THE JUNGLE EXPOSES STOCKYARD HORRORS

 

And so another day

by Max Zable

And so another day, another brutally clubbed worker. This is what hell is I guess for common folk. On the outside of this stinking, rotting, repair shop is {are} shiny walks and fancy décor, drawing in ignorant folks to pay ungodly prices for just fuel change. This small town is a trap for unfortunate automobiles since this is the only automobile repair shop for miles. Once their cars come in, hell opens up for the workers.

The shop is called Derrick’s Car Repair, place is a sump on the inside, but on the outside you'd think it’s just your everyday repair shop. Walking into the lobby, it’s got a hell of a rancid, horrid smell, and across the piss-stained old, chewed up carpet, at the broken up, termite infested wooden counter is me. Most people either bolt the way they came or move hesitantly over to the counter, then I’m forced to give them an exorbitantly, if not, creepy, help and write up paperwork for repairs. They’d write up work, pay, then bolt out like a bat out of hell. Wish I had the same luxury, but instead I walk over to a door, rusted at those squeaky hinges, open it and tell the boys we got a car to work on. I'd be met back with {a} despairing chorus of groans and sighs.

Other than filing paperwork for people who want vehicles repairs, I’m also forced to hand out the meager paycheck. At the end of every Friday, all workers come through the door, crowding into he enclosed, tiny lobby, pressed against rotting, torn-up walls. I’d hand out the small $3 check to them, some would open theirs to find it short of cash. They’d either demand to know why I gave them smaller then what’s usual, or they’d attempt to punch me. Boss deducts our pay by a dollar for whatever crap he pulls, and then the worker usually slugs me.

After a while I’d come to seeing the shadow of my boss in the dim industrial lighting. Instead of asking about my health he demands all {the} money leftover. I hand it over and he counts every dollar. The man may be an overall-wearing pound of muscle but he never misses a dollar. If I forget any cash, the man’s temper blows and he takes the money while “security” takes me out back.

I’ve had a few ideas before. I tried to quit once, but the boss is so desperate for more workers to fatten his over-stuffed pockets, he sent 3 of his goons to say goodbye everyday till I finally rejoined. Me and the boys {the boys and me} tried to strike, but not only were we without pay, but those security guards hunted and made life hell till we broke. Then there was no pay for a whole week. Man, if I ever want to starve, I’ll just strike again.

So here I am, sitting in rotting, stinking decrepit room. Chairs with broken legs, a counter and a home for termites, an old ripped carpet with piss and blood on it. Workers constantly attacking me for {my/the} bosses faults. No hope of escape from this place either. Welcome to hell, no way out, only crap to rake/make (?).

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