"I hate working at the fake cock factory," Bob said to Terry, "these freaks ain't right." It was Bob's first week on the job, and he was not adjusting well to his new environment.

"Not so loud man, you can't say that shit anymore" Terry whispered back, nudging his discontented coworker with his elbow.

"I don't fucking care. I spend all day stapling synthskin to a blood-filled balloon, and I think the manager wants to fuck me in the ass with one of these things." Bob had reached his breaking point, and was ready to stand up on the assembly line and tell the rest of the factory how he felt when a klaxon blared to a flashing red light. A voice came over the PA

UNACCEPTABLE LEVELS OF THOUGHT ON FACTORY FLOOR, PLEASE ASSUME THE POSITION

"Aww man Bob, you really done it now." Terry had been through this before, but Bob was new, and had no idea what was in store for all of them as a result of his transgressive thinking. "They're gonna bring out The Bull, and you're first in line."

"The Bull?"

Horrible visions rushed through Bob's increasingly anxious brain.

"Don't worry buddy, it's not as bad as it seems. Just close your eyes, and it'll be over soo.."

Before Terry could finish the word, the fattest, blackest, smelliest Hottentot of a tranny you've ever laid eyes on burst through the doors, swinging the Lacerator Deluxe between Xim's legs.

"That thing ain't gettin anywhere near me, you faggots! I'm from Nebraska! I quit!"

"You signed a contract sugar, and that slur just cost you another five minutes in heaven. Prepare to meet God." The Bull stomped.

(cont.)