 'supervisor' clearly didn't mind. He was right, the mare wasn't exactly in a position to complain. He leaned down and pressed a single finger against her dark, loose-looking sex. It felt like a slippery, overstuffed pillow. She smelled foul, probably from being crammed in a small space with all the other scared, panicking unicorns. He shuddered to think how filthy she was back there, but then he remembered that there were showers just around the corner if he felt that badly about it.
	“wow,” the impala muttered again. He had never been this close to a corpse before. He felt somehow excited, but horribly guilty at the same time. But that guilt was just a nagging whisper now.
	Lenard slapped the dead mare's flank and watched her leg jiggle. “You'll see a lot more of her where that came from. But this is supposed to be a tour, not a one-stop-shop. I gotta show you the rest of the place!” Aaron sighed, finding himself almost unwilling to leave the mare's side as his odd companion moved on without him. The jackal grabbed one of the mare's slender hind legs and hoisted her up to a meat-hook. He gave her another affectionate slap and watched as the hook rolled along the ceiling track, the mare's dead weight wobbling beneath it as it pushed through the saloon doors. The canine and cervine soon followed. Lenard grabbed on to one of the dead mare's front legs and guided her over to the middle of the T-shaped building, waving one of his co-workers back to the kill pen to take over where he left off. He flicked a knife out of his pocked and without even a hint of warning, stabbed it into the base of the mare's neck, almost between her front legs. The blade ripped to the side and unleashed a torrent of dark red blood. Aaron jumped back, prompting a cackle. 
	“S'what the suit's for, dumbass,” the jackal guffawed, shaking the mare towards the impala and splattering his suit generously. “If blood makes ya squick, I got some bad news, son. This might be the wrong place for ya!” He laughed again.
	“It's not that!” Aaron protested, “I was just . . . surprised.”
	“Sure,” Lenard rolled his eyes. “But as I was sayin', somewhere between here and there, the unicorns need to be bled out, so they can be skinned and butchered properly. Otherwise It's just a big mess and the meat tastes – well, even worse.”
	Aaron noticed a sort of drainage trench in the floor right underneath the track. There didn't appear to be a special area dedicated to bleeding out, and he imagined most of the unicorns just casually bled out on the go, dangling freely from the ceiling as their very life poured out through severed jugular veins and onto the concrete floor, probably washed away into the ground. He doubted they had any sort of specialized disposal method, considering what he had seen so far. By the time the impala was done observing, there was another unicorn on the track, headed towards them hanging limply. Lenard quickly gave it the same treatment as the poor mare: he wrenched its angular head back against its mane and slashed its throat quickly.
	“On a busy day, we normally have someone just standing here, cutting throats. That's all they do. Grab, slit, push, move on, and let the guys down at processing sort them out. “Sometimes, it's so busy that-”
	A frantic, high-pitched bray startled the both of them. Aaron jumped, again, and Lenard just rolled his eyes. “For the love of- . . . actually, this is a good learning experience. C'mere.” he walked towards the source of the noise – to a dishevelled-looking unicorn hanging from the ceiling on a hook. It was still moving – and vigorously at that, its front legs galloping against empty air, and its chest taking in deep, shuddering gasps of air. “Sometimes, the person who's supposed to stun the unicorns fucks up!” he accused, shouting towards the kill-pen. “And when that happens, the folks in processing have to just keep doing their thing. We don't have time to slow down.” Just like he did with the dead mare before, the jackal jabbed his knife quickly into the beast's throat, standing behind it as so not to get kicked. Aaron covered his mouth as the blood literally gushed from the newly-made wound. The dying beast put up all manner of fuss – it flailed wildly, much to Lenard's sick amusement. 
	“Look at 'er go!” Lenard cackled, sheathing the blade back into his belt, “What a fighter!” Aaron just felt sick. Seeing a unicorn granted a swift, merciful death was one thing. Watching it murdered in cold blood was quite another. Still, it was like watching a car accident. He just couldn't peel his eyes away, and the unicorn seemed intent on giving quite the show. Within moments, the frantic flaring of the unicorn's nostrils had slowed, and its wide, panicked eyes began to droop. Still, it was far from gone. Only seconds after it had stopped moving, it started again, bucking and heaving wildly, trying to drags its front legs upwards to its chest while spraying blood in all directions. This outburst lasted no more than a few seconds and then it was still once again. Aaron started to speak, but another gurgle forced him to pause. The dying creature seemed to command his attention for one last reflexive air-gallop and a kick with its free hind-leg before it hung limp and flaccid. Aaron waited for another twitch, but was rewarded only with a pitiful shiver as the creature went into shock from blood loss. The river of blood had slowed to a trickle. 
	“Does this happen . . . often?” Aaron said softly, his eyes still locked on the shuddering equine.
	“Eh,” Lenard replied, digging his knife into the unicorn's chin to unleash a comparatively small gush of blood, just to clear the last of it, “Sometimes. But we just need to keep going, like I said. Remember kid, time is money, and these animals aren't worth much of either.”
	“I see,” Aaron replied quietly. That was harsh, he thought. They weren't even worth caring about. They were an object, a product, a commodity that was getting less valuable by the minute. By the time Lenard had slapped the impala on the back to rouse him, the unicorn wasn't moving any longer. Aaron doubted there was any blood left in it. “So what happens after it's good and dead?”
	“Now,” the jackal grinned, “we get to skin and butcher them – head that way.” 
	At the far end of the building, there were several carcasses lined up close together, next to a jumble of staircases. They looked like those movable metal stairs found in retail stockrooms, but these ones had been crudely bolted to the floor. They creaked and wobbled as the workers reached out with thin blades and began peeling the pelt away from odd angles. One worker looked like he was peeling a unicorn's leg like a gory banana. There was a pile of discarded, bloody pelts in a heap near the floor.
	“You don't even save the skins?” Aaron snorted.
	“Not usually. Unicorn leather is brittle and weak. Anything that can be done with unicorn hide can be done better with cowskin. The end product wouldn't be worth the price of processing.”
	Aaron had been hearing that a lot lately, that these animals weren't worth much. They weren't worth feeding. They weren't worth caring for. They weren't worth a 'good' death. They weren't even worth the skin they wore. He watched, deep in thought as one worker turned the knife on a carcass that had been completely skinned. The colour of its muscles were dull and washed-out from the lack of blood. The blade sank into its groin and tugged downwards until it hit the bone of the ribcage. He had to cover his mouth again as the worker reached into the wound with both hands and pulled out a mountainous, squirming mass of grey intestines and dropped them to the ground with a sickening splatter.
	“Once all that's done with, we need to actually get at what little of the meat we can use. Unicorn meat is so tough and gamey that we don't actually bother to cut most of it off. We cut out the short loin from the back and the flank steaks from their groins. Butcher shops don't care for anything else.”
	By this point, the impala was almost insulted. From a thousand-pound animal, they were taking maybe ten or fifteen pounds of meat. To kill the animals so coldly was shocking enough, but then to not use so much of it? That just felt . . . rude.
	“What happens to the rest of it?” Aaron asked, hoping that they didn't just toss it in the trash.
	Lenard laughed. “That's the best part,” he replied. “You need to see this.” He pointed over to a door in the far side of the wall, where the tracks once again went through a pair of saloon-style doors near the ceiling. Aaron walked towards it, passing a unicorn that was having its ribcage hacked apart by a small hatchet to get at the organs inside. It's eyes were still frozen open, and its jaw hung loosely in a silent scream.
	The doors to this room were heavy and windowless. Lenard tapped his ear-protectors as he opened the door, and Aaron adjusted the heavy foam muffs on his own head, making sure they were properly fitted. Instantly, his ears were assaulted by the constant, heavy whirring of an enormous machine.
	The floor looked like a giant indoor pool, only instead of water, there was a number of long, rotating cylinders that spanned the length of the floor in a 'V'-shape. The cylinders had flat-looking, disk-like protrusions, meant to push anything between them down into the lower part of the 'V' where it was would be crushed into a gory paste.
	“Behold,” Lenard yelled over the roar of the machine, “The grinder! Anything left from the unicorns, or anything marked ahead of time as unfit for consumption gets thrown down here. They probably make it into dog food or something, we just ship it away to other companies!” Aaron found himself more than morbidly curious now. To him, it looked like a massive mouth full of grinding, gnashing teeth. It was both terrible and inspiring all at once. The other side of the room was open to the pastures, presumably to bring in animals that had died in the field while waiting their turn in the queue.
	The tracks on the ceiling moved, and in came the barely-recognizable remains of one of the unicorns Aaron saw earlier. He realized that he didn't even remember which one it was. He had only seen maybe half a dozen and they were already beginning to blur together. The hook was tilted, and the bloodied, skinless body dropped into the machine. It rolled around, its lukewarm flesh pushed around by the gears until something finally bit into it and held it in place. It looked like it was being chewed up from below by some massive, unseen monster. The entire process took maybe thirty seconds before there was pretty much nothing left. The grinder didn't even slow down, it just kept whirring along like it was grinding up empty air. Lenard talked his potential recruit through the process as another partial carcass was brought in and dumped. 
	“This machine can handle anything we throw at it – bones, frozen meat . . . even entire unicorns without breaking a sweat . . . on that thought--” He turned his head to call across the pit. “Boys!” he hollered, “How about we bring in some of the leftovers and show the new kid what this baby can do?”
	Aaron could see the other workers giggling amongst themselves. Did they actually enjoy this kind of work? He watched as two of the workers opened a door to one of the pens outside, and he covered his mouth in shock. The unicorn they were dragging in was tiny, no higher than his waist. It was a light tan, with dark-brown splotches near its hooves.
	 “Someone tore this little colt's horn off way too early,” Lenard explained, “And there isn't enough meat on it to bother with processing, into the grinder it goes.”
	Aaron cringed. How could he be so stoic, so calm and unbothered? They were about to throw a live pony into a giant blender! It was almost a relief when he saw one of the workers grab a gun. Unlike the kill-pen, however, this kill was far from professional. He simply levelled the rifle at the side of the pony's head, told his partner to move out of the way, and fired. The young animal dropped instantly, and his back legs twitched violently. He snorted loudly – clearly the bullet didn't to its work good enough. Aaron hoped that the small unicorn was addled enough not to feel much when they kicked it into the grinder a few moments later. The impala watched it roll awkwardly until its nose got caught near the bottom. It's legs went arrow-stiff for a split second as the gears crushed its skull, and then it was sleepily sucked down into the abyss, just like the half-butchered unicorn before it. The impala was speechless.
	“We got another one too, boss!” one of the workers yelled, “went down in the fields after eating something she shouldn't have. Don't wanna chop'er up if she's toxic!”
	Lenard turned to Aaron. “Whaddya think, son?” he elbowed him playfully. “I've probably kept you long enough, but I think you ought to see one more sight if you really want this job. Your call”
	Aaron pondered for a moment. He might as well, after the events of today, he seriously doubted that anything could shock him anymore. “Bring it,” he replied with a nervous grin. He watched as the two workers dragged in a larger unicorn, its flank marked with a large black 'X' to denote it as unfit for consumption. He wondered if they had a way of telling it apart from the rest of the muck that was supposed to be made into pet food. He then wondered if they even cared. Did no morals govern these people, he thought. But why was that his problem now? He wasn't going to be eating it. 
	Thankfully, this unicorn looked already well and truly dead. It looked fat, almost distended. It was a light dun, with a white streak down its forehead. The impala watched as the two workers struggled to drag it forward, eventually resorting to pushing and kicking it into the grinder. This one didn't tumble and roll so much as it did wobble around near the bottom. It must have been heavier than it looked. It was a mare, clearly – all spectators got a rather lewd view of her feral teats as the gears tugged her over onto her back and snagged her mane, dragging her head down backwards into a bloody, sticky pulp. From there, the gears looked like they were peeling the layers of her flesh away as bits and pieces got snagged and tugged down. Her shoulder was crushed and the bulge in her belly was forced suddenly to one side as the mare's entire torso was swallowed up. With a hideous, sloppy rip  her abdomen was torn open, and the impala thought he saw a pair of tiny, twig-like legs sticking out from her innards before the whole thing was swallowed down.
	Aaron felt strangely unperturbed. The fact that he had just watched a pregnant mare sucked through an industrial blender had surprisingly little effect on him. Lenard watched the impala's face for any sign of reaction.
	“The fact that this didn' make ya puke makes me think you were made for this job, kiddo,” he beamed, “When can ya start?”
