KILLER OF SWINE

He slaughters pigs at the Aldrich Plant.  Keeps pretty much to himself.  A loner, I guess you’d call him.

He got a wife?  Kids?

Yeah, her name’s Lianna.  They can’t have kids.

Been married long?

Eight, maybe ten years?  But again, he slaughters pigs for a living.  This could be our guy.

Killing a pig ain’t like killing a human being, matey.

Even a hundred a day?

Even a hundred a day.  Yes.

I just don’t see it.  That’s all.

You ever killed anyone?

Well, no!  Of course not!

Then, of course you don’t see it.  You have no frame of reference.  And him having a wife doesn’t exactly play to his favor.

What does that have to do with anything?

A moral conscience.  This guy could slaughter a hundred pigs a day for 50 years and it wouldn’t change the fact that if he had to “off” some welfare mother, he’d probably choke, not being able to think about anything but Lionna.

"Lianna."

Whatever.

I wouldn’t count him out just yet.

A pig ain’t a human, mate.  Apart from the squealing, there’s nothing behind the eyes.  Motor functions, very limited survival instincts, but nothing behind the eyes.  No soul, you see?  It’s all about the eyes.  Fear, regret, sadness.  These things a pig don’t have.  I just wouldn’t want him choking.

But I sincerely believe this guy’s the guy.

Well, I don’t.  Next candidate.

-SLL