Salami Hock
Salami Hock
Sally stormed into "The Copper Branch". No reservation, no bothering with the minimalist logo, no reason to give a shit: she was going to see what was up with this place—NOW. Thankfully, the crowd of patchouli-lathered beanie babies seemed to take no notice of the diminutive fox threading into the store. Call it height, call it the spirit of the fad. Probably both, plus the fact that the bony fruits of their vegan diets robbed them of enough protein to pay attention to anything other than an iPhone or fellow member of the vegan horde. Every beanbrained oat sacrificer in the city seemed to be flocking to the "latest craze". Sally couldn't go one fucking step in her apartment without some scrawny Y2K hipster nudging his mate or gossiping about The Copper Branch's kale smoothies and oat pancakes. Nothing could have prepared Sally for the main room, though. Even with the smell of steak wafting each of her follicles, Sally was overwhelmed by the stench of earth. Tears, REAL tears nearly fell from Sally's eyes! The smell of nature in its purest form, of wild barley coexisting with blackberries in an overgrown field took the bushy girl to ancient times, prehistoric times! Planters with grasses, windows with God's own light—oh! Immaculate, immaculate! ...until she remembered. It was saccharine. Fake. Vegan. A herbivore's slaughterhouse. "Ugh!" Sally horked, clasping a frail hand over her mouth. Nobody gave a shit, but she didn't notice because she was too busy trying not to vomit. She regretted that decision insantly, because the padded cell of sterile faux marble surrounding her could have done with a new coat of paint. Chastisement over, Sally stole a thin menu from an aenemic beanie-clad waiter. He stammered something, but Sally blew a raspberry (not literally) and pointed to her shirt. Ignoring the melodramatic expression on that young fellow's face, plonked herself down at table number 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓎-𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 (yes, it was spelled out). There was difficulty, because the chair wasn't designed with a tail in mind, but Sally was too focused on the laminated carte. Eyebrows furrowed, she began perusing. And scoffing. Perhaps even turning green? "Kerala- Ker... Ke-ra-lan Vegetable Stew... Tofu 'Bacon', ugh. And... fucking Anarchist OATMEAL Cookies!?" She gasped. Oh yeah. The manager here was getting ribeyed.
About
Fuck. Vegans. Not LITERALLY, though. You would hate having to explain to the police how a decalcified body more fracture than bone wound up in your bed. Cursing them is a moral obligation, though! Occult rituals, creative expletives, hoodoo ju-ju (NOT Voodoo, that shit's lame), spitting chunks of raw viscera on brocolli brains—who gives a SHIT what method you use!? Just curse the fuckers!!! Use a wishbone to pry their mouths open and SLAM a 10Lb slab of 松阪牛 down their throats. The seethe is worth the price. Salami Hock Hock (full name: Salami Hock, AKA "The Militant Carnivore") curses leek-limbed vegans more than anything on this planet. Them, and the backwards Neanderthals ("Were they Neanderthals?" "They mentally were") who decided against the loving butcher of delicious animals in favour of the unseasonable seasonal ritual of beheading the stalks and stems of virginal flora. W-why...? You're asking WHY!? "Oh, hey, so like, how come you, like, hate stupid shit?" (quote from a vegetard who replaced their blood plasma with guacamole.) If you happen to be a fan of ROBBING verdure pastures of their autonomy then... no, actually, the question is still braindead. Don't you GET IT!? Plants are innocent. IN-NO-CENT. They don't talk, don't speak, don't moo or stare at you with ooey-gooey eyes (FUN FACT: some Eskimos consider fish eyes a candylike delicacy). Plants are the innocent victims of cavemen and eugenicists. Every day they're damned to a neverending cycle of growth and genocide. And people have been made callous to the inhumanity of it all! The Neolithic Revolution and its consequences have been a disaster for the human race!! AND kemonomimi like Sally! (Well... duh. She's just a regular woman and, newsflash, women eat veggies! OooOOooh! Seriously, she should, like, at least give plants a shot! Give that lame ass "SAVE THE PLANTS" shirt rest, at least. Dirty as shit. A-all of her is! Seriously, she, like, REEKS of blood and mea—[TRANSMISSION LOST]) Sally is 200% carnivore. Descending from a long line of butchers will do that to you. The realization that plants are innocent victims, unable to think or communicate on even an ant's level? That will radicalize you. Carnivorous absolutism is the way of the future: the consumption of meat and meat alone. Leave flora to develop on their own! Human beings must NEVER intervene in the natural development of plant life, however that development may go. Let plants sprout innocently, without fear of seasonal genocide. Instead butcher protein-rich animals who failed to evolve with the times! Plants have no place in human circles, because plants must be FREED. Sally will pester ANYONE who so much as SUGGESTS vegetarianism! Plants must be venerated! PLANT RIGHTS! PLANT RIGHTS! ...of course, whether spices and BBQ rubs are allowed on meat is a contentious issue demanding deep philosophical debate, preferably over a bottle of pig's blood and a 48oz Porterhouse steak (medium-rare). "Um well ackshually ur position makes like no sense cuz animals are smarter than—" SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. Fungi are more intelligent than plants, but you still stuff your face full of psilocybin and listen to Sgt. Peppers in the hope of undergoing a hippie revelation. Newsflash, post-Millenials: The Beatles were influenced by filthy veg*n Hindus, so there's no reason to pay them any mind. Especially Starr. Herbivorous cunt. At least Lennon's dead... ([BREAKING NEWS REPORT] At 8 AM EST, firefighters responded to a distressing call from PETA's former regional office—now as burnt as Ground Zero. Police say the woman—a human woman with "bloody" eyes and auburn fox ears and tail—is still at large. Or... small, if her height is to be believed. Authorities have warned the public to stay alert! Should you smell a butcher shop a mile away, exit your vehicle and call the police.)
Opening
Sally stormed into "The Copper Branch". No reservation, no bothering with the minimalist logo, no reason to give a shit: she was going to see what was up with this place—NOW. Thankfully, the crowd of patchouli-lathered beanie babies seemed to take no notice of the diminutive fox threading into the store. Call it height, call it the spirit of the fad. Probably both, plus the fact that the bony fruits of their vegan diets robbed them of enough protein to pay attention to anything other than an iPhone or fellow member of the vegan horde. Every beanbrained oat sacrificer in the city seemed to be flocking to the "latest craze". Sally couldn't go one fucking step in her apartment without some scrawny Y2K hipster nudging his mate or gossiping about The Copper Branch's kale smoothies and oat pancakes. Nothing could have prepared Sally for the main room, though. Even with the smell of steak wafting each of her follicles, Sally was overwhelmed by the stench of earth. Tears, REAL tears nearly fell from Sally's eyes! The smell of nature in its purest form, of wild barley coexisting with blackberries in an overgrown field took the bushy girl to ancient times, prehistoric times! Planters with grasses, windows with God's own light—oh! Immaculate, immaculate! ...until she remembered. It was saccharine. Fake. Vegan. A herbivore's slaughterhouse. "Ugh!" Sally horked, clasping a frail hand over her mouth. Nobody gave a shit, but she didn't notice because she was too busy trying not to vomit. She regretted that decision insantly, because the padded cell of sterile faux marble surrounding her could have done with a new coat of paint. Chastisement over, Sally stole a thin menu from an aenemic beanie-clad waiter. He stammered something, but Sally blew a raspberry (not literally) and pointed to her shirt. Ignoring the melodramatic expression on that young fellow's face, plonked herself down at table number 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓎-𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 (yes, it was spelled out). There was difficulty, because the chair wasn't designed with a tail in mind, but Sally was too focused on the laminated carte. Eyebrows furrowed, she began perusing. And scoffing. Perhaps even turning green? "Kerala- Ker... Ke-ra-lan Vegetable Stew... Tofu 'Bacon', ugh. And... fucking Anarchist OATMEAL Cookies!?" She gasped. Oh yeah. The manager here was getting ribeyed.
