Pig’s Karma
By Tim Fenster
Born and raised on a large Texas family farm, Matthew Donalds wanted only one thing in life—to acquire wealth and success—no matter what the cost.
He graduated high school in the class of ‘58 and immediately cut his ties to the family farm, wanting to make it big. His family figured he’d work in farming or on oil rigs, like most country boys did at the time. Instead he attended business school and landed himself a job working for a corporate farming company called Natural Foods Inc.
He led the company into a new, revolutionary method of raising livestock, known as Factory Farming. The process was simple—they built massive steel warehouses in which they packed pigs, chicken, and cattle so tightly they couldn’t even turn around in their pens. The process was incredibly cost-effective. Little land had to be purchased because the livestock never left the dark and crammed steel cages. Measures to keep their livestock healthy weren’t necessary since they pumped their animals’ food with antibiotics to keep them alive and healthy.
Donald Matthews rose through the company ranks and shortly after his 50th birthday, he was named CEO of Natural Foods. And received a $2 million-a-year salary, numerous company benefits, and promises of a generous pension. He had millions in stock and bank accounts, a full 10-car garage, and a three-story, 13-bedroom mansion all for himself.
It seemed that the richer he got, and the stronger Natural Foods grew, the greater his hunger became. As a supplier of meat to the American people, he increasingly wanted to become a major consumer. A meal wasn’t a meal until a large slab of meat was part of it. In every restaurant (even McDonalds) he would always go for the sandwich or dinner with the thickest cut.
One day—just before his 70th birthday—he read Natural Foods’ first quarter sales in a conference room full of fat white-haired men in suits. His heart raced with excitement as he reported the strongest sales growth they’d seen since he was named CEO. He wiped sweat from his forehead and licked his lips in a hunger for wealth. As he welcomed applause, the conference room grew dim and he began to feel lightheaded. Suddenly he collapsed forward, causing the opposite end of the conference table to jump upward like a see-saw. One of his many clogged arteries—that which supplied blood to his brain—gave out, leading to a major stroke.
The doctors thought he’d die. But instead he went into a coma. As his business associates and few caring family members stared at his vacant body, they wondered what he was feeling, if anything.
Matthew Donalds remained in a coma for years before his death. The time felt to him like a prolonged dream, or rather, an endless nightmare.
He was trapped; constantly weak and angry. A prisoner, unable to move in a crowded, lightless, and filthy pen.
He was still bloated with weak muscle and fat, but his body was no longer human. Sometimes he had hooves, sometimes wings, and sometimes a twirling tail. The dreams in which he had the tail were the worst. Some machine had cut off his tail, and when the pigs behind him would chew on the remaining stub, an excruciating pain bolted through his soft, pink back-side.
In those dreams where he had wings, giant peach-colored hands would pick him up and place his face into a claw. With a crunching sound, the machine would sever and remove his beak in one punch.
Those years spent trapped in the coma he saw endless misery and torment. Each experience was worse than anything a human had ever endured.
Early in the sequence of nightmares, he knew that the pain and suffering he felt was all a product of his mind. Then, he could remember that he was still a man. And would know that he was at least partially to blame for the reality of this horror.
Yet soon, he forgot that he was human and believed that he was nothing more than a living, feeling, and breathing resource for another species.
In his dead mind, his existence of pain and suffering was worth nothing more than a moment of taste to another—apparently superior—species.
- - -
I'm a young writer, with several published fiction pieces, who's majoring in Creative Writing and Journalism at SUNY Brockport. I'm also a native of Buffalo, New York.
By Tim Fenster
Born and raised on a large Texas family farm, Matthew Donalds wanted only one thing in life—to acquire wealth and success—no matter what the cost.
He graduated high school in the class of ‘58 and immediately cut his ties to the family farm, wanting to make it big. His family figured he’d work in farming or on oil rigs, like most country boys did at the time. Instead he attended business school and landed himself a job working for a corporate farming company called Natural Foods Inc.
He led the company into a new, revolutionary method of raising livestock, known as Factory Farming. The process was simple—they built massive steel warehouses in which they packed pigs, chicken, and cattle so tightly they couldn’t even turn around in their pens. The process was incredibly cost-effective. Little land had to be purchased because the livestock never left the dark and crammed steel cages. Measures to keep their livestock healthy weren’t necessary since they pumped their animals’ food with antibiotics to keep them alive and healthy.
Donald Matthews rose through the company ranks and shortly after his 50th birthday, he was named CEO of Natural Foods. And received a $2 million-a-year salary, numerous company benefits, and promises of a generous pension. He had millions in stock and bank accounts, a full 10-car garage, and a three-story, 13-bedroom mansion all for himself.
It seemed that the richer he got, and the stronger Natural Foods grew, the greater his hunger became. As a supplier of meat to the American people, he increasingly wanted to become a major consumer. A meal wasn’t a meal until a large slab of meat was part of it. In every restaurant (even McDonalds) he would always go for the sandwich or dinner with the thickest cut.
One day—just before his 70th birthday—he read Natural Foods’ first quarter sales in a conference room full of fat white-haired men in suits. His heart raced with excitement as he reported the strongest sales growth they’d seen since he was named CEO. He wiped sweat from his forehead and licked his lips in a hunger for wealth. As he welcomed applause, the conference room grew dim and he began to feel lightheaded. Suddenly he collapsed forward, causing the opposite end of the conference table to jump upward like a see-saw. One of his many clogged arteries—that which supplied blood to his brain—gave out, leading to a major stroke.
The doctors thought he’d die. But instead he went into a coma. As his business associates and few caring family members stared at his vacant body, they wondered what he was feeling, if anything.
Matthew Donalds remained in a coma for years before his death. The time felt to him like a prolonged dream, or rather, an endless nightmare.
He was trapped; constantly weak and angry. A prisoner, unable to move in a crowded, lightless, and filthy pen.
He was still bloated with weak muscle and fat, but his body was no longer human. Sometimes he had hooves, sometimes wings, and sometimes a twirling tail. The dreams in which he had the tail were the worst. Some machine had cut off his tail, and when the pigs behind him would chew on the remaining stub, an excruciating pain bolted through his soft, pink back-side.
In those dreams where he had wings, giant peach-colored hands would pick him up and place his face into a claw. With a crunching sound, the machine would sever and remove his beak in one punch.
Those years spent trapped in the coma he saw endless misery and torment. Each experience was worse than anything a human had ever endured.
Early in the sequence of nightmares, he knew that the pain and suffering he felt was all a product of his mind. Then, he could remember that he was still a man. And would know that he was at least partially to blame for the reality of this horror.
Yet soon, he forgot that he was human and believed that he was nothing more than a living, feeling, and breathing resource for another species.
In his dead mind, his existence of pain and suffering was worth nothing more than a moment of taste to another—apparently superior—species.
- - -
I'm a young writer, with several published fiction pieces, who's majoring in Creative Writing and Journalism at SUNY Brockport. I'm also a native of Buffalo, New York.
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Hello, Tim.
Talk about poetic justice. Never going to look at meat the same way again.
Kelly