A hairy and surprisingly cruel man, "The Butcher" is honest and forthright in his utter disdain for his customers. Wearing his contempt as a badge of honor, expect nothing but sadistic treatment from this loathsome cur.

As night turns into day and day into lunchtime, my colleagues and I once again need to feed, so we limp over to the food court to get slopped. Complexe Desjardins is the destination today and with daily renewed optimism we head down the escalator. Humans, masticating their allotments, adorn fibre-formed chairs, while acres of flaccid humanity jostle for position. It is a moment of distaste and resignation. Despite ourselves, growing excited from hunger, we hoof the paddock, our anuses contracting wildly.

I join the line at Basha, kiosk of Mediterranean effrontery. Solemnly, we each submit to processing, patiently shifting forward by turns. Borrowing the will of the citizen ahead, I move into the vacancy she leaves behind, a despairing peristalsis urging us unto our destiny. My stomach roils as I approach “The Butcher”, seething with brutality, grunting suggestively. I quickly survey the mounds of bland garnishing the trough while rehearsing my order, wary of making my host angry. He swings the Styrofoam, angrily slamming in the hummus. His graceless gestures are automated by repetition; scoop, flick-wrist, splot. The mucuosoidal, garlic slick hits the polystyrene packet with ugly menace. He wants to hurt this food. The box gets handed off to his gangly team mate whom I stop mid-shovel to prevent rice from becoming part of my tasteless noontime equation. “Can I get some tabouli instead of rice?” I ask in my most cringingly servile tone. “No.” he says and goes for the potatoes; the other of my permitted options. “What if I pay extra?” “No.” he shoots back. Apparently the seeping piles of leaf are not for sale; Display only, merely a visual emetic, adding insult to injury. The grease soaked and dripping container sails out towards me from his outstretched arm, the contents audibly slopping to one side from the momentum.

Dejected, I limp toward the cashier for final punishment. Following my colonic analogy, this snake-faced crag is the rectum of the outfit. There is just one operation left before I am squeezed out and pinched off. 40 cents of repugnant slough, drifting queasily in weepy box, dished out by foul tempered bullies, costs 9 dollars these days. As I slump willessly back into the sweating throng, I no longer need to eat, self-loathing filling my stomach.