A dead cow or sheep lying in a pasture is recognized as carrion.

Host: The alleyway behind the butcher’s shop steamed in the cold morning air, the kind of mist that carried both life and decay in the same breath. It was dawn, yet the world already moved — the sharp sound of knives being sharpened, the thud of cleavers against wood, the faint, iron-sweet smell of blood curling into the fog.

Inside, the lights hummed overhead — sterile, merciless, white. Hooks lined the ceiling like punctuation marks in some industrial scripture. On one of the clean metal tables, a slab of beef gleamed under the lamplight, pink and perfect, its story already erased.

Jack leaned against the counter, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching as the butcher worked behind the glass. Jeeny stood beside him, her gaze distant but burning, her reflection caught between the meat and the mirror.

Pinned to the wall beside them, yellowed and framed in irony, was a quote handwritten in dark ink:

“A dead cow or sheep lying in a pasture is recognized as carrion. The same sort of a carcass dressed and hung up in a butcher's stall passes as food.”
— John Harvey Kellogg.

Jeeny: softly “It’s strange, isn’t it? How the same thing changes meaning when you change its context.”

Jack: without looking at her “That’s civilization for you. We take death, give it a name, and call it dinner.”

Jeeny: “And we convince ourselves it’s normal.”

Jack: “It is normal. That’s the point. We’ve been eating animals since the dawn of time.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but Kellogg wasn’t talking about meat. He was talking about morality. About how easily we disguise what we don’t want to face.”

Host: The butcher stepped into view, his apron streaked with faint smudges of red, his knife catching the light. For a moment, the glint on the blade seemed to flash between reflection and accusation. Jeeny watched, silent, her hands tightening on her scarf. Jack’s eyes stayed steady — curious, analytical, untouched.

Jack: “Morality’s just packaging, Jeeny. Dress up anything right — words, wars, even corpses — and people will call it noble. Kellogg was a hypocrite anyway. Preached purity while profiting from guilt.”

Jeeny: “You think hypocrisy cancels truth? That just because the man was flawed, his mirror stops reflecting?”

Jack: “No. I just think people like to moralize after the fact. We turn instincts into sins because it makes us feel evolved.”

Jeeny: “Or because it reminds us we’re responsible. Civilization isn’t about instincts, Jack — it’s about choice.”

Jack: “Choice? That’s just privilege dressed as virtue. The lion doesn’t feel guilty when it kills the gazelle.”

Jeeny: “Because the lion doesn’t have consciousness — or poetry — or religion — or grief.”

Host: The sound of rain began to tap against the glass storefront — light, but steady, as though the world itself was whispering. Inside, the fluorescent light gleamed coldly over flesh that no longer breathed.

Jack: “You sound like you pity the cow.”

Jeeny: “I pity us.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve learned how to sanitize what should haunt us. We turn slaughter into commerce, hunger into profit, cruelty into culture. Kellogg wasn’t just talking about meat — he was talking about how we lie to survive.”

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? Starve? Feel guilty every time we eat?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe stop pretending we’re innocent. The same hands that bless a meal could at least remember what they’ve taken.”

Jack: smirking “You want reverence for steak?”

Jeeny: “I want awareness. Reverence would be a start.”

Host: The butcher carried a fresh cut to the display, laying it neatly among its kin — rows of color and silence, symmetrical and final. Jeeny’s eyes followed his motion like one might watch a ritual, while Jack’s gaze drifted to the rain outside.

Jack: “You know, there’s something almost artistic about it. The way death becomes aesthetic. We cut, we clean, we light it perfectly — and people call it beauty.”

Jeeny: “That’s the same logic that built empires on bones.”

Jack: pauses “Maybe beauty and brutality are the same thing — two sides of the same animal instinct.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Beauty heals. Brutality just disguises itself as purpose.”

Jack: “You really think the line’s that clean?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think pretending it doesn’t exist is what makes monsters ordinary.”

Host: A long silence filled the air. The clock above the counter ticked with mechanical precision, measuring time like judgment. Jeeny’s reflection trembled faintly in the glass — half woman, half conscience.

Jack: quietly “You know what’s funny? Kellogg’s right — a carcass is a carcass. But it’s not the flesh that changes. It’s the story we tell around it. We rename it, ritualize it, market it. That’s what makes humans dangerous. Not hunger — narrative.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We create meaning to hide the meaninglessness of what we do.”

Jack: “So you think there’s no redemption in the telling?”

Jeeny: “Only if the story stops excusing and starts confessing.”

Jack: “You’d make a terrible priest.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And you’d make a perfect one — all intellect, no mercy.”

Host: A flash of lightning cracked somewhere outside, and for a moment, the light inside flickered — white, then dark, then white again. The butcher looked up, muttered something, and went back to his work.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, I saw my grandfather slaughter a sheep. He said, ‘Don’t look away. If you eat, you should see.’”

Jack: “And did you?”

Jeeny: “I did. And I never forgot the sound it made. That’s the thing about innocence — once it’s seen, it can’t unsee.”

Jack: after a long pause “So what did you learn?”

Jeeny: “That everything we consume leaves a shadow. Even kindness. Even belief.”

Jack: “And you still eat meat?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Yes. But I thank the shadow now.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm matching the beating of some distant heart. Jack turned from the glass, his reflection fractured by rivulets of water. Jeeny still stood near the counter, watching the butcher work — her expression unreadable, a quiet blend of reverence and sorrow.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what Kellogg feared most — not the meat, but the metaphor. How easily humans turn death into language, into art, into routine. We make meaning out of murder and call it culture.”

Jeeny: “And maybe what he hoped for was consciousness — not purity, not shame — just the courage to see both truths at once: the hunger and the harm.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible? To see the blood and still take the bite?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If you remember the cost.”

Jack: softly “And if you forget?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop being human. You become the butcher who’s forgotten what the knife does.”

Host: The storm had softened now into drizzle. The city lights outside blurred into long streaks, smearing across the windows like tears. Jack looked once more at the meat — its red, its marble, its strange, silent dignity — and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

Jack: “You know, maybe Kellogg was just reminding us that morality is fragile. That what we call food today could be called horror tomorrow. History is just the art of collective amnesia.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe enlightenment isn’t about changing what we do — but daring to remember what it means.”

Jack: “So, we’re all guilty?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re all accountable. There’s a difference.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Accountable… that’s a word we’ve dressed up too, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Like everything else.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the glass, through the steam of the butcher’s breath, past the hanging forms that looked both sacred and obscene.

The rain outside shimmered silver under the streetlights, and the world kept turning — consuming, forgetting, renaming.

And in the reflection on the window, between Jeeny’s stillness and Jack’s thought, the truth of Kellogg’s words lingered:

The difference between carrion and feast
is not in the flesh —
but in the story we tell ourselves
to keep eating.