text: “Just bring us the crate and let the man pick something himself. He doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” John James turned to Stephen. “These people don’t even know how to be obedient.” “I’m still not sure about this John,” Stephen said. “Is this going to look fucked up or is it going to look like a steak?” “What I killed is going to look like a steak. You didn’t kill anything, so now you get to pick your shit out of a crate,” John said. “Kill something next time.” “Why are two men like us here?” Stephen asked. John scoffed. “Hey, don’t misunderstand me. This is some good shit. Not everybody gets to eat this shit. We get to do whatever we want.” A tall man walked toward their table holding a large wooden crate above his waist. He set it beside them and they peered inside. “There’s still fur on everything, and faces,” Stephen said. “You’re not going to serve me this fucking shit. There’s flies flying around it. Fuck you. And fuck you John. What gets you off about all this?” A fly landed on the table in front of him. He smashed it beneath his hand. “They haven’t prepared it yet you dick,” John said laughing. Stephen grabbed a hand from the crate and waved it in John’s face. “How the fuck do you prepare this? What the fuck are you talking about you retard?” “I dunno! They skin it, they take the bones out, they cook it, they season it, I don’t fucking know!” “Excuse me sir,” the man with the crate said, “but we do not do those things to the hands. We will only cook them. That is all that you need to do.” John stood and pointed his finger an inch from the man’s face. “Look nigger, this place has five stars on Yelp, so don’t tell me you’re not even going to properly prepare my friend’s food. We eat at restaurants that you wouldn’t even be allowed to walk past on the same side of the street every day for lunch, so if you try to serve us disgusting food, I will fucking kill you, and I’ll kill everyone back there. And then I’ll fly back to New York City and forget all about it.” Another man approached their table and set a plate in front of John’s chair. A thick slab of meat sizzled beside a halved yam. John sat calmly and said, “This is what I’m talking about. Now fuck off and make my friend here something *good*, and cook it *right*.” The man with the crate, holding the hand between his tented fingers, replied, “With all due respect, sir, the gorilla’s hand is most delicious when prepared this way. I would like to offer it to you. You will not be disappointed.” “Tell you what, bring me that hand with the bones and skin on it, and if my friend doesn’t like it, I shoot you in the head,” John said. “You will not be disappointed,” the man repeated. He lifted the crate and turned, walking away. “Fuck, you’ll let me kill him at least,” Stephen said. “I was telling him ‘no.’ These people don’t understand a fucking thing,” John said, plunging his knife into his meat. “Tell me how it is when you taste it,” Stephen said. “I’ve had lion before Stephen. It’s fucking good,” John said. “And no, you can’t have any.” &#x200B; \*\*\* &#x200B; Stephen exited the elevator hurriedly and strode to the conference room, pushing past two men and a women carrying coffees. He sat behind his name, which stood on the table beside a few others: Stephen Alexander, Director of R&D. Anxiously he eyed the clock while others shuffled into the room quietly. His presentation would follow the CEO’s introduction, but the CEO would be late. A small silver tray sat in the corner of the room on a cart, covered by a silver dome, warmed by a low flame. “I’m going to make these pieces of shit so rich,” he thought. The CEO arrived seven minutes after 9:00 and recited something asinine, something brief. After she sat and addressed Stephen, he stood rapidly and stepped to the front of the room. “I’m going to tell you all about an incredible opportunity,” he said. “It might sound unbelievable, but the product that I’m about to present to you all has the potential to exceed our namesake. In five years time, we may be abandoning Trempsico for a new name, a name that immortalizes the one creation that will prove timeless, more timeless than our soda.” A woman pushed the cart with the silver tray beside Stephen as he spoke. He paused and removed the dome from the tray. On it sat three black hands, the sinewy fingers curled above broad palms in wilting shapes like a dying flower. Steam wafted from their severed wrists, which dripped pink blood. “These are Gorilla Fingers,” Stephen said. Every person in the room began shouting. The CEO stood up and said, “Everybody shut the hell up. Stephen, leave, you’re fired.” Stephen laughed. “Oh, I am absolutely not fired,” he said. He lifted a gorilla hand from the tray and snapped off one of its fingers. “When you taste this, you’ll want to hear the rest of my presentation. All of you.” “Stephen, you’re mentally ill,” the CEO said. Don’t put that in my face. Get out of here!” “Yeah I’m crazy,” Stephen said. “Crazy about these delicious Gorilla Fingers!” “Someone call security,” the CEO said. Stephen thrust his arms at the woman beside the cart and grasped her neck. He bore her strained punches, pushing her back toward a window. He smacked her skull into the window and broke the glass. He did it again, knocking long pieces of glass from the frame and forming a wide hole. “Look, either someone tries one of these delectable treats, or I throw this caterer bitch out the window.” “Goodness, Alexander, you oughta calm down,” Rick Trant, Head of Sales, said. “I’ll try one of these Gorilla Whatchamacallits. No need to make such a big deal about it.” Rick leaned across the table and grabbed a hand, snapping off a pointer finger. He bit into it and began chewing. He didn’t swallow; he paused and turned to the CEO. “Cindy, you need to eat one of these,” he said. The CEO stared skeptically at Rick before turning to the finger that Stephen had removed and placed on the table. She picked it up and tenderly bit down on the tip of the finger. Her eyes widened and quietly she declared, “Hoooooooooo baby...” Stephen released the caterer and she stumbled toward the door fearfully, tears dripping down her swollen face. The CEO placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “There’s no need to tell anyone about this. No one will believe you.” The woman’s eyes clenched shut and she started to sob as she shambled out of the room. “Now, on with my presentation,” Stephen said, returning to the front of the room. Everyone was reaching for the shriveled, black hands, tearing fingers from palm and passing the flesh from person to person. “A friend and I recently went on an expedition to Africa, as some of you may have heard. My friend is an avid big game hunter. This I already knew. But what I didn’t realize was that this man was fond of eating his kill. On this particular excursion, he killed a lion. And that very night, he took me to a restaurant called Bush Meat Barn. They cooked his lion for him. Delicious. But I myself hadn’t killed anything. I have never understood hunting. Something doesn’t feel right about it to me, morally. So what would I eat at this restaurant? I was served a whole hand of a gorilla. Its bones and tendons still held the flesh, and its skin remained intact, as with these hands I have brought you. Little was done to prepare them. And yet, when I tasted the first fingertip, I knew that I had discovered something truly remarkable.” A creeping hunger seized Stephen’s throat and he broke another finger off a gorilla’s hand for himself. As he ate he said, “I have done a lot of thinking since that night, and I discovered what it is that bothers me about hunting. Men, apex predators, the top of the food chain, standing above lesser creatures and blowing their brains out. Creatures that are large, yes. Creatures that can kill us. But none that can outsmart us. None with minds or souls. It’s not right! Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to show you something.” Stephen pulled down a projector screen and dimmed the lights before beginning a short video. The video showed a gorilla seated behind a table, facing a woman in a labcoat. As it played, Stephen continued, “This is Travis the gorilla. Here he is demonstrating advanced language capabilities. He can form unique sentences in sign language. Here he says, ‘Travis experience Dasein’. You see, gorillas, like all apes, are our closest relatives. What does this mean for our company? Watch this.” “Travis,” the woman in the video said, “I am going to offer you a choice with two options. I want you to tell me which option you want. I want you to tell me by giving me a thumbs up for yes, or a thumbs down for no. Do you understand?” Travis gave a thumbs up. “Ok Travis,” the woman said. “Do you want me to give you a delicious piece of fruit, and then incinerate you with a flamethrower? Or, would you rather I not give you any fruit?” The gorilla sat motionless. “Show me a thumbs up for fruit, or a thumbs down for no fruit.” After some time, Travis extended his thumb above his hand. “Very good, Travis!” the woman said. She walked offscreen for a moment and returned with a peeled banana. Travis took the banana and slowly ate. He signed ‘banana sweet’. Once he was finished eating the banana, a thin arm of fire extended from offscreen and immolated the gorilla. Several minutes passed before the ape was dead and charred, unrecognizable. The video ended and the lights returned. “I commissioned the Kinshasa Gorilla Sanctuary to conduct this experiment. Why did I do this? Let me put it simply: We can conclude, based on the findings of this test, that gorillas are intelligent enough to consent to their own destruction.” The room began whispering fervently. “Not only is this scientifically sound,” Stephen said, “it’s legally sound as well. I have already personally lobbied the government of DR Congo and secured legal recognition of gorillas’ right to life. This, of course, includes their right to choose death, which we will encourage. That is, if we begin operations in the Congo, first by collecting gorillas for scientific purposes, as in that video. By next month, we could be shipping Gorilla Fingers all over the country.” The room erupted in applause. The CEO was beaming. “Thank you,” Stephen said, returning to his chair. Chris Twewly, Director of Wage Theft, leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brow. “Stephen, I appreciate your enthusiasm but let’s think pragmatically here. You made a lot of projections about the distant future, but I have a question about how to proceed from this very moment.” “Go ahead, Chris,” Stephen said. “Do you have any more of those scrumptious, mouth-wateringly tasty Gorilla Fingers?” Stephen chuckled and turned toward the open door of the conference room. “You can bring the rest in now!” he shouted. Five men pushed five more carts into the room and removed their silver domes, filling the room with steam and the scent of flesh. One man approached Stephen and, leaning over to him, said quietly, “We’re very sorry about the incident with the window earlier. That employee has been fired.” Stephen mouthed ‘Thank you’. Dert Craig, Head of Marketing, stood and said, “Stephen, speaking as someone with a Masters in Philosophy, I must say... This is the most ethically solid business model I’ve ever heard. Bravo.” Stephen smiled. “Thank you Dert.” “I’ll have my department design the packaging immediately. We should have a preliminary sketch by the end of the week. I can already picture it. We’ll have a cartoon mascot, Gogo the Gorilla. We’ll put him on the front of the box, and he’ll be giving a thumbs up and saying, “I consent!”” “I think this has given us a lot to consider,” the CEO said. “We all have a lot of work to from this point on. That being said, this meeting is now ended. We need to get this project started as soon as possible. Back to work, everyone!” As everyone jogged excitedly from the room, Michael Ass, COO, approached Stephen and said, “You are going to make everyone in this building a lot of money, Stephen. You deserve to get your dick sucked. Today. That’s Business 101. If it doesn’t happen, let me know. I’ll fire all the female staff tomorrow.” “Tough, but fair,” Stephen responded. &#x200B; \*\*\* &#x200B; Roman had lost sight of his guides and was wandering through brush, searching for the path that they had cleared. Tall leaves and low vines hid the freshly cut clearing that they had passed through minutes ago. He was lost; but he was armed. Hearing a rustling behind him, he turned and raised his flamethrower. “If you want me to give you a banana, and then kill you, come out of there with your thumbs up!” he exclaimed nervously. A woman emerged from the brush with her hands raised. Roman lowered his flamethrower. “Who are you?” “Look, I’m not going to play your game, fascist. I know you’re going to kill me, so just kill me,” the woman responded. “Who are you? Are you with Trempsico?” Roman asked. “Who are *you*?” the woman replied. “I’m Roman. I’m just a sweepstakes winner,” Roman said. The woman lowered her hands but remained where she was. “Why are you here?” Roman fell to his knees and began to cry. “I don’t know!” he exclaimed. “I’m so afraid!” The woman knelt beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I can help you. If you’re willing to join me.” Roman looked up at her. “What do you mean?” “I’m a conservationist,” she said. “I’m here with a group of environmentalists. We’re trying to teach the gorillas that a thumbs up means ‘no’ and that a thumbs down means ‘yes’.” “Playing the corporation’s own game...” Roman pondered. “There’s no way you can lose!” Stephen pulled down a projector screen and dimmed the lights before beginning a short video. The video showed a gorilla seated behind a table, facing a woman in a lab coat. As it played, Stephen continued, “This is Travis the gorilla. Here he is demonstrating advanced language capabilities. He can form unique sentences in sign language. Here he says, ‘Travis experience Dasein’. You see, gorillas, like all apes, are our closest relatives. What does this mean for our company? Watch this.” Roman was seized with fear. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Just keep watch,” the conservationist said as she entered the clearing and approached the gorilla. “What am I doing?” Roman thought to himself. “Why am I here? I’m a coward. I couldn’t even keep up with the guides. I’m going to die out here. It’s my own fault.” A vine snapped and fell from a tree behind him; he turned but saw nothing. “What if Trempsico finds me with these environmentalists? I’m so fucking stupid! God damnit!” Suddenly, Roman heard the conservationist shout his name. He felt a searing heat upon his face as he turned toward the clearing. A man with a flamethrower stood at the opposite end of the clearing, burning the gorilla beneath a glorious ray of fire. “Roman, why didn’t you see him?” the conservationist screamed. “Why weren’t you keeping watch?” Roman ran to her and crouched to set his hands on the ground beside her. “Are we going to die?” he asked. The conservationist peered at the gorilla’s charred carcass and found a chance for redemption. The gorilla’s torso and legs were reduced to ash, but its arms remained. Both hands had their thumbs extended downward. The gorilla had not consented. “Quick, my camera!” the conservationist said, pointing toward a distant bush. “Bring it to me!” Roman glanced at the man with the flamethrower; he was watching them. “I can’t do it,” Roman said fearfully. “You have to get my camera, you bitch! I’m hurt! You need to get my camera!” the conservationist screamed. The man with the flamethrower strolled along the edge of the clearing and stooped to pick up the camera. Turning to the conservationist he said, “It’s no use. You can’t stop us anymore, because there isn’t anything to stop. This was the last gorilla in Virunga Park. Excuse me, Trempsico Snack Ranch. There are no more gorillas. And no more Gorilla Fingers.” “No...” Roman said. The conservationist sobbed and said, “How could you kill eradicate your own product?” “No one is going to be upset with us,” he replied. “When we announce that Gorilla Fingers are discontinued, we’ll tell them it’s because our Congolese workers went on strike. They’ll blame people like you for meddling with the process. You lose.” He started laughing. The conservationist looked upon the smoldering body of the gorilla, the blackened skeleton of disruption, the ghost of innovations past. The birds of the jungle sang melancholy songs, their pitches bending downward toward the earth in mourning. The white mists, the vapors that breathed life into tree, bush, and vine, were choked and dispelled by the black smoke of death. Sunbeams stood still as the canopy above paused in solemn contemplation, or perhaps dread. The world halted and asserted its full weight upon their consciences, pressing with futile urgency onto their skulls. The conservationist closed her eyes and clasped her face in her hands. “If only we had all bought Orangutan Bites instead!” she lamented.