The Slaughterhouse

- 4 -

"OINK OINK!"

"With just how much force did you strike him, exactly? He's acting like a stupid child! Didn't he say he was twenty-two or something?" asked a short huntsman, in a light yet ample gray uniform which was becoming unbearably damp with sweat despite it being the evening of a rather cool summer day, just like everyone else's.

The fluffy clouds were coloured cotton candy pink, blood orange and lilac, disposed in such a wonderful ensemble they seemed to have been painted by Picasso himself in the early morning marine blue sky. A vague omnipresent electric smell floated in the air, which meant that it was more than likely the Earth would get another dose of its weekly toxic rain. It was crucial for everyone to hurry to get back to the Slaughterhouse, because those rains, so overly polluted, were so dangerous that they could burn off through people's skin, melting it down to the bone as easily as if was simply some butter in a pan. In the distance, maybe fifteen kilometres away from the gloomy caravan was, cast by the setting sun, the shadow of the elongated saucer, the Slaughterhouse, waiting for the return of the products of the second annual summer hunt. Each big corporation would participate in the auction, sending one representative by different industry, ranging from mining to farming to assembling, but, from time to time, you would see the heads of a few well-dressed individuals who simply wanted to acquire a couple of personal slaves to do any chores they could think of in their apartments, so it was rather important they'd get there, both for everyone's survival and for the hunter's reputations.

"OINK OINK!" repeated once more the brunette, almost screaming it into the same hunter's ear, as a strong statement that he was, indeed, a pig, before bursting into unstoppable laughter, holding his stomach as if he had just told the world's funniest joke to the group of hunters.

"If you don't shut him up, I'll shut him up!" growled that same hunter in annoyance to his leader, who simply rolled his eyes before sighing loudly, having both enough of the very childish yet now conscious Jungkook and his own men.

"Give him a little knock," the leader ordered to another one of his men, eyeing him down as if he was a piece of meat waved in front of his face, "even if that means we'll have to drag his ass for the remaining of this trip" he sighed loudly in irritation, just to let his men know how displeased he was at their botched up work from earlier.

The other huntsmen who were part of the perilous expedition mumbled both swear words and complaints underneath their breaths, knowing this "Jungkook" was a very muscular man, which, on one hand, meant that his capture was assured to be lucrative, but on the other hand, made him very hard to drag through the warm sand. Three hunters were already hauling on Namjoon's unconscious body, shiny drops of sweat beading down their foreheads and down their backs, the sun hitting hard on their backs and wetting the back of their uniforms in smoky gray patches. Two men were pulling on each one of his legs, while one was pulling on one of his arms, making the gray hued haired male's body drag in a zigzag-like movement through the warm flaxen sand. Ever so often, each time that the hunters would take a moment to rearrange their grip over Namjoon, the older male's body would convulse uncontrollably, but this was normal for the henchmen and didn't worry them one bit, as a rather large number of people reacted this way when they were tranquillized for the first time by one of those expensive experimental stun guns. Due to the fact that the older male was rather on the muscular side, it made him considerably harder to drag around than most of the other captured men, so, set as precisely as a clock, they switched the three pullers for three other hunters who were walking by the side of this rather funny looking convoy to at least give a chance to everyone to rest for a short yet well deserved fifteen minutes. They knew full well that if Jungkook was to be knocked out too, they'd have no rest and probably never get to the Slaughterhouse in time for the auction, which was later today, so, the leader was becoming rather hesitant since he himself had to join in the rotation and pull Namjoon. The doe-eyed male's clothes were dirtied by the same now dried up blood that used to gush down the left side of his face. Speaking of which, his temple, cheek and neck were all sticky with ruby red dried up blood, from the wound created by the hit he had received directly on the temple when he had been caught.