The inside of a slaughterhouse. Humane. No one knows because no one wants to know. A nail in the head. These companies rammed through laws prohibiting any journalistic investigation, and absolutely no pictures. What are they afraid of. They’re afraid that if people saw what goes on in there – it quickly becomes a moral issue – that would be the end of it. Wrong again. It’s an addiction. Antibiotics and hormones pave the way. I can’t write about journalists who got in. And they cannot write about what they saw. Some journalists are curious. Most are not. The problem is that we cannot kill Other Mammals fast enough. More. More. Faster. Faster. Are you twelve yet. What we are addicted to is death. There is always someone who will be paid minimum wage to gut wildly kicking horse and pony hooves as the hook arrives for the gutting. As a species, we construct cultures to survive. At that proverbial industrial level of toxicity. Who would eat meat every day. We would. There is something going on with the Ogallala Aquifer. Where did you think the blood and the guts go. They go – puff – and conveniently disappear.  Slides right into what you drink. Particle physics maintains there is no free will. The slaughterhouse industry perpetuates the illusion that normalcy brings in validation’s suitcase. You. Cannot. Get. In. If you do, you cannot publish it. Here’s what you can do. Drive to Dodge and sit in the parking lot at 3am. Keep it to what you see in the parking lot. Take pictures.