you have to cross two roads to get there, one even with two-way traffic. past the neglected postbox, which is a mystery, having never seen letters, stamps or postmen in your life. up a few steps, into the blue light of the insect-killing lamps. a huge circular saw emerges from the marble worktop, which is festooned with garlands of plump pink and black sausages. men in white aprons and small white caps grab hold of grotesque body parts and cut them into submission. beyond the counter, a huge poster shows the bovine geography, arrows mapping out your next delicious meal. around the walls, hanging from pirate-hooks, dangle the halves and quarters of once happy cows. rivulets of blood make their way from the worktop to the floor to the city innards. the infernal noise of the saw makes a sudden stop. the buzzer tolls the final song for a stray fly. the stench of death and dinner makes you dizzy. the men laugh, hand you a paper-wrapped soggy package, send you back to your home.
it´s your first visit to the butchers. you didn´t before, but now you know.
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