Yet Another Factory Story

>be underpaid illegal worker in "fluffy mill"
>but not just ANY fluffy mill
>you work in an industrial plant that processes a dizzyingly large number of fluffies as food for other animals
>Legally speaking, fluffies aren't animals, so they're MUCH cheaper to raise than most animals
>being the greedy jews that they are, your employers pounced on the chance to profit

>Due to the incredibly short gestation period of fluffies, the mill is able to sustain an entire facility's worth of stock on a small crowd of dams and a handful of studs
>the studs are largely immobile, to ensure their continued survival. They have tubes on their stomachs which are constantly fed a mash of protein, grains and vitamins essential to semen production
>you don't want to think about what else is attached to them
>Conception is unceremonious, as is birth
>Most dams are lucky enough to be birthed by hand during the factory's hours of operation
>they won't hear or see their foals, and will just assume that they took a huge dump
>the night births are not so lucky

>Today, you've been assigned to tally the night births.
>You gather up the foals that were birthed while the factory was (largely) unattended, record them, and move them on to the next stage
>you walk through the doors of the breeding area, looking like a hazmat guy with your crinkly blue onesie, dust mask, rubber boots and gloves
>you've got a special cart you pull around with several shelves so you can transport a large number of foals without crushing them by piling them atop one another
>you check the cages, of which there are a lot
>they're usually dead giveaways, nursing their foals in the open

>they try to cause a ruckus as you pluck the babies from their cages, but the other fluffies are too engrossed in their own little worlds, and the entire room is too deafeningly loud to hear them anyways
>you plop the babies down one by one on the pull-out shelves...
>there's quite a few today
>the shelves are slightly slotted so you can organize the fluffies and count them easily
>after a few minutes of paperwork, it's out of that wretched place and into their new homes

>the live feeders are processed at a much smaller facility closer to the city
>the mill handles all the preserved food
>as you push the cart out of the concert-loud room and down a hallway, you hear a squealing coming from the top tray
>one foal is grasping in air, smacking its lips as if to find a teat that isn't there
>"M-mi'kkies!" it peeps, "M-mumma! Mi'kkies!"
>very rarely do you get night births that can talk... Perhaps in another life, this one could've been a "smarty"
>not that you care, you stopped caring when you realized caring gets you fired
>so does trying to organize a union
>the foal begins convulsing in fear and murmuring, as if it's about to start bawling for attention
>oh hell no, that's what you like to call a chain reaction
>you flip it around and push it to another foal's tail, which it begins suckling immediately
>the foal doesn't really seem to notice
>crisis averted

>you bring the foals to their cages, which are layered about two-thirds as tall as industrial chicken farms
>this place, too, is incredibly loud
>the cages are filled with amputated fluffies, in the very center is a large trough where all the waste drains to
>filth in the middle of the road, just like your home country
>being amputated, the fluffies can't venture out of their open-topped cages

>a few manage to do so every once in a blue moon
>those ones are swept into the waste trough, their pleas going unheard in a sea of deafening noise
>other than that, the fluffies don't have particularly hard lives
>they get pretty listless once they realize they can't play or hug, but otherwise they're pretty fine

>the foals are amputated with red-hot tools...
>The bad news is, you don't have health insurance
>the good news is, the tools cauterize the wounds
>your only insurance is not to cut yourself
>it's a simple, cheap, if time-consuming process, but the nutrient-rich, cheap-derivative-hormone-enhanced sludge you feed them will go farther without them having to grow out their boney legs
>plus it saves on losses, as fluffies manage to kill themselves with nothing but a chicken-wire fence and the ability to toddle at laughably slow speeds
>the oblivious foals merely wiggle as you press them down with two fingers, sometimes suckling on your gloved index finger
>once you begin cutting, they change their tune, squealing and writhing to break free
>you cut them expertly anyways, delivering them all to their cages, alive

>that being done, you clear the cage of corpses and take out any fluffies that look "done"
>the slop you feed them accelerates their growth tremendously, shaving weeks off of the time it takes to mature them
>it has some nasty side-effects, though, causing their eyes to go cataract and their ears to dry out and crack
>they probably wouldn't live a few months past the time they hit their maximum size anyway
>you toss the breathers into a hopper, the dead ones into the trough in the middle
>the live ones fall down a chute, where they are blasted by a powerful stream of water
>this is usually what kills them
>the lucky ones, anyway
>you hear rumors that every so often, there are fluffies that make it to the chopping block
>after the cleaning process, they are skinned by hand
>butchered into pieces
>bones removed in the traditional method: by firing the meat at a wall until they're separated
>the usable parts are mashed up into a paste, at which point it's sent off to the food processing wing where it will be dried, pumped full of preservatives, canned, flavored, or some combination of those four

>to most civilized people, this place would be The Jungle, Food Inc, and Silence of the Lambs, all rolled into one.
>But to a desperate man like yourself, it's a paycheck