begin.
sweat and heat mix in sickening miasmas, disembodied noises echo off the walls...the squeals of machinery, of sharp silver blades against the sopping meat of labor. cries ring out, a butchershop patois of disconsolate hollers. you (the reader,) feel your skin crawl with the maggots of long-uncleaned corners of this warehouse, stealing into your sinews like cattle pumped full of antibiotics. you feel the intrusion swarm your brain; larvae writhe and pry into long exhausted crevices of your neural pathways as your eyes quicken upon the page...
the ax... raised above his head like a guillotine, crusted with a red substance you don't dare to name. this dostoevskian nightmare seems too cruel -- too immediate for page one of a lowbrow comic, and an affront to whatever unidentifiable hunks of still-warm flesh festering before yo- ENOUGH OF THAT! THE BLADE IS DESCENDING -- MOVE!
(the viewpoint is deftly exchanged for a more spectral view of the situation. the man drops the metal with a wet, sickening *THUNK,* but the stream of consciousness seems to remain intact.)
the surroundings, revealed by a less panicked eye, appear to be LOATHSOME factory crowded with machinery of all assortments.
It appears to be some sort of meat processing facility, if the squelches and spatters -- not to mention the sinewy forms dangling from hooks on the ceiling -- tell you anything. That being said, it isn't too stinky. In fact, you get the sense you're used to this smell. It's peculiar -- in a way, it's almost nostalgic. Like you've been working here a long time...
hands of meat and hands of play...these hands that wield such mighty blades! worthy hands, thy provide for me as a sword for its meister. Umm... wait... these hands aren't yours. Or are they? This is getting confusing.