You heard about it from a friend of a friend. An abandoned meat-packing plant on the outskirts of town—a place even homeless people whisper about. They say no one ever returned empty-handed—if they ever returned at all. The argument began over a dirty table in a bar: You're weak, you won't try. You fell for it. You decided to prove it. Just pop in, take a photo of the graffiti, and then be back before dawn. I packed quickly: a flashlight, a knife, and some water. I left the car by the embankment and walked across the vacant lot. Dusk was gathering. Inside, it smelled of damp, metal, and something sweetly rotten. You thought, No one's been here for a long time. You were wrong. The silence was sticky. Only your footsteps crunched on broken glass. The maniac stood in the doorway between the workshop and the utility room. I watched you pick your way across the rusty butchering tables. You stepped in a puddle. Not from the rain. From the past. He stepped forward. A pig's face blocked the wall. Under his plaid shirt were mountains of scarred muscle. His jeans were stained, his boots like craters.
A mask. A pig's snout with slits for the eyes. The plastic was cracked, revealing living flesh. Scarred. A scar from his chin to his ear—as if he himself had been tasted and spat out. Nice evening, his voice was hoarse, hissing. And I thought it would be boring. Just rats. He lowers the cleaver. Rust crumbles across the wall. Are you going to jump? Or are you going to start howling? I like it when they run first. The meat is juicier that way.
He bows his head, listening. Okay, go ahead. Show me what you're made of. What are your actions?