stamp and inkpad in the kill room for us to do it ourselves. In order to prevent the injected water from leaking out and lowering the weight and, more importantly, the quality, of the meat, we sprayed its surface with an anti-leak substance (which neither protected nor endangered the health of the consumer). Since we hadn't yet installed cold-storage rooms, the meat had to be delivered the same day the animals were slaughtered. We owned three delivery trucks that had been modified to carry fresh meat, and which were driven by ex-servicemen hired for their ace driving skills, their take-no-prisoners attitude and their alarming appearance. You wouldn't want to mess with these men. At about two every morning, a pair of ageing gatekeepers pushed open United's loudly creaking steel gate and the delivery trucks, loaded with trustworthy meat, slipped out of the compound, one after the other, made quick turns and then slid onto the highway. Their breathing adjusted, like spirited horses, they then gathered speed and their headlights lit up the road to town. I knew that the trucks carried nothing but meat injected with clean well water to guarantee its freshness and safety. But every time I watched them slip out of the compound in the pre-dawn darkness and then speed up the highway, I would be possessed of the nagging feeling that their cargo was actually contraband—not meat but explosives or drugs.
Here I must put to rest the long-standing misconception that all water-injected meat is contaminated. Admittedly, when individual families in Slaughterhouse Village illegally injected their meat with water amid unsanitary conditions and via unsanitary procedures, much of what was produced was of an inferior quality. But at United, the move from post-slaughter to pre-slaughter injection was nothing less than revolutionary, a turning point in animal-slaughter history. Lao Lan said it best: ‘One cannot overstate the significance of this revolutionary moment.’ And there was another important factor that ensured that United's water-injected meat was fresher than everything else: we could have used tap water but we didn't, since it contained additives like chlorine. Our products were what we now call organic, with no chemical additives. Which is why I insisted we treat our animals with pure, crystalline well water, water superior to both its distilled and mineral counterparts. It was like fine wine. Red, puffy eyes caused by internal heat can be cured with just one bath in our spring water. Yellow urine also caused by internal heat clears up completely after two cups of the same. Since this is what we injected in our animals before their slaughter, you can imagine the superior quality of the meat they produced. If you could not eat our meat with complete confidence, then you were a pathological worrywart. Everyone complimented us on our products, which were sold exclusively in urban supermarkets. I hope that when people hear about water-injected meat, they won't think of putrid meat produced in filthy, illegal butcher sites. Our meat was succulent, bursting with flavour and glowing with the air of youth. Too bad I can't show you any of our water-injected meat, too bad I can't recreate my sterling achievements, too bad I can only experience my, as well as United Meatpacking Plant's, glorious history by calling upon my memories.
When the rest of the workers heard about the meat-eating contest, the day-shifters stayed back and the night-shifters showed up early. A crowd of more than a hundred filled the yard outside the kitchen to see the spectacle unfold…At this point in my narrative, I need to stop and talk about something else. Back in the day of street-corner storytellers, this is what they called ‘one plant, double stems, two flowers, focusing on one first’.
During a rest period back in the commune era, when the villagers combined their labour, two individuals took part in a chilli-pepper-eating contest. The winner was to receive a pack of cigarettes, donated by the production team leader. The competitors were my father and Lao Lan. Both were fifteen or sixteen at the time—no longer boys, not yet men. The peppers chosen for the contest were no run-of-the-mill variety but of a special type known as goat horns. Each contestant was given forty long, thick, purple peppers, just one of which was capable of reducing most men to crying for their mothers. The team leader's pack of cigarettes would not be easily won. Not knowing what my father and Lao Lan looked like back then, I've had to rely on my