At the end of the each month we round up the girls and slaughter them. They’re not really girls. You’ve got to be careful using such absolutist language. These are our jiggling jigglers. They jiggle for you, they jiggle for me, for us. People are easily offended, especially when we tell them that we slaughter them at the end of the month, even the patrons, who’ve been fattening them up for us day after day, after work, before work, after dinner, before dinner. They bring leftovers and chuck them on stage. There’s a satisfying circular nature to the work, there’s definitely a satisfaction knowing that the leftovers they throw at the girls are probably old girl’s legs and butts.
Most days the cleanup is the hardest part. Except for slaughter day. The girls scream. The girls squeal. These girls are hard to move, you know? They stink. Dripping with food, all around their mouths, from their hands, draped in spaghetti, it looks like hair, like something out of a horror movie, like something out of a B-movie, a monster coming out of a lake, this big, jiggling girl, stumbling towards us, and all we’ve really got to keep them away from us are these brooms, it’s like they know that we’re coming to clean up the pit, and clean up the stage, so we can stick them up there the next day and the patrons will roll in and chuck bits of chicken at them.
When the month is up and the girls are fat, the size of a panda-bear, the size of a Rover Metro, the size of a sofa, we round them up and tell them that’s it, they’ve done a great job. It’s time to take them home, lay them down. Tuck them in. We take them by the hand. They’re blind. They’ve gone meat-blind. It’s like the meat-sweats, but their eyes become puffy, fattened, they can barely open them. They follow the sound of our feet, the touch of our hands on their greasy forearms.
And we lead them.
Down the steps.
They barely fit. The girls are getting fatter. Each month, the girls just get fatter and fatter. More patrons come, and the patrons like to see the girls getting fatter, and fatter, and fatter, and soon enough we’ll have to widen these steps, get some contractors in to make the steps a bit wider, down to the slaughterhouse, because these fat girls just won’t fit.
We push them down with sticks and logs. It’s at this point they start squealing, because they know that we’re not taking them home. They can smell cooking meat, and they know it doesn’t smell like any meat they’ve smelled before. Intuition of death, that’s what it is.
Down the steps they go.
Into the slaughterhouse.
We slit their throats.
Well, that got dark very quickly. I ran with the Daily Prompt Jiggle and a took a few single word suggestions, too. This is dark satire, even I’m a little shocked by what I’ve just written. My other stories aren’t so bizarre (not all of them.) Check them out!