Gore
Part 1:Temperance
Chapter 1:Rememberance
written by: Brian Williams and Jeff Mayberry
Our story opens up in a meat packing plant on the disassembly line. Many figures dressed in white coats and rubber aprons watch and prepare the slices of prime beef with machine like efficiency. Our focus is on one of these diligent workers. His name is Seymore Allen Gore, and this is where it all begins.
Gore drifts in and out of thought as pounds of flesh roll by on the conveyer belt. “ I wanted to be an electronic engineer, or a professor of great American literature, yet I am here.” “How did I get here?”
Seymore Allen Gore was born on March 17, 1968 in Doughnut Valley, California. Home of the jelly doughnut; what a hole! Seymore was born the only son of Philbert and Janice Gore. Philbert Gore, a local butcher, mysteriously committed suicide when Seymore was only five using the family chipper/ mulch machine. He left only his wedding ring behind as evidence. For much of his life Seymore was teased, picked on, beat up, abused and molested. Seymore’s mother suffered from chronic alcoholism and obesity, and would beat Seymore regularly. He was a quiet withdrawn child least he incur her wrath. He was fascinated with books of all kinds. His intelligence and thirst for knowledge only seemed to isolate him from other kids. It caused him to withdraw further into the depths of his mind.
The other kids, like Seymore’s mother, were often fond of showing their own brand of affection. For example; calling him names like Gore whore, moron, queer, homo, bookworm, dick breath, and sexmore the whore, and other playful things that kids say. They routinely tripped, and shoved him into mud puddles, urinated on his books, his homework, and on him. These offenses along with teasing, prodding, and beatings were heaped upon him.
One day in seventh grade, young Seymore returned to the classroom from recess. He was nearly starving for one of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he had made himself that morning. Only to find a rotting possum atop his sandwiches. Seymore turned to see his least favorite bullies Jerry and Eddie cackling gleefully. Until that day Seymore had beared every humiliation heaped upon him with a solemn blank stare, and a certain dignity uncommon for his age. Studying, reading, and correcting every assignment with diligence and fortitude, he prepared for THE DAY. The day he would actually do some thing with his worthless life, which his mother often said. Unlike his father, the meat-man. No pun intended. But this day Seymore’s twelve year old hormones churned with the power of rage. Hate contorted his features. Transmogrifying him into a blast of rage incarnate. Seizing a wooden yard stick, Seymore lashed out, breaking Eddie’s nose, and the yard stick simultaneously. What followed was a vicious onslaught, encompassing years of abuse, and humiliation, flowing from him like a force of nature unleashed.
The confrontation ended with Seymore being beaten, and suspended for quote: “Fighting and having a severe problem with his attitude.” The other boy was hospitalized, and had to have the splintered remains of the yardstick surgically removed from his rectum. From that day forward he was known as Seymore Gore, and was given as broad a track as he could tread upon.
In high school he excelled in all his classes, especially English, literature, basic electronics, and welding shop. He also found a new passion; football. His search for knowledge was matched only by his desire for mass and strength. His guidance counselor said it was a vent for pent up aggression. All Seymore knew was the bigger he got the fewer people would even attempt to abuse him. Deep down he knew this could never be so. For there would always be someone in authority to push him down to his proper place in life.
He knew he must always prepare himself for THE DAY, yet he longed to be loved, desired, and accepted as normal. Never would he know such a fate, so long and hard were his preparations. Seymore went from job to job performing the lowest and most degrading, menial tasks as only a teenager could perform being not quite eighteen. The jobs came and went, as did Seymore. He often quit these jobs fearing he might vent his frustrations upon his well deserving bosses. He desired only money to further his preparations, which would hopefully lead him into the heaven of normalcy, and a life long career.
Turning eighteen was a crucial turning point in his social development, or so he thought. Upon graduating from high school as valedictorian, Seymore gained employment in a new factory making electronic components. He was well compensated for his labor, and he came to think that he had gained a certain level of status.
His new job afforded him many things: a new car, a 1986 Dodge Colt, a stereo, which he installed himself, and also a grave plot for his mother. Apparently her weak heart and liver couldn’t take the news of his graduation. For once in his life things were going well, and he was determined to succeed at his new job, and save enough money to go on to study for a college degree. Yeah! He’d put all the sheep, with their whispers and leering stares, in their place. He would show them what an intellectual with determination, and a broad scope of mind could really do in this world. He’d show them all.
But then fate lent a hand. Seymore had gotten off from work minutes earlier, he worked second shift, and was traveling home to his one room apartment when he was urged to pull over by the law enforcement officials. Red and blue lights blinked intermediately all about him as Seymore waited for the clicking boot heels to reach the side of his vehicle. The officer’s voice booms with a practiced command presence, “License and registration.”
Gore replies, “Certainly.” The cop scrutinizes Seymore’s identification with the aid of a flashlight. The co takes a few steps back and commands, “Mr. Gore would you kindly step out of the car, please.” The cop’s flashlight glares into Seymore’s vehicle at all points.
Gore meekly questions, “Why?” The cop pulls out his revolver and points the barrel level with Seymore’s eye socket.
“Get out of the car you filth eating punk!” His partner follows suit from the car and begins to radio in back up. Seymore complies with his hands in the air. Something was very wrong here. Before he knew what was happening he was spun about, forced against his car, and cuffed. The cops proceeded to search him, and his car from top to bottom. Officer Bobbit holds up a straight razor in his hands to show his partner.
“Well look what we have here.” “Looks like a concealed weapon to me.”
“How about it Neil?”
“But I use that to shave.”
“Shut up and get in the car fuck head!”
Seymore was struck by two very clear points. One was that these cowboys were the herders of cattle. Their job was to keep the cattle in their place, and destroy any violators or predators to that line of work.
The other was the passer-by. Some pointed and laughed. Others shook their heads, and still others never even looked, for going about their appointed tasks. Their apathy is what hurt Seymore the most. Why should one cow have sympathy for the cow next in line for slaughter?
After a short and speedy dispersal of justice Seymore was tried, convicted, and fined for possession of a concealed weapon, resisting arrest, and a missing headlight. He never stood a chance against the sworn testimony of two law enforcement officials, even with the court appointed attorney they graciously supplied from their midst.
After his incarceration in the county jail, Seymore learned that in one fell swoop he had reached rock bottom. Within forty-eight hours, he had been tried, jailed, been fired from his job; his car and stereo had been stripped to their essential nuts, and bolts. All he held dear had been lost, including his freedom, his rights, and any hopes of achieving higher learning. What college would accept a convicted felon? His months of jail time were spent feeding his mind and shaping his body. He read several books on seemingly utopian societies, “1984" and “A Brave New World.” These helped to explain much of what he saw and felt.
Callisthenics, yoga, and Ti-Chi shaped his body into a leaner, stronger form. It was surprising what one could learn from a prison library.
Freed under his own recognizance, and his parole officer, but no longer a citizen when it came to his rights. Seymore was released to the world at large, a stronger, and wiser man than he had ever been before. Now he had purpose, a new direction for his rage, and hate. A true force to be reckoned with was set free that day.
After retrieving his possessions from storage and paying his fines, Seymore set about rebuilding his shattered life and making preparations for his destiny. His parole officer most graciously aided him in finding an apartment and seeking employment. He managed to land a job in a meat packing plant. Like father, like son. He needed money and lots of it to achieve his goals, but he would have to bide his time and prepare for the future.
Gore stares blankly at the rolling pounds of flesh of the quality control line. “Gore!” “You stupid lunk head!” “If you’d take your head out of your ass you’d notice a bad steak here and there!”
Gore stares blankly at his angry boss whose face has turned a red that reflects the true color of cut flesh. “How can I?” “They all look like shit to me,” Gore retaliates.
“You’re fired!”
Gore turns and leaves. “Thank God for small favors.” “I have only just begun.”
