The Killman worked on the kill floor in the abattoir, and always left at the end of his shift hungry for a bloody burger. The only problem he had with killing was that he didn’t think enough of it was being done nowadays. He was a violent man, and he looked forward to participating in the coming revolutionary violence.

When he made it home to his trailer in the trailer court next to the abattoir, he saw his wife Leann grilling some burgers on the Astroturf porch. “Sandoval’s coming for dinner,” she said flipping one of the patties on the grill.

The Killman taught Sandoval everything he knew about working in the abattoir, and they often discussed the coming revolutionary violence as they sloshed around in the kill floor’s ankle-high blood.

When Sandoval arrived with a sixer of Coors, he sat on the porch with the Killman and Leann, and the three friends ate their bloody burgers and drank their icy beers.

“American Agrochemical Corp won’t be the boss of us after the coming revolutionary violence,” the Killman said, wiping the pink slime from his lips. “Its owners will be some of the chief targets of the revolution, and the workers will own the abattoir when they’re gone.”

“The revolution can’t come soon enough,” Sandoval said. “I’m tired of working for the owners. I owe them thousands for my trailer, and my pittance of a salary barely covers expenses. I want to get the hell out of Kansas and move to Denver to start a band.”

“The revolution isn’t gonna happen,” Leann said, chewing her burger and smiling coyly at Sandoval, “at least not any time soon. You’d lose your job if they heard you, and a pittance of a salary is better than no salary at all.”

“The revolution’s inevitable, Leann,” the Killman said. “It just needs a spark to set it off.”

“The revolution’s just a fantasy,” Leann said. “You said it was imminent five years ago when we first met, but we’re still waiting.”

“No, Leann,” Sandoval said. “The revolution’s imminent. We have-nots have been pushed to our limit.”

“The haves are the haves for a reason,” Leann said. “They have what they have because they control everything. You guys are just the cattle on the kill floor to them, a resource to exploit, food to eat.”

“We’ll make the revolution happen,” the Killman said tossing his greasy napkin on his blood-dappled plate, “If we work together, we have-nots can overthrow our oppressors!”

“Don’t be a fool,” Leann said. “If you rise up against the owners, they’ll kill you.”

“Better to die in the coming revolutionary violence than to be too chicken to take part in it!” the Killman retorted huffily.

The next day, Mr. Ostermann, one of the abattoir’s owners, approached the Killman and Sandoval as they were killing the cattle on the kill floor with their bolt guns.

“This is no place for you, sir,” Sandoval said. “Your white boots are made of sheep’s wool and the blood will turn them red.”

“I wouldn’t be a proper owner if I wasn’t willing to toil beside my workers now and then,” Mr. Ostermann said. “Now give me one of those bolt guns, boys, so I can join in on the killing!”

“Point it just below his horns, sir,” the Killman said giving Ostermann his gun.

“Something’s wrong with the gun,” Ostermann said as the bovine in the iron pen looked up at him. “The bolt’s stuck. Have a look.”

“It worked fine a minute ago,” the Killman said looking at the gun.

“Look closer,” Ostermann said. “It doesn’t work anymore.”

When the Killman looked closer, Ostermann pressed the gun to his forehead and clicked the trigger, and the bolt went into his brain just above the bridge of his nose.

“You got him, sir!” Sandoval exclaimed as the Killman fell to the floor and the blood splashed on Ostermann’s woolly white boots.

“Well, I guess that’s the end of his revolution,” Ostermann quipped. “You did well, Sandoval, and you know the deal. You know the story you’re to tell the authorities.”

According to Sandoval’s testimony, the Killman had been negligent in his handling of the bolt gun. Completely against protocol, and totally ignoring his training, he looked directly into the bolthole when it jammed and accidentally discharged the bolt with one of his blood-slicked hands. Despite the fact that the American Agrochemical Corp was in no way liable for the Killman’s death, the company—which would be nothing without its employees—decided to give the Killman’s widow 50 grand and forgive the debt she and her late husband owed on their trailer.

When the Killman’s old truck was loaded up with Leann’s stuff, Sandoval hopped into the cabin with his duffel bag, leaned over to the driver’s seat, and kissed her rosy cheek. “It’s so nice to be out of debt, isn’t it, Leann?” he said. “Now we can get the hell out of Kansas and be together in Denver, and I can finally start my band!”