Randy never liked the smell of meat. It was vile to him, an abuse to the senses. So of course it was only fitting that he was a butcher. It was not by choice though. It was a family business, started by Randy’s father and uncle, identical twin brothers Louie and Bernard. Though Randy loved his father dearly, sometimes he wished he would wake up with amnesia one morning and forget about his passion for meat. Randy wanted to be a bookkeeper, but his father would hear none of it.

“You are a Joelman, Randy!” he would sign (because he was deaf). “Joelmans cut meat! Joelmans sell meat! Joelmans make more Joelmans to cut and sell more meat!” 

Randy never bothered to point out that that would imply a distressing amount of incest on their family’s part, because by that point his father would’ve already returned his attention back to a waiting customer. But Randy was 18 now. His father couldn’t legally stop him from doing anything. And so, one musky September evening after decorating his final pot roast and waving goodbye to his two cousins who were also unceremoniously dragged into the meat business, Randy set out on his bike to submit his job application at the local library.

For the first time in years, Randy felt content, his life and his nose free at last. As he was crossing the final intersection with a small woman and her dalmatian, a large commercial truck suddenly careened through the street and ripped the three of them in half. As Randy lay on the pavement with the strange sensation of floating, the stench of the dalmatian’s mangled guts reached his nose and he convulsed, dying instantly.