Footsteps echoed on the pavement; an army of anger. They marched on together: a crowd, banners raised, chants ringing out. They were the spines on the hedgehog's back.
'End the slaughter.'
He raised his fist in a clone's salute, a single spine in the crowd of knives. A morally superior being, his long hair waved, wild as the protest. His sleepless eyes were plastered back; absent-minded stubble sprouted from his cheeks.
The pack had gathered to bring about their version of the future--a mighty vision, one that only the brain cells of the hedgehog could fully comprehend.
'End the slaughter.'
The hedgehog was there to protest the factory farming methods of rearing animals.
These methods were in place across the country and had become ingrained in the meat industry. The techniques in use were morally abysmal, ethically undefendable, downright vile. Even if the lax laws allowed it, sacrificing welfare for profit is the ultimate example of greed.
The consumers were equally abhorrent, pleading ignorance to the suffering, choosing to stick to the norm, claiming laziness, devouring the rotting flesh of tortured souls and in the process supporting the callous slaughter of millions of animals. Animals that had lived their lives in cages, unable to move, pressed together, killed a few weeks into their bleak lives--murdered to provide sustenance to a family that could survive on harmless alternatives. Years of suffering for minutes of pleasure. How does that balance? What part of that equation makes sense?
That was the question they were there to ask, plant a bullet in the brain of ignorance, let the veil be lifted forever. Force people to stand up, look themselves in the eye and admit to being evil. If they couldn't do that, they could join the body, add their names to the list, add their words to the question. The change was coming. It was no longer a question, animals can suffer, and we can stop it. Which pill will you take?
'End the slaughter.'
They weren't alone; a rival future met the hedgehog with bricks, an equally entitled opposition had turned up, trying to protect the malignant corporations. They wore false masks of freedom, while their arguments stood on quicksand, fading away before they could be questioned. They were self-righteous argument seekers.
'Slaughter is fun.'
She was in the orange future, black boots, designer clothes, a fur headband, leather jacket, a Venus flytrap waiting. She breathed with the crowd, lighting fires in the path of progress, ruining the world because she could. She was a high up government figure; she was closer to being 'the man' than most.
'Slaughter is fun.'
The future will always come, and one of those armies fought for the past. An ancient viewpoint that had been impregnated in their souls from birth.
'Slaughter is fun.'
The futures met with the inevitability of death - Clashing in an eruption of colours, cells bursting and spilling blood. Yesterday is dying, tomorrow is crying, and we stand in the middle drowning.
War waged on, soldiers falling, the north and south drew closer. The future no longer mattered, it was an amalgamation of ideas and violence.
They clashed; brick on spine, the hedgehog blunting, the bricks cracking.
A tear can break a heart. And this body cried.
Blood ran from a cut on his temple, indoctrinated eyes fuzzy with focus, one drop at a time, red tears.
He needed out of the rain. The brick slid from her hand. The devil showed empathy.
There are no definites; perspective can help you see around corners. Some days you need to stand on your head to see the world.
Puzzle pieces snapped together; the body vomited them into the silence.
Two purple humans, the invisible barrier of hate broken, last reserves of strength shared between giants. Limping onwards, the future flattened by the present, their differences temporarily muted.
'What is slaughter?'
In the honey, they stopped, she placed him on a mushroom of grass. She inspected him; did a concussion test, saw that he was healthy, just tired and bruised; in need of rest.
One of her houses was nearby, so she transported him in that direction; he was a willing passenger to her haven.
They made snail-like progress; she had become his shell. At the end of a war, there are only survivors.
'What is slaughter?'
Together they reached the house, squirming up the driveway and through the door, collapsing onto a sofa, adrenaline still high. Silence hung; two souls lost in their thoughts as they tried to recompute new facts.
A poised chessboard, he made a move, he thanked her for her thoughtfulness, for carrying him from the fire. It wasn't a reconciling of ideas, but it was a recognition of service.
She hid an elitist grin and graciously accepted his thanks, brushing it off with gloved hands. The riposte had begun.
'What is slaughter?'
Bee's flew; some stings landed, others flapped harmlessly off in search of flowers. There was some wit, mixed in with the mudslinging. The tension was building in the room.
