(for the first one, see Vagabond September 95)

By William Markiewicz


I haven't written about this before because I wanted to chase it from my memory. Still I can neither escape my memory nor the writer's responsibility. Where and when it happened is irrelevant, I also did not report where events described in 'THE PITY...' #1 took place. I want to alert the reader that those things have happened and may continue to happen. So vigilance remains necessary.

In order to collect semen from the bull for artificial insemination the workers made the bull mount a cow kept only for this purpose, and at the moment of penetration the penis was skillfully diverted to the side and the semen collected in a bottle. The cow's back was totally deformed after countless mounts by bulls, I don't know for how many years and how many times per day.

The pig used for radioactive experimentation had his semen collected. To arouse the pig, a sow wasn't necessary, a skin covered chairback was sufficient. A technician wearing a rubber glove masturbated the pig and collected the semen. The pigs couldn't wait for their turn and were squealing for the 'lover.' Burlesque or horror? It was a hot summer and the 'handyman' wiped the sweat from his forehead with his gloved hand full of radioactive sperm! People are thoughtless or feel themselves immune.

I saw a young vigorous bull going to his execution like a human. In a civilized country the slaughter was extremely brutal and primitive; several butchers struggled against the bull tightly bound in ropes, screaming for life. This particular bull was very stubborn and powerful; I didn't see what he did, but one butcher, angry and swearing, poked a stick deeply in the bull's eyes and his throat. I don't wish on anybody the sound of that bull screaming with pain beyond endurance! After the bull fell silent the butcher ordered him to move. The bull started obediently and collapsed! After a while he stood up and went silently, not resisting, to the slaughter. I saw him later, his head sawed off; blood running from his eyes and his mouth, he looked like a trophy. A few days later I had a dream which I reproduced in the woodcut seen above.

In a seafood store I saw a small lobster, the last unsold, left in the crushed ice. From time to time it raised its claws for warmth, a universal pathetic gesture. When he couldn't stand it any longer he rested his claws and then raised the forelimbs again and again. I know that it was my duty to buy him and kill him -- it was a sea animal and I couldn't save him -- I just didn't have a heart to do it. As it was a closing time, this lobster in its ice went to the garbage.

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