Grade D, the label read. Grade D meat product. Grade D was how he’d gotten this lousy job in the first place: Nearly flunking algebra. And geometry. And the history of dead white guys. Technically, he had even flunked flunking, mustering a D-minus for being pleasantly innocuous among a bunch of loudmouthed, exhibitionistic nitwits. Now it was just him and the meat, Grade D but seasoned to perfection, advertised by a smarmy Chihuahua in a sombrero. Olé means bravo and bravo means assassin, he thought. Olé indeed.

As he pried the lid off of the frost-encrusted vat, he couldn’t help but wonder what distinguished meat from non-meat. At what point did it stop being meat and become … something else? He glanced nervously at the ground ice and gristle melting in the skillet, feeling like a low-rent taxidermist. Where had all the carcasses gone? Were there ever carcasses to begin with, or was he handling a nuclear byproduct of some description, like Flubber?

A horn blared at the drive-thru window. No, I will not take your order, he thought. I will not support the violence inherent in the system, the eerie likeness between burrito and amigo. He adjusted his paper hat, wiped his palms on his apron, and high-fived the exit sign on his way out. La carne es el asesinato.

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