From Wisconsin to Hawaii

From Wisconsin to Hawaii


Tony Shoemaker was an American. He grew up in Wisconsin in a sturdy, wooden house his grandfather built with his own hands. His father worked in a metal shop his entire life, and by the time Tony was old enough to work, a pig slaughtering establishment rolled into town and recruited the eager boy.
So now Tony was a butcher. A lot of butchers will tell you that their work is hard, degrading, disgusting, or what have you. But, for Tony? No, it wasn't like that. Tony loved his work. He loved his co-workers, he loved the purpose of the company, but more than anything, he loved blood.
He loved the sight of blood. He loved the scent of it. The taste was good, too. It was the way it felt, though, that really turned Tony on. He would sometimes sit, when no one was around, right in the middle of the slaughterhouse, and stroke his fingers through little rivers of blood. He would wash his hands in pools of the sticky fluid and rub the redness in between his fingertips.
Sometimes Tony would whisper things to the pigs before putting them into line to be butchered. Nobody ever heard or saw Tony doing these things. They all assumed he was one of the guys. One of them.
Because everyone was so fond of Tony, he was selected to join some of the slaughterhouse's representatives in a business trip to the annual Hawaiian Pig Butchering Convention. Naturally, Tony jumped at the chance to collaborate with the world's top butcherers.
He carried an aura of accomplishment around with him for the next few weeks as he went about his business. He took special pains to hold off on the pork, constantly reassuring himself that no meat tasted better than when it had been greatly anticipated and longed for. Bacon-less Sunday mornings were the hardest for Tony. In substitution, he consumed a copious amount of lamb and cow.
Finally, after what felt like the longest wait of his life, the day had come. Tony, his work buddies, three hawaiian shirts, three business suits, nine pairs of socks, nine pairs of boxers, three pairs of jeans and six collared shirts boarded a surprisingly small airplane at the Wisconsin National Airport. The pilots seemed to have no knowledge of English, but it seemed this problem was foreshadowed, for the plane was equipped with a robot translator, which served as the communication device between the passengers and their pilots. Although the butchers were impressed with the robot's capability to translate over 34 languages, the popularity of the machine soared when it was communicated to them (through the robot, of course) that it also served as a coffee maker.
Unlike the other businessmen, Tony had never been on an airplane before. Because of this, he had no idea what to expect and figured, like any of us would do, that the plane's behavior in the air was normal. However, the plane's behavior was not normal at all. The first six hours were smooth enough, but for the past thirty-five seconds the plane had been losing altitude - fast.
That's how fast it happens, sometimes. One second you're soaring, turbulent-free through the air, above the clouds, patches of ground, shadows. And, before your mind or body can react, suddenly the floor drops from beneath you, and you're falling. Hard.
After a few seconds of dropping, Tony and the boys found it difficult to ignore the fear ripping apart their insides. They started wondering if their life had been worthwhile. One of the butchers clasped his hands together and held them over his head. Tony just focused on breathing.
It took some time before Tony and the other business men heard what sounded like a vicious argument coming from within the cockpit. Terrified, Tony approached the door and opened it. As he struggled with the translation robot, the pilots ignored Tony and loudly carried on with their argument. Suddenly, before Tony or any of the awed businessmen could move a muscle, the shorter of the two the pilots unbuckled his seat belt, took three shots of gin, pried open the emergency door and flung his body into the atmosphere. His body made little circles in the air while the earth inhaled his body toward the ground. Everyone stared silently for a few moments as the plane continued losing altitude.
In a screaming and crying rage, the other pilot threw his body forcefully against Tony, relinquishing his grasp on the steering wheel. Probably due to this very fact, the plane began tilting slowly to the right. Instead of closing the door, restraining the rabid pilot or straightening out the wheel, the other businessmen remained seated with their seat belts, eyelids and mouths securely fastened.
In a desperate stupor, Tony kicked and gnawed the crazed pilot off him. Sensing he only had a few seconds before the plane crashed into the water, gasping, he struggled toward the door and hurled himself out the plane in a very similar manner to the now-drowned pilot.
Although Tony hit the water at about the same time as the lone pilot and his meat cronies, he was a safe enough distance from the machine to avoid the under-toe created by the flying machine's impact with the water, and treaded water for several minutes in hopes of seeing a soul emerge from the sea. Sadly, no such souls emerged. It is true to say that Tony was sad. But it's even more true to say that he was scared.
Incredibly, the plane had crashed only about a half mile from a small, lushly green island. Tony thought this mighty convenient, and proceeded the swim to salvation. By the time Tony had made it safely to the island, he had rid of the weight his wet pants, swallowed an ungodly amount of sea water and, somehow, bloodied up his leg. He crawled onshore pained, confused and absolutely distraught.
Exhausted, Tony was sucked in to a restless slumber. It wasn't only restless because Tony was in a bad mental place. It was also restless because of the constant noises that surrounded him. There were screeching sounds. Rustling sounds. Growling sounds. Sniffling sounds. If Tony had a voice, he would tell you that he wasn't scared. But he was.
Tony survived for several days by eating berries he found on nearby shrubberies and sleeping. A lot. He convinced himself he was going to be saved soon, and instead of making some sort of crude shelter or inventing fire, he concentrated on saving his energy. When he bored of lying about, he amused himself by drawing images and words in the sand. One time, more to be clever than anything else, Tony etched out a giant "FUCK YOU" in the sand, with the knowledge that that expression would get peoples' attention just as well as "HELP ME!"
He also did a little exploring. He found some game he thought about catching, but failed to construct any type of hunting weapon. He knew it would be essential for survival, but for the time being he didn't really want to work or think too hard. He just wanted to sleep.
One evening on his way back from drawing in the sand, Tony heard a rustling in the brush. Slightly alarmed, he grabbed a large stick and approached the tall grass. He got closer. And closer. And closer.
In some sort of explosion, a wild boar jumped out of the brush and charged Tony. Caught entirely off-guard, he swung the stick as fast as he could, but he missed the savage beast, and was approached almost immediately by another grunting boar. Knowing there was no way he could put up any sort of fight in hand-to-tusk battle, Tony fled.
As he tore through the plant life, Tony didn't think much. He listened to his footsteps and the pounding of Earth behind him. Knowing the animals were gaining on him, he made a desperate move and ran into the water surrounding the island. Out and out he waded, distancing himself further and further from the hungry, angry boars on land.
For the time being, Tony was safe. Although he was not a brilliant man, he was intelligent enough to understand that his safety was only secure for as long as he could tread water. He attempted a few energy-saving techniques, such as floating, but after an hour or so in the water, he was becoming extremely fatigued, and extremely cold.
He knew he had no choice but to turn back to land. He assumed the boars would be there waiting for him, but he valiantly decided fighting for his life was more honorable than being swept away with the tide. Swimming back to shore, Tony experienced a strange pleasure in knowing that he might die.
When Tony reached the island again, the beasts were nowhere to be seen. Just to be careful, though, he quietly surveyed the land for signs of life. The stick he had initially used as a defensive tool had been abandoned at the site of the first meeting with the boars, and so he started evaluating his environment for possible weapons.
As Tony shuffled by the shore, his eyes rested upon a long, sharp stone. Ecstatic, he grabbed the spear and held it in a threatening pose above his head. He jumped around a little and made what he considered to be demon sounds with his mouth.
Mid-celebration, Tony's ears perked up and caught noises of movement behind him. He quickly turned around. There Tony stood, face-to-snout with a handful of enormous wild boars. Instead of bracing himself and pointing the spear outwards in a menacing position, Tony let the weapon slide from his fingertips and thud to the ground.
Tony turned to run to the ocean again, but the boars had very little difficulty overcoming him. The first boar to attack went for Tony's leg, which promptly immobilized him. From there, the boars easily made work on his body. He screamed, and he writhed and cried, but the boars didn't stop. They were very, very hungry, and the butcher was a meaty fellow.
As Tony lied on the ground, struggling to cover his vital organs, he counted six snouts. The number meant nothing to him. Caked with blood and pain subsiding, Tony cursed existence, cursed pain, cursed his life as a butcher. And, although he hadn't read "Heart of Darkness" by Joseph Conrad, if he had, he would have said at this point in his life, "The horror. The horror."
Although all of the boars had a role in Tony's perdition, one could have done the job on its own. One could not have eaten Tony all alone, though. That required teamwork.
After feasting, the boars, bursting with human flesh and bloody victory, slumped their bodies in exhaustion onto the ground beneath them. There, they fell into an incredibly satisfying sleep, bits of Tony's carcass stuck to their savage bodies.