(S) Laughter

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

A murderous revolution is taking place in America's food industry. Will these rebels pull off the crime of the century?
'You can't spell slaughter without laughter'

Chapter 1 (v.1) - (S) Laughter

Submitted: September 23, 2010

Reads: 292

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Submitted: September 23, 2010



Chapter One; Flowers Had Never Seemed So Monochrome.

Justin Blakely fled from the repulsive sounds. The cacophony of metal grinding and machines grunting where still no match to the, squealing. Tiny whimpers holding enough strength to strangle one’s heart.

It would never end. The persistent hum of a dysfunctional orchestra. A song with less melody than that of death metal. There was no way to stop it, not until that immortal conductor was put in the ground.

Outside this house of the devil where rows of primed roses. Ranging in colors from white to black. Another reminder.

A ear splitting bellow erupted from the haggard bell. Packed with enough force to sound out through the multi-leveled building, and rip through the smog. Signaling that first shift was over, but Justin didn’t care. He was already barreling through the miles of parking lot, rushing for some open road.

North Carolina air blew through the open windows, but not a soul could have called this air. The oxygen was tainted with heavy smog, making it almost unbearable to breathe in. Parallel to the road was farmer land, more like corporate land, stuffed full of swaying corn stocks. All of Americas necessities manufactured in one place for ultimate efficiently.

Driving provided a pleasant vacation from what the day had given him. Time to think and forget about the terrors he had survived once again. Though this break was going to be short lived, fore it was Wednesday; laborer meeting. Each night the gathering jumped around to other members homes. No one was excepted to cook anything, or bring anything, but a list of things to rant about. Sort of home medicating. A cheap version of a psychiatric visit. Something the work force had become dependant on.

Laborer meeting had started many years ago on the turn of the century. Only than it was on a Thursday. Changing the dates was about the only thing that had been accomplished, because that was the only thing that they could control.

The Interstate 1-90 sign welcomed Justin back into familiar surroundings, as he pull his rusted station wagon off the bumpy dirt road. That one final lump in the ground struck Justin with a valiant idea. Tonight’s meeting just got a whole lot more interesting.

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