The Distant Joke

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2026-08-22 14:47:42 -

The Distant Joke

Thomas Bradshaw stood in the doorway of the abattoir, his boots caked in a slurry of blood and sawdust that had begun to dry into a crust, hard as old clay. He was a man who dealt in the precise geometry of cuts, in the yield of lean versus fat, and in the quiet, rhythmic percussion of the bone saw, a sound that had become the metronome of his life for forty years. But today, the rhythm had...

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