As he heaves his legs off his bed he imagines the slop out: intestines flowing effortlessly from a slit that he’s scored in the belly of a pig. His ascent is not effortless. His haunches ache under his own weight. His body is taught, his hands have intumesced.
All morning he pushes pork through the extruder. He adds fat for flavour and skin for snap. He goes to the fridge to fetch a sack of pigs blood, but it slips. The bag of blood bursts on the floor, seeping through his shoes and then socks. It cools his swollen feet.