Why doesn`t Steve eat meat?

Jacob Hurley, a local veterinarian, has been friends for years with a local butcher...

1.

          Jacob Hurley, a local veterinarian, had been friends with Steve Carrey, the butcher, for years. Steve, a passionate vegetarian who had switched to a plant-based diet after discovering animal advocacy groups, found it curious that his best friend was a vet�"a professional who, despite his training, seemed remarkably unbothered by the reality of what he did for a living. Perhaps it was the shared peace they both found in each other's company that made their unlikely friendship endure. Both men looked younger than their years, but it wasn’t just because of their diet. Perhaps it was something else, something the people of Hamster Township didn’t know when they bought their holiday meats from Steve's shop.

          One thing was certain, though: If you asked even the simplest high school biology teacher, “What are we?” the answer would always be clear�"mammals, with the same capillaries, blood, and flesh as the animals they cared for. So, what did Steve, the butcher turned vegetarian, truly know? And what had Jacob learned in his quiet years of friendship?

          Steve had been deeply committed to animal rights from a young age, joining an animal advocacy group while still a college student. Over the years, the group evolved into what was now known as “Vegans,” and Steve had been a part of it for over a decade. His parents had not been pleased with his new lifestyle, and there had been a few years of discomfort, especially after Steve had nervously experienced a breakdown one year. But as the years passed, Steve moved to Hamster and opened his butcher shop. It wasn't as strange as it sounded�"after all, people liked their meat, and in a small town, there were few places to hide from the prying eyes of the outside world. Steve could keep his personal life hidden.

          One evening, after another bottle of whiskey was opened, Steve found himself in conversation with his longtime friend, Jacob Hurley.

          "I've been doing some thinking," Steve said, setting the whiskey glass aside and gesturing for Jacob to sit down. “Well, thinking a lot, but I can’t make up my mind. If it helps, I’ll run an examination, and if there’s no contagion, you can use their meat. But if it comes up bad... that could ruin me.”

          "Thanks, Jake," Steve said with a laugh, offering Jacob a reassuring pat on the back. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. It’s just business."

          “Yeah, well, if you hadn’t told me all this before, I would have bought something from you for Christmas,” Jacob replied, his tone a bit heavier.

          “That’s what friends are for,” Steve said, pouring them both another drink.

          Jacob sipped the whiskey, then grumbled, "By the way, have you heard about Andy Parker?”

          “Who?”

          “The salesman from ‘Fonmarket,’” Jacob added.

          “Oh, you mean the guy who sold you that busted, half-broken cell phone for the price of a new one and refused to take it back?”

          “That’s the one,” Jacob confirmed. "What happened to him?"

          “He’s gone,” Steve replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

          The conversation continued until it drifted toward more local gossip. As the night wore on and the whiskey flowed freely, Jacob found himself fidgeting as they talked, until Steve took him outside.

          "Good morning, Mr. Carrey,” Sheriff Fogg greeted as they crossed paths. “How’s it going?"

          “Fine, fine. Just enjoying the morning. Jake told me about Parker.”

          “He was missing,” the sheriff explained with a sigh, “They found his boots and watch by the swamp, but no body. Drowned drunk, they think.”

          "Really?” Steve raised an eyebrow. “And the body?”

          “Swamps too deep, you wouldn’t find it unless you were looking for a truck,” Sheriff Fogg muttered, shaking his head.       "Not even a chance."

          Steve shrugged. "Sure."

          The sheriff, distracted by his own thoughts, added, “My wife asked me to order a couple pieces of lean meat. Three pounds, maybe. Is that too much?”

          Steve grinned. “Nah, you’re in luck. I’ve got some excellent fresh pig right now. I'll be expecting Mrs. Fogg tomorrow morning.’

          “Thank you. I'll tell her.”

          The morning air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside Steve’s shop. Jacob slid the report across the counter, the creases of fatigue under his eyes betraying his lack of sleep. It had been another restless night. He leaned back against the counter, arms folded, as he watched Steve flip through the papers with practiced ease.

          "Tell me, Steve," Jacob’s voice was heavy with frustration, "are there any normal people in the world, or am I going crazy?"

          Steve, his broad frame leaning slightly toward the counter as he studied the report, glanced up. His face was calm, almost too calm. "What’s the matter?"

          Jacob’s eyes darted to the door as he continued, the words tumbling out faster than he meant. "Yesterday, I went to Olsen’s to refill my printer cartridge. He refilled it so that, compared to my previous printouts�"before the refill, mind you�"it was still printing, but with almost no ink. How does that happen? Have you seen these forms?"

          Steve raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took the papers and tucked them into a folder, his eyes meeting Jacob’s with an almost knowing look.

          "What about you?" Jacob continued, a bit more agitated now. "Nothing. I went to confront him, but he tells me I had enough time to print all that ink in half an hour. I don’t care if it took me twenty-five minutes to get there. He’s just full of s**t, Steve. So many a******s around here, and there’s no help for them."

          Steve listened quietly, his sharp eyes scanning Jacob’s face. Then he patted him on the shoulder, his touch firm but gentle.       "Don’t worry about it. It’ll resolve itself."

          Jacob’s laugh was bitter, shaking his head. "Easy for you to say."

          "Talking’s always easy�"doing’s hard," Steve replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he stood up and began sorting through more papers. He was always like this�"calm in the face of chaos, his thoughts a few steps ahead of everyone else. That was Steve Carrey: unfazed, unbothered.

          Jacob stared at the whiskey bottles lined up on the shelf behind Steve, their amber contents gleaming. He thought about the moment when the rumors started circulating about Tyler Olsen’s disappearance. The news had barely made a blip on the local channels�"small-town gossip was still the quickest way to get information. Jacob had heard about it through the usual channels�"whispers at the diner, a muttered comment in the grocery store.

          "Olsen, huh?" Jacob said, his mind drifting back to the rumors, though his eyes never left the whiskey. "What happened to him?"

          Steve, pouring himself a glass, shrugged, his gaze distant as he poured a generous amount of whiskey into the glass. "Heard about it. Too bad about the kid. But they're dying like cats out there in that swamp. They should put up a fence or something."

          "Swamp?" Jacob’s eyebrows knit together as he leaned forward. "You mean he disappeared in the swamp?"

          "That’s what they’re saying," Steve replied, taking a sip of his drink. "It’s a damn deep swamp, Jake. If you hide a truck in there, you’ll never find it. Hard to say what happened." He paused, his gaze flickering to the door as though sensing someone�"or something�"outside. "But you know how it is around here. Folks go missing. No one asks questions."

          "Yeah, well, I heard he was just drunk and fell in. Drowned, they say," Jacob muttered, his frustration growing. "Makes sense, right?"

          Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if considering something unspoken. "Maybe. But you can’t always take everything at face value, Jake. Sometimes, the truth’s a little darker."

          Jacob shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of those words pressing down on him. "By the way, Steve," he asked, his voice softer now, "can I buy another bottle off you? Your whiskey’s really good."

          Steve flashed a smile, his expression turning warmer as he moved toward the shelves behind him. "No problem. I can always order more if you need it."

          Jacob waved him off, though. "No, no. I’ll just have one. Or else, if I get carried away, there won’t be anyone to vaccinate the mayor’s bulldog," he said with a smirk, but the tension in his voice didn’t fully mask his growing unease.

          Steve’s chuckle was low, a sound that barely echoed in the quiet shop. "Don’t worry about that. You’ve got time." He handed Jacob the bottle and leaned against the counter, watching his friend take a long swig from the glass he’d poured.

          Jacob, staring into the dark amber liquid, tried to shake off the feeling of unease settling in his chest. But something had changed in Hamster Township. People were disappearing�"small things, like Tyler Olsen and others�"and no one seemed to care enough to ask why.

        The world around him felt both too small and too mysterious, and for the first time in years, Jacob wasn’t sure who to trust.

          Just before Jacob left, Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don’t let things bother you too much, Jake. Sometimes, the world’s a little broken. And maybe we’re just trying to hold it together."

          Jacob didn’t answer, but he felt the weight of Steve’s words as he stepped out into the cold air, the faint scent of fresh-cut meat and whiskey still lingering in his nostrils. Something wasn’t right, and he knew it.

          He just didn’t know how deep it went.

          Steve celebrated Christmas the way he liked: alone with a bottle of his favorite whiskey and a Grinch cartoon on the TV. The laughter and warmth of the show were a strange comfort, the kind of comfort that only comes from the predictable and the familiar. A small town, a butcher's shop, and whiskey�"it was all Steve needed.

          But the sound of knocking on his door, sharp and insistent, shattered his solitude. Steve blinked, annoyed, and swiped a hand across his mouth. The sheriff’s voice came through the door, cold and commanding.

          “Mr. Carrie, open the door immediately.”

          His stomach lurched. Something was wrong.

          Steve stood up from his chair, his legs stiff from the long hours of sitting. He walked slowly to the door, still half-dazed from the whiskey. Opening it, he found Sheriff Fogg standing there, his face drawn tight.

         “What’s the matter?” Steve asked, forcing calm into his voice.

          The sheriff’s expression didn't soften. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Andy Parker and Tyler Olsen,” he said, his voice chillingly flat.

          Steve froze. Murders? His brain scrambled to catch up with the words. “What are you talking about?” His pulse raced, his mind spinning. This was a nightmare. “I haven’t done anything.”

          Sheriff Fogg didn’t flinch. He clicked the handcuffs on Steve’s wrists, and the cold metal seemed to freeze his very blood. “You at least took your whiskey bottles from the crime scene, Mr. Carrie,” Fogg said, his voice cold as he shoved Steve toward the car.

          “I don’t know what you mean,” Steve stammered, his head spinning. This couldn’t be happening. He had never hurt anyone. He’d been with the bottle the whole night, alone. “What crime scene?”

          The sheriff’s expression hardened, and he leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing. “About the Olsen tattoo my wife and I found on the meat you sold yesterday. The meat that came from his body.”

          Steve’s chest tightened. What? His heart skipped a beat. The sheriff’s words slammed into him like a freight train. The tattoo… Tyler Olsen… The pieces snapped together in an instant, but it made no sense. How could I have…?

          “I�"I didn’t do this,” Steve protested weakly. “Someone framed me.”

          But Sheriff Fogg wasn’t listening. With a firm grip on Steve’s arm, he pushed him toward the car. “Save it for the station,” he muttered. “The evidence says otherwise.”

As Steve was shoved into the backseat of the squad car, his mind raced. Framed? But how? Who? The whiskey, the reports, the meat he had sold�"none of it made sense, and yet here he was, caught in a nightmare he couldn’t escape. He had been careful. He had always been careful. Who would have planted that tattoo on the meat? Who would have done this to me?

          The sheriff slammed the door shut, and the car roared to life. As they drove away from the only home he’d ever known, Steve's mind raced with questions that had no answers. He wasn’t guilty. He couldn’t be. But there was no one left to tell him who was responsible, and in the silence of the car, it felt like the world itself was turning its back on him.

2.

          Even though Jacob was visibly shaken by the arrest, his expression remained steady as he sat in the courtroom. He never once looked at Steve with disgust, despite the weight of the accusations hanging over his friend. He understood what Steve was going through�"he could feel the crushing burden of isolation, the sinking realization of betrayal. Jacob promised to help him, no matter what. No one else in Hamster would, not now that everything had changed.

          And soon, almost everyone in town was gone. It wasn’t just the judge or the prosecutor�"those who were left were few and far between. The town, once bustling with hundreds of residents, now had only seventeen people. A tiny number, barely enough to fill a room. But there they were, stuck in a town that felt more like a forgotten ghost story than a home.

          It didn’t take long for Steve to be released on bond, and Jacob, ever the opportunist, quickly landed a lucrative contract with a meatpacking plant. When Steve stepped out of the small jail, blinking against the harsh daylight, his first words were a strained question.

          “What did you do, Jake?”

          Jacob didn’t hesitate. He met Steve’s eyes with a calmness that made Steve uneasy. “Followed the example of your mentor at Vegans,” Jacob said, his voice unshaken. “Do you remember the video he showed at the VIP night?”

          Steve’s stomach twisted. “I didn’t make it then.”

          Jacob shrugged. “Come on, we’re all not without sin. Why is it that prisons can turn in prisoners, but we can’t turn in a couple bad guys?” He patted Steve on the back, the gesture almost too firm. “That’s what always worked for me�"your pat on the back. It made me feel like I had a friend. Don’t forget, Steve. You’ve got a friend here. We’re all friends now.” Jacob’s hand swept outward in an exaggerated gesture, as if the whole town could be contained in that one movement. “And we all eat what Mother Nature gives us. Meat’s bad for your body.”

          Steve froze. The words felt wrong coming from Jacob. He had always been the quieter one, the sensible one. But today, there was a dangerous glint in Jacob’s eyes that Steve hadn’t seen before. It made his skin crawl. His friend wasn’t the same. No, Steve. This is all wrong. He asked again, his voice tight, “What did you do, Jacob?”

          Jacob’s smile stretched wider, colder. “I cleaned up the town, Steve. Left only decent people. And they all agree�"meat’s a bad product. We’re completely idyllic now. Everyone’s on board. And I’m sorry about that Olsen tattoo... there was a miscommunication.”

          Steve’s head spun. The world felt like it was tilting sideways. No, no, no…

          Jacob slapped Steve on the back again, far too hard. “Come on, I’ll drive you home. Don’t worry about it. You really don’t smell too great right now. By the way, Mr. Forester, our guru, is coming tomorrow. He promised to make me his right-hand man.”

          The words felt like a punch. Steve’s throat tightened as goosebumps rose on his skin. Mr. Forester. The guru. The strange man who Jacob had mentioned before in hushed tones, like some sort of revered figure. Steve had always thought Jacob was just a little obsessed. But now, with Jacob’s eyes gleaming with something far too dark, something primal, Steve began to realize how wrong he’d been. How wrong everything in Hamster was. His gut twisted in fear as he thought of Jacob and his so-called "apostles." The people who had once been his friends, his neighbors, were changing. Something inside them had snapped. And now, he wasn’t sure if he was just another sheep being led to the slaughter.

          The drive back was unnervingly quiet. Jacob, usually full of chatter, sat in the front seat like a statue, his hands tight on the wheel. Steve’s mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. What had Jacob done? What had happened to everyone in this town?

          Once they arrived at Steve’s house, Jacob left with a brief, unsettling smile and a pat on the shoulder. Steve stood at the door, watching his friend drive off, his heart thudding in his chest. Alone, he let out a shaky breath. His mind wouldn’t stop turning. There’s something wrong. Something deeply wrong.

          He locked the door behind him, but it didn’t feel secure. He didn’t feel safe. His eyes darted around the house, the familiar surroundings now foreign, suffocating. His hands shook as he rifled through his drawers, pulling out papers in a frantic mess. His eyes caught a disk labeled “Vegans. Reception at Forrester’s.” The letters seemed to burn into his eyes. He had to know. He had to see for himself what Jacob was involved in.

          With a shaking hand, Steve slid the disk into his computer, his breath coming fast. The video started, and for the first few moments, Steve didn’t understand what he was seeing. But as the footage rolled on, the truth slammed into him like a freight train.

          Huge vats of ground cooked meat. Bodies. People�"being dumped into massive crushing machines. The sight of it, the noise, the sheer mechanical brutality�"it turned Steve’s stomach. His eyes bulged, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he watched the horror unfold on the screen. “Of course, it’s all treated with a chemical to remove hair,” the narrator’s voice droned in the background, a flat, detached voice that made Steve’s blood run cold. “But sometimes, force majeure happens. Though it’s almost never noticed. And with seasoning, all the meat tastes the same.”

Steve’s heart pounded in his ears. His hands went clammy, and his mouth went dry. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. This was real. This was happening. And Jacob was part of it.

          The images lingered in his mind long after the video ended, haunting him. He could see the bodies, could hear the machines whirring, grinding, tearing life from flesh. And then, the worst thought of all hit him with sickening clarity: What if I’m next?

          The gas leak. The strange accident in his house. The chemicals that had somehow filled the air. It wasn’t an accident, was it? Was Jacob setting him up to be part of their meat factory, too? Would he be reduced to sausage? To pâté? His hands trembled as he reached for his revolver, hidden away in the back of his closet, the cold steel a small comfort against the chaos in his mind.

          This was all a trap. A game. And Steve was the prey.

          The thought of the chemicals, of his own body being crushed, processed, and packaged�"turned into meat�"made him shiver uncontrollably. He wasn’t sure how much longer he had before they came for him. He knew, deep in his gut, that Jacob wasn’t just his friend anymore. He was something else entirely. Something much darker.

          The fear churned in his stomach, and for the first time, Steve wasn’t sure he would survive this. Not if Jacob has his way.

          Steve knew he had only two options: become like them and join the twisted, horrifying movement Jacob had set in motion�"or run. Run far, far away.

          The choice was clear, but it wasn’t easy. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to escape from whatever nightmarish reality had overtaken his town. But the fear gnawed at him, darker and deeper than he could remember feeling. It wasn’t just the town that had changed. It was him, too. Could he outrun what Jacob had turned it into? Could he outrun the things he’d seen, the horrors he now knew existed just beneath the surface?

          His hands shook as he grabbed his bag, hurriedly throwing in whatever essentials he could find�"some clothes, the revolver, a flashlight. His heart was thudding in his chest as he reached for his keys. He didn’t even bother to check the house again; he couldn’t. The feeling of eyes watching him, the idea that Jacob was already waiting for him, haunted him. He couldn’t shake the image of his former friend, now an unsettling stranger.

          Steve shoved the keys into the ignition and floored the gas pedal. The engine roared to life, and the tires screeched against the dirt road as he sped off into the night. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t stay here. Not in this town, not with those people, not with the terrifying realization that Jacob and his apostles were out there�"lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to slip up, waiting for him to be just another part of their gruesome plan.

          The further he drove, the more isolated everything became. The familiar landmarks of Hamster faded into nothing, swallowed up by the darkness. He was leaving behind a town that had once been home, but now felt like a trap. His mind raced, replaying every moment he’d shared with Jacob, wondering when everything had gone so horribly wrong. Was it the moment he’d looked at that video? Or had it been building up all along, in the quiet moments when they shared whiskey and stories, when Steve didn’t see the glint in Jacob’s eyes, didn’t see the hunger growing inside of him?

          Steve gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles white, his breaths coming faster as paranoia began to creep in. Every car that passed seemed to be Jacob’s. Every rustle in the trees sounded like footsteps behind him. He wasn’t sure if it was his fear or if someone truly was out there, but the longer he drove, the more the tension coiled around him. He needed to get out.

          But as time passed, nothing happened. No headlights appeared behind him. No ominous figures emerged from the darkness. The feeling of being followed was constant, suffocating even, but when Steve glanced in his rearview mirror, the road remained empty. He had expected a car to catch up, to see the familiar outline of Jacob’s truck or one of his “apostles” creeping up on him. But there was nothing. No pursuit.

          Was it just his mind playing tricks? Was it just fear, a leftover echo of his panic? Steve tried to push the unsettling thought from his mind, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. Every bend in the road felt like the last one, like the moment someone would finally appear. Every gust of wind, every shadow on the horizon felt like it could be Jacob. But still, there was nothing.

          And yet, that empty road stretched on before him. His pulse didn’t slow; his hands still clenched the wheel, his eyes darting around the dark, searching for any sign of movement. But it never came.

          Maybe, just maybe, he was alone. Maybe, just maybe, he had actually escaped.

          The further he drove, the more he allowed himself to entertain the hope that Jacob had given up the chase, that maybe he wasn’t the target anymore. But in the pit of his stomach, that nagging feeling remained.

          He wasn’t sure if it was the silence of the night, or the fact that he hadn’t heard from Jacob�"or anyone�"for hours, but Steve could no longer shake the thought that something wasn’t right. Maybe it wasn’t about running away from them, after all. Maybe the real question was: could he ever outrun the fear? Would he ever be free of what Hamster had become?

          As his truck sped through the empty streets, the tension gradually ebbed away, replaced by exhaustion. It was only when he rounded a sharp bend in the road, expecting the worst, that he felt it: a strange, unsettling stillness. For the first time in hours, Steve allowed himself to breathe easier. There was nothing behind him, nothing chasing him anymore.

          The road was empty. The world was quiet.

          But he didn’t feel safe. Not yet.

***

          Steve celebrated the next Christmas quietly and peacefully. He sat at the table, absentmindedly swirling his wine, watching Gracie savor the desserts in front of her. It was a simple joy, far removed from the nightmare of Hamster, and for the first time in a long while, Steve felt a peace that he had thought was lost to him forever. The world outside seemed calm, and the past�"Jacob, the factory, everything�"was a distant memory. He’d worked hard to forget it all, to bury the unease that used to settle in his stomach when he thought of his old town.

          But then, as if the universe had a cruel sense of humor, his peaceful bubble burst. The voice from the table next to him broke through his thoughts, a man’s sharp, frustrated tone cutting through the quiet ambiance of the restaurant.

          "Oh, s**t,” the man grumbled, setting aside his plate of pâté with a look of disgust. “Call the receptionist. I’ve got a human hair in my pâté."

          Steve’s hand froze mid-motion as he reached for his glass. The words hung in the air, too familiar, too unsettling. A human hair? He’d heard that phrase before�"heard it in nightmares. The notion of someone putting hair into the food had a grotesque, unnatural ring to it. It was as though the past had suddenly crept back into his consciousness, scratching at the edges of his calm.

          The receptionist’s voice came through the door, too sweet and apologetic, like someone who had been in this situation before. "Sir, I’m sorry, we buy the best pâté in the country," she said smoothly, too smoothly. "They’ll replace your lunch and bring you a bottle of the best wine. All on the house. Excuse me, sir."

          Steve stood there, unmoving, unsure whether to leave the restroom or wait. But then, curiosity�"no, dread�"compelled him to stay. The muffled sounds of the receptionist’s polite exchange with the cook drifted through the door. He leaned in slightly, his heartbeat picking up as he caught the next words.

          “Jacob Hurley’s firm is a reliable supplier.”

          Steve’s breath caught in his throat, and the small amount of peace he had felt moments before shattered like glass. Jacob’s name. He hadn’t heard it in months, had buried it so deep in his mind that hearing it now was like a slap. He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling a tightness that wasn’t from fear�"but something darker, something more insidious. Had Jacob followed him? Had he… been involved in more than Steve had ever known?

          The receptionist continued; her voice still pleasant but with an undercurrent of something darker. “Just make sure they pluck their own chickens next time.”