Fiction by Madison Ellingsworth

“Taking the Steak”
             By Madison Ellingsworth

Let it be known that I, Sister Newkirk, have a dream. As pea-brained egoists hated Martin Luther King Jr for his, they would hate me for mine. But, unlike MLK, I do not dream for the good of humanity. I dream of something bigger.

When I go for a run by the slaughterhouse near my home outside Brattleboro, Vermont, I can hear the blast of bolts going into the brains of cows. I can hear soft lowing, though it may be my own. I see the employees emerge into the parking lot, eyes frozen in a thousand-yard stare, white gauzy suits covered in red splashes and pink grounds.

As I pant, and sweat, and let out my tears, I think about my dream. With every jolt of pressurized air, the dream gets a little clearer. I picture it now. I have become affluent through some twist of fate. I have won a billion-dollar lottery, or perhaps I was the victim of a car crash in which the manufacturer was at fault, and my compensation was the company itself. Or maybe I invented a way of creating water from air using negative energy. Regardless of how, I have become filthy rich. But this initial money is just the first step. Years pass by, and I grow disgustingly, frighteningly rich. I take my winnings, or sell the company, or amass my wealth and invest it in the stock market. My portfolio increases the value of meat production and processing stocks tenfold. The dream goes on.

Cliff Lee handles all of my money. A divorced and farsighted geriatric accountant, he greases the cogs that turn in my dream machine. We met when I took charge of running the Veg Fest last year, and it was lust at first sight. I could not stop staring into his magnified eyes. He was captivated by the shape of my chest underneath my ALF shirt. When he came back to my home that night, I told Cliff of my dream, and we consummated our lust like two rabbits in a cozy hole. Together we perfect the cycle of buying and selling meat stocks which causes my riches to skyrocket to unparalleled heights. I, Sister Newkirk, have become the richest person in the world.

While Cliff can keep the allocation of my money secret, he cannot hide its existence. Billionaires past were chided for flaunting their wealth, but the public despises me because I hoard my trillions. The conservative press ridicules me with sexist mock-ups, depicting me as a grotesque, dim-witted puppet. Trolls hack into Cliff’s online document manager and upload its contents, so all the world learns that I live in a one-bedroom home outside Brattleboro. I adopt the alias “Jane Bergh,” and go into hiding at Cliff’s cottage. People write letters to the paper imploring me to give to charity, or to create grants, or to start a foundation. Their infinite needs would choke someone with a dream less imperative.

I go for a run to a farm down the road and watch the cows chew their cud. In the bathroom back at the cottage I smile at my reflection. At Jane's reflection. It is time to put the next step of my dream into effect. I contact my brokerage firm, and Cliff tells them I am selling thirty percent of my stocks. They try to argue that I should not, for I earn thousands every second, but they cannot stop me. After I sell, the meat production and processing sector enters into a recession. Swarms of farmers and bankers alike come to Brattleboro to commit hate crimes against me, but they are searching for Sister. They do not know about Jane. From across town, I can hear the hooting and hollering of the self-righteous mob. At night I see them scouring the streets, pitchforks and torches in hand.

The money is transferred to my bank account after several business days. The next step of my plan is ready. The maximum withdrawal from a bank without prior notice is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and so Cliff and I contact my branch a week in advance, letting them know we will need close to seventy billion. They have never had to contact the United States Mint to fulfill a private withdrawal before, but the times they are a-changin’. Together Cliff and I drive a U-Haul to pick up the cash. We fill pleather briefcases with millions.

When we arrive back at Cliff’s, we contact his son, Yancy “Doodle” Lee. Doodle is a finance and non-disclosure agreement attorney. He has a tattoo on his torso for each of his thirty deceased rescue roosters. Doodle drives down from up north and drafts both a contract and an NDA for us. His one wife and their seven living rescue roosters wait for him back at home. We print the documents out, one of each for every briefcase, then the three of us load up a private plane I have chartered. Our itinerary is streamlined, with just an hour in each city we must visit. There are twelve mega corporations controlling over eighty percent of the meat market, and each of these must be purchased. Arkansas is our first stop.

When we arrive, it is a struggle to get through the door. Security, then secretaries, then the CEO, CFO, and COO, tell us that we cannot see the chairman without a meeting. We hand them each a wad of cash so heavy they bow down as we pass by. If they knew my dream—our dream—they would have barred the doors. But thankfully the world still sees me as a money-grubbing trillionaire. The chairman, like every subsequent one we will visit, sits in a brown leather executive chair with his feet on his desk. Some pick their teeth with toothpicks, others spit jerky-flavored dip into brown-stained mugs printed with their company's logo. One chairman was eating a fudge pop when we walked in. This one has pork chop cheeks and a pink shiny head. He gestures for us to sit.

The meeting is short. Every one of them is. We skip the niceties, present the briefcase, give them the spiel, and they sign the contract and the NDA. They willingly obtain the signature of every board member and chief officer. They sign without bothering to read the documents. In the off chance that they did, a massive personal payout was prepared to smooth over any potential snags. After they sign and the briefcase is passed across the table, each chairman gives us a shiny veneered smile. No skin off their back; they are set for retirement. They are already thinking about the celebratory steak they will have with their mistress tonight. The pork loin. The filet mignon. The foie gras. The wagyu.

Though my identity is withheld from the news using the signed NDA’s, the sales are reported, and the value of each company inches ever higher. The majority shareholder stocks are transferred to Sister Newkirk, and I artificially inflate their value using my own assets. Meat was once the poor man’s trade, then it made billions, then I caused a recession, and now I have brought the industry to new heights.

Cliff, Doodle, and I return home. Doodle heads back up north to rejoin his wife and roosters. He gives us two honks as he backs out of Cliff's gravel drive. Later, when running by my abandoned home, I see that the mobs have burned most of it down, torn up my garden, and spray-painted slurs across the remains. There is trash scattered everywhere, and makeshift structures built of pallets and tarps have been set up throughout town. 

It is silent back at Cliff's cottage, as we prepare with bated breath to execute the final step of our dream. That night, Cliff and I consummate our relationship in every room of the cottage. We have had sex—plenty of it—but for the first time we are making love. There is more than just physical attraction; there is appreciation. Without one another, we never could have succeeded. Our sex is animalistic, as we believe it should be, and it would terrify a fly on the wall, but it is natural and it is right. In the road outside blows the waste of the once-derelict farmers and bankers. Cliff and I fall asleep on the kitchen floor, exhausted and drained. Tomorrow creeps around the corner, and when it arrives, we hit the button.

For this final act, I sell eighty percent of my personal stocks, and I tell the CEO of each corporation I own that we will be restructuring their business. They are instructed to follow the terms outlined in the already-signed contract. The crux of these is the company’s shift from meat production to animal refuge. The terms bar any employees from leaving to start their own meat farm or working for another. Those that wish to maintain the new refuges and sanctuaries will receive double their current salary, and those who wish to quit must find a new industry to work in.

Shock and rage flood the country. My actions have triggered a shutdown of the meat production and processing sector. The news reports that the few independent farmers I had not bought out will begin a large-scale slaughter to take advantage of the bloated price of meat and animal products. I reach out to the mass media, abandoning my alias: Sister Newkirk would like to make a statement. I let the farmers know that they are guaranteed a life-altering payout if they comply with my demands. They will never have to work again. All it will take is one signature. We receive a maelstrom of calls.

Cliff and I board our plane with briefcases in hand once more. Every slaughterhouse, meat processing plant, and factory farm in the country is systematically shut down. The animals are released out onto open land, eating and moving about at will. Journalists and influencers paint me as a selfish villain, denying the general public their delicious array of US-grown meats and animal by-products. Carnivores and animals-as-property advocates flood Brattleboro. As the face of the operation, I am forced to move deeper into the Green Mountains. Cliff accompanies me, and we buy a shared one-bedroom cottage at the base of Killington.

From our front window we can see what was once a pig farm. Only now, when I run by, the sows wiggle their tiny curly tails. The boars rub their thick necks on the ground. The baby pigs loll in the wet field. There is no tension in the air. Life goes on, just for the sake of living. Past the pigs I can see a young man tossing pumpkins and gourds from a truck. They crack and split to form a heaping, blended pile. The pigs hoover up the vegetables. When the young man climbs down from the truck to slam the tailgate shut, the pigs snuffle lovingly at his feet.

At the end of my dream I run on—sweating, panting, and smiling. I listen to the humming of the world. Farm after farm races by. I admire the greenery, the fruiting beauty, and the pinks, the whites, the browns, the blacks. I listen to the sandy gravel crunch below my feet as I lap the roadway. I do not cry anymore.

- Madison Ellingsworth enjoys writing about animals, especially those that wear clothes, escape to better worlds, or change human minds. Her writing is forthcoming in several publications, including FRiGG, Apple Valley Review, and Gargoyle Magazine. Links to Madison's other works can be found at www.madisonellingsworth.com

Copyright©2024 by Madison Ellingsworth. All Rights Reserved.