McElroy watched workers shuffle into the plant,
his perch high above the sticky floor. The low thrum of fans didn’t do
much to deter the stench or flies. A new girl swatted at them, not yet
used to the inevitable trappings of things about to die.
McElroy narrowed his eyes. She had a gloss about her, hair too shiny, shoulders square. Her shoes were all wrong.
“Fuck me, she’s a muckraker.” At his signal, Sigmund lumbered over, wiping thick hands on his leather apron.
The lady journalist would add a nice flavor to the canned pork. He’d label it “gourmet.”
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