The Scrappler
I hang on with the last tailgaters, streetlamps glaring impatiently off our Ford F-whatevers.
The subject will come up soon enough with the shatter of my third-to-last Bud: Whatchya do ennyway?
My answer's always the same. I stir stews of pig guts. Aortas, gallbladders, glottises. That's it.
I smell the bubbling spleens and livers even when I pick out Hot Pockets or try
not to step on the Bible molding on the floor of my cousin's pickup. I'm always pulling
the lever that shoots pork slosh down the chutes. The backs of my eyelids
have been stamped with the curling edges of intestines.
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