Summary

The narrative illustrates the impact of personal choices on others, using a series of unfortunate events culminating in the protagonist's decision to consume chicken wings, drawing a parallel between the suffering inflicted on the protagonist by others' choices and the suffering of chickens in the food industry.

Abstract

The story follows a protagonist who experiences a series of inconsiderate and harmful actions from strangers, ranging from being cut in line to having his car vandalized, and ultimately discovering his wife's infidelity. These events lead him to seek comfort in food, specifically ordering a large quantity of chicken wings. The narrative then shifts to describe the brutal slaughter of chickens, contrasting the protagonist's personal choice to consume animals with the choices that have harmed him throughout the day. The author suggests that while personal choices can be convenient or enjoyable, they are not necessarily ethical, particularly when they cause suffering to others, whether human or animal. The story concludes by advocating for veganism as a more ethical personal choice.

Opinions

The author believes that personal choices, while legally permissible, are not always morally justifiable, especially when they negatively affect others.
The story implies that society often prioritizes individual desires over the well-being of others, which can lead to a cycle of harm and suffering.
The author equates the suffering of animals in the food industry with the emotional pain experienced by the protagonist, suggesting that both are the result of selfish personal choices.
The narrative criticizes the notion that convenience or pleasure can excuse actions that harm others, highlighting the ethical implications of our dietary choices.
The author's stance is clear: choosing to eat animals is a personal choice that perpetuates cruelty and is unnecessary in modern society, where alternatives exist.
The story advocates for veganism as a compassionate and ethical lifestyle choice that breaks the cycle of suffering propagated by the meat industry.

Not Your Choice.

A short story on the ethics of choosing.

I am standing in a queue. Nearing the front — at last. But a woman jumps in front.

“Hey!” I protest.

“Where I stand is my choice,” she snaps. “Deal with it.”

I stood on the street, checking Google Maps. A man treads on my foot — hard.

Does he enjoy the crunch of my foot under his?

“Ow!” I yell.

“Personal preference, mate,” he shrugs. “I like to walk there.”

I am approaching my car. A young man is squatted next to it, etching shapes into the paintwork with his key.

“What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” I cry, starting towards my vehicle. “Why are you doing that?”

The man makes a break for it. He calls over his shoulder, by way of explanation: “I like doing it too much!”

I am too late to make chase. He is gone. A passerby admires the handiwork and nods.

“Art is a manifestation of a natural instinct, you know.”

Driving home, I am rear-ended by a Toyota. Exasperated and annoyed beyond measure, I go to interrogate the driver.

“Excuse me,” I say. “What on Earth happened there?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I was doing my make-up behind the wheel. I was checking my eyeliner in the mirror, and couldn’t see where I was going. I know it’s wrong, but it’s convenient.”

I get home and go upstairs collapse in bed and forget the day.

On reaching the landing, I frown at an odd pair of trousers strewn across the floor. My bedroom door is ajar. My heart lurches.

Pushing it open, I find my wife in bed with another man. They spin around, clutching at the covers.

I beat at the man with my fists.

“Leave him alone!” my wife screams. “What we do with our bodies is our choice!”

Exhausted, alone, frustrated, and completely at the end of my tether, I find myself slumped on my parent’s sofa at 3 o’clock in the morning. My stomach churns in hunger and regret.

I reach for my phone. Deliveroo. That’ll sort it.

Chicken wings. A bucket of ’em. My mouth waters. Twenty-four of the things.

I decide that I’ll become that overweight, middle-aged man who bunks at his parents’ place, chucking chicken bones, gnawed, over his shoulder. Yes. That’s what I’ll do.

Elsewhere, and days, weeks, before, twelve chickens wordlessly wonder what they have done to deserve this fate.

They are strung up by their feet and dragged along a conveyor belt. Their heads are dipped now in an electrified pool, designed to knock them out cold.

Except they sway, they aren’t submerged, and they’re still alive.

They live to see their approach to the electric saw.

They live to hear the whirring of steel on steel get closer.

They live to taste the fates of their conspecifics lingering in the air — the raw scent of a grizzly demise.

They live to feel the blade ripping out their throats, and their blood spilling out onto the factory floor.

They die.

Their wings are dissected from their bodies, plucked, sanitized, packaged, transported, unpackaged, cooked, deep-fried, packaged, sold.

Sold to overweight, middle-aged, recently-single man, sitting on his parent’s couch at three a.m. in the morning.

Sold to a man who, despite being the victim of countless personal choices to wrong him, harm him, disregard him, chooses to add twelve more victims into the loop.

It is a personal choice to disregard social convention and queue-jump. It is a personal choice to harm someone else by maliciously treading on their foot. It is a personal choice to key someone’s car, to drive dangerously, or to cheat on your spouse.

That does not mean it is right to do these things.

It is a personal choice to eat animals.

That does not mean it is right to eat animals. It might be enjoyable. It might be convenient. It might be a natural instinct (though I doubt it).

What we do to them is cruel, unnatural, and unnecessary.

You can make better personal choices.

You can be vegan.