The butcher lays the cut on the table. Shipped in straight from Guinevere Ruth's Slaughterhouse. They always provide the heartiest slabs of meat.

It squirms, and looks up to the butcher. Wriggling in tender glory. It looks up to you, the customer. The wriggling slows. It looks up to the fluorescent lights of the grocery store, and mistakes them for god. It lets out a small noise of confusion.

You say you'll take it with no cuts, and prepare it at home. The butcher obliges, and hands you the worm. You couldn't stand to eat from that slaughterhouse again, but see what you can save when their products reach store shelves every now and then.