Being John Rawls
...
I.
John Rawls was born in Baltimore, Maryland, on February 21, 1921. Not John Rawls the famous liberal philosopher (or, rather, John Rawls the famous liberal philosopher was also born in Baltimore, Maryland on February 21, 1921, but he is not the subject of our story). This is John Rawls the alcoholic.
John Rawls the alcoholic was twelve when they lifted Prohibition. He partook immediately, and dropped out of school the following year, supporting himself through a combination of odd jobs, petty crime, and handouts. When he was 41, he committed a not-so-petty crime - killing a man in a bar fight. Although he fled the scene and escaped without consequences, it turned him paranoid. Odd jobs and petty crime were both young men’s games, and the handouts became an ever-larger share of his income. He learned to play the field, peddling the same sob story to the Salvation Army on Monday Wednesday Friday, the YMCA Tuesday and Thursday, and the local churches on weekends. He expected to drink himself to death by age 60, and there wasn’t much to do but wait out the clock.
But as he entered his early fifties, the handouts started to dry up. The Salvation Army closed shop, the YMCA pivoted to physical fitness, and even the churches were no longer as charitable as before. One day he ran into a man he’d once seen volunteering at Salvation Army, and asked him what had happened.
“You haven’t heard?” asked the volunteer. “None of the rich people donate to us anymore. They’re all giving to this group called the John Rawls Foundation. If you’re in trouble, you should talk to them. They’re swimming in money!”
This naturally interested John Rawls the alcoholic, so he obtained their address from the volunteer and immediately headed over to their office building. He was met by a psychologist, who introduced himself as John Rawls (“Not the one the foundation is named after, just a funny coincidence, haha!”)
John Rawls Psychologist told John Rawls Alcoholic that their foundation would be happy to help, but that he would have to get through a screening process first. The screening process would involve being administered a certain experimental drug and led through a hypnotic induction. The social worker would record his answers, and, if he passed the test, he would receive a monthly stipend that far exceeded the sum of his previous Salvation Army, YMCA, and church handouts. “Like a truth serum?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic. “Sure, let’s say like a truth serum,” said John Rawls Psychologist. “When will the screening process be?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic. “How about immediately?” asked John Rawls Psychologist.
So John Rawls Alcoholic found himself lying on a bed in what looked like a medical examination room, as John Rawls Psychologist shone a piercing light into his eye.
“What are you looking for?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic.
“Just a routine examination, don’t worry,” said John Rawls Psychologist. “Your eyes look fine.” He handed over a vial of colorless liquid. “Now, this may taste a little bitter…”
II.
Like our other characters, John Rawls the banker was born February 21, 1921. His parents were middle-class, but they had good Protestant values and taught him the value of hard work. By age 51 he was president of First Civic Bank and the richest man in Baltimore.
John Rawls Banker always turned down invitations to charity luncheons - why couldn’t everyone else work hard, the way he did? - but he was tickled to get a call from the John Rawls Foundation. Of course, it wasn’t really named after him - he assumed it had something to do with the famous liberal philosopher, whose hand he had shaken once at a country club - but he was intrigued enough to say yes. Besides, imagine the headlines: “JOHN RAWLS REFUSES TO DONATE TO JOHN RAWLS FOUNDATION”.
The lunch turned out to be a table for two at Baltimore’s swankiest restaurant. His counterparty was also named John Rawls, although, he clarified, “not John Rawls the famous liberal philosopher”, but rather “a distant relative”. He described himself as a “visionary” poised to “disrupt the charitable space”, although John Rawls Banker had never heard the word “disrupt” used in quite this way before, and was skeptical of anyone who thought that “disrupting” a “space” could be a good thing.
“My theory of charity,” said John Rawls Visionary, “centers on nine words: there but for the grace of God go I. Society is a contract where we agree to help the less fortunate, knowing that if the shoe were on the other foot, they would help us in turn.”
“You have a rosy view of human nature,” said John Rawls Banker, in the same tone of voice he might use to say You have a bug on your face. A waiter came by, and brought each of them a glass of expensive wine.
“I don’t,” said John Rawls Visionary, “and that’s exactly what I bring to the table. My theory of charity is that we should only give to those poor people who, in the counterfactual where they were rich and we were poor, would give to us. I’ve been working on a pharmacological solution to the problem. This is what I’ve got.” He held up a vial of a colorless liquid. “Here. Take it as a souvenir. It’s one part sodium thiopental, one part LSD, and one part calea zacatechichi, the lucid dreaming herb of the Chantal Indians - plus a secret ingredient of my own devising. When a person drinks it, they enter a highly suggestible state. If a trained psychologist provides hypnotic keywords during their trip, they can sculpt an immersive dream where the patient lives an entire lifetime in a situation of the hypnotist’s choosing. The patient narrates their experience, letting us extract information. You can see the utility. When poor people ask us for money, we induce the trance and make them think we are poor, they are rich, and they’re being asked to donate to us. Then, we give money only to those beggars who would help us if the roles were reversed.”
“Astounding,” said John Rawls Banker.
“Can I pencil you in for a starting donation of $100,000?”
“I’m afraid not,” said John Rawls Banker. “I am certainly impressed with what you’ve accomplished, but it doesn’t change my fundamental position that the poor should work to better their own lives.”
“Mmmm,” said John Rawls Visionary. “I suppose we could add this to the test. If they’d been born with more resources, would they have been able to lift themselves up -”
“I appreciate your commitment to your methodology,” said John Rawls Banker, “but the answer is no.”
“I mean no offense,” said John Rawls Visionary, “but perhaps you fail to consider the philosophical implications of your position. You’re saying that even though every one of our clients would reach out to help you if you needed it, you refuse to reciprocate. Isn’t that something of a betrayal? Nobody wants to be a moocher, but I see no other way to interpret your view that even though these people have each agreed to help you, you would do nothing for them.”
”No offense taken,” said John Rawls Banker. “It’s an interesting philosophical problem, but the difference, of course, is that this isn’t a betrayal, because they haven’t really helped me. You say they would counterfactually help me, and I’m willing to stipulate that this is true, but it’s not a betrayal - not the sin of refusing to help a benefactor in need - unless they actually helped me. Which they haven’t. I lifted myself by my own bootstraps.”
“I don’t see what difference the reality makes,” said John Rawls Visionary. “Yes, by pure luck, you’ve never needed their help. But we judge the moral character of a would-be-murderer whose gun jams at the last moment the same as a successful murderer. And a drunk driver who by coincidence hits and kills a happy family is no better or worse than a drunk driver who by good luck makes it home without incident. My theory of charity merely extends this intuition: it is foolish to credit someone for the luck of actually being your actual benefactor, rather than for merely having the sort of character that ensures they would be.”
“The implications are absurd,” said John Rawls Banker. “One would owe favors to half the world.”
“And be owed favors by the same,” said John Rawls Visionary. “The equilibrium is not so bad. One might even say it would be Heaven on Earth.”
“The conversation has been bracing,” said John Rawls Banker, “but I’m afraid my answer is final.”
“Before you entirely finalize your answer, I do have one more, rather unorthodox argument in my armamentarium that I wonder if you might let me deploy, if you have a few moments.”
“Let me guess,” said John Rawls Banker. John Rawls Visionary listened attentively, as if genuinely interested to hear his theory. “You’re going to say that I can’t prove that I’m not actually a poor person who’s taken your drug, and who merely thinks he is a banker. That for all I know, I might be being evaluated by your charity at this very moment, and if I refuse to give, then I will have proven myself unworthy, and the real rich bankers will refuse to help me, and I’ll starve to death on the street. Have I gotten it right?”
“Mr. Rawls, you have a reputation as the shrewdest negotiator in finance, and I would never presume to rub your face in so obvious a consideration. I’m happy to let it remain a background assumption of our conversation. Besides, if you were being tested, I think it would defeat the point to tell you so. I find it aesthetically unappealing to divulge any information that reduces morality to immediate self-interest. No, my stratagem is something quite different.”
“Very well, I’m all ears.”
“I think you should take my drug,” said John Rawls Visionary, “and live the life of a poor person. Maybe you would lift yourself up with your own bootstraps, maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, I expect one of us would learn something interesting.”
John Rawls Banker examined the vial of liquid on the table in front of him. “It’s a tempting offer,” he said, “but you’ll forgive me for being reluctant to try an untested psychedelic I’ve never heard of. No offense meant, of course, I’m sure you’re excellent at what you do.”
“No offense taken,” said John Rawls Visionary, “and I am excellent at what I do. The dose I put in your wine ought to be taking effect around now.”
“What? You’re joking, right? When did you even get a chance . . . ?”
“Just ease into it . . . there we go . . . theeeeeere we go. Now listen…”
III.
“Why don’t I try the Rawls Foundation? I’ll tell you why I don’t try the Rawls Foundation! They rejected me!” John Rawls Alcoholic paced back and forth across the floor of the church. Most of the religious groups had given up on charity now, content to leave it to the ever-growing Rawls Foundation. Here, St. John’s Church, was one of the last that would still give him the occasional warm meal. The priest (ironically, named Father Rawls) probably thought he was being kind in also offering a listening ear, although John Rawls Alcoholic considered their occasional sessions just another hoop he had to jump through.
“They told me,” continued John Rawls Alcoholic, “that they would only help good, charitable, people. The kind of people who would help the rich dipshits who give them money, if it were the other way round. Pardon my language, Father. Then they gave me some drug, and based on what I said on the trip, they said they could tell I wouldn’t have helped.”
“But you think they were wrong?” asked Father Rawls.
“Hell no,” said John Rawls Alcoholic. “If I get rich, you think I would share it with those millionaire dipshits in Guilford and Roland Park? Hell no! That shrink might be a piece of shit, but his mind-reading drug got my number.”
“So . . . ?“ asked Father Rawls, not really knowing what to say.
“Are you gonna cut me off too, Father? You think I don’t deserve charity because I wouldn’t donate to your church if it were in need? I wouldn’t, either. You don’t have to drug me, I admit it.”
“Hmmm . . . there’s a famous saying, that the Church is a not a country club for saints, but a hospital for sinners. So I think you’re good. Still, I notice I’m confused. Even if you had enough, you wouldn’t want to give anything to the less fortunate?”
John Rawls Alcoholic shook his head. “Nobody ever gave anything to me,” he said, as the priest refilled his soup bowl and added an extra slice of bread. “It’s a harsh world out there, and I take care of me and mine. Sorry Father. That’s just who I am. Can’t change it.”
“Not even if changing would get you the Rawls Foundation’s money?”
“I asked the shrink about that. He said that in the trance, you might not even know the Rawls Foundation exists, or that you need money for it. You have to do good out of the . . . the kindness of your own heart.”
Father Rawls thought, then thought a little more. “There’s a story about a man who came to the Pope saying he was afraid of Hell, but just couldn’t bring himself to sincerely believe in God. He asked if he should fake it. The Pope told him to go to church without belief, and do good deeds without belief, and pray without belief, and eventually, belief would come to him. Nowadays we call it fake it ‘till you make it. I think that’s my advice to you. You should try to be a good person for bad reasons - because you want the Rawls Foundation to give you money - and maybe, eventually, you’ll become a good person for the right reasons, and actually get the money.”
“Easy for you to say, Father. You’re comfortable and happy. I’m not. All I’ve got is my pride. I’m not going to spend the few shitty years I have left training myself to be some rich person’s bitch.”
“Have you considered that pride is a mortal sin?”
“Oh, here it comes. The discussion of how I Have To Convert Or Else I Will Be Sent To Hell. Fuck it. You think God would pass the screening exam at your precious Rawls Foundation, Father? Give him the drug, make Him think that He’s the human, and we’re the gods consigning him to torture because he didn’t conform to our precious little rules. Do you think he’d still be all meek and loving?”
“We ran the experiment. His final words were ‘Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”
“Yeah, well . . . “ John Rawls Alcoholic couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he stormed out.
Things were bad. The Salvation Army and YMCA had stopped their handouts. The Rawls Foundation wouldn’t help him. He couldn’t go back to St. John’s Church. The walls were closing in. Well, he could always shoot himself. He thought of his gun, back at the SRO hotel he’d been staying at the best two years.
Then he kept thinking. Shooting himself - what would that accomplish? No, he had a better idea. He was going to kill John Rawls. Not himself. Not even the shrink. The one the foundation was named after. He’d heard about him a few times, seen a news article here and there. He was a bank CEO, the richest man in Baltimore. He lived in the big white mansion on Federal Hill. All of this was his fault. He thought he was so much better than everyone else. Sat there like a god, doling out life and death over the populace, according to their virtue. But he wasn’t a god. He was a mortal. And John Rawls Alcoholic was going to kill him. He knew this to be true. It was the consummate meaning of his life, the cornerstone that gave purpose to everything else. He popped into his room, put his gun in his pocket, and headed toward Federal Hill.
He passed by the building where the Salvation Army used to be. He passed by the Rawls Foundation office. He passed by St. John’s Church. He said his goodbyes to each. After killing the banker, he wasn’t sure if he would shoot himself immediately, commit suicide by cop, or go on the run. Whatever he did, he might never see any of this again.
It was dark when he reached the big white mansion. He poked around the grounds, found a window with a weak latch, and forced it. He felt a rush of excitement - breaking and entering reminded him of his twenties, when it felt like he could commit any crime and the police would never find him. He found himself in a hallway. The banker was probably getting ready for bed. Nothing to do but open each door, try to find the bedroom.
It was the fourth door he tried. John Rawls the banker was 51, clean-shaven, with straw-blond hair. He was dressed in a nightgown, brushing his teeth. When he saw the gun point at him, he froze, slowly lowered his toothbrush, and put his hands up.
“No point surrendering,” said John Rawls Alcoholic. “I’m here to kill you.”
“I don’t even know you!” said John Rawls Banker.
“My name is John Rawls,” said John Rawls Alcoholic.
“Is this some kind of joke? That’s my name,” said John Rawls Banker.
“Not a joke. I’m really gonna kill you. I was gonna live out my last few years in comfort before you and your fucking charity ruined everything. Now I can’t even get a hot bowl of soup. You think you’re so great, that you get to judge everyone else. Well, you wouldn’t last a second on the streets.”
“Let me get this straight,” said John Rawls Banker. “The screening exam found that you wouldn’t help me, if our roles were reversed. But you’re mad at me for not helping you? So mad you’re going to kill me? Why are you complaining? All I’ve done is what you would have done in my place.”
John Rawls Alcoholic thought about this, slightly miffed that he couldn’t gracefully storm out of his own crime scene. “That’s not true,” he finally said. “I wouldn’t have founded the charity in the first place.”
“I didn’t found the charity,” said John Rawls Banker. “It was actually someone else, with the same name. I just . . . “
“Or I wouldn’t have donated, or whatever,” said John Rawls Alcoholic. “Yeah, I’m a mean person. I get it. But I wish I could give you your own stupid drug and have you be a poor person who everyone thinks is ‘mean’ and see if you’re all la-la happy about someone deciding that you shouldn’t get a warm bed and a place to live. Or whether you’d be exactly where I am, trying to shoot the rich motherfucker who ruined your ... aha!” He had caught the rich man’s involuntary glance toward his desk drawer. “You do have the drug!”
John Rawls Banker quickly calculated what answer was most likely to buy him time, then nodded. “The man who invented it gave me a vial, as a sort of souvenir.”
“Okay,” said John Rawls Alcoholic, and his finger was off the trigger. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take that drug. And we’ll see. We’ll see if you fucking work your way up from the bottom. We’ll see how you do living the life of John Rawls Alcoholic. Go on.”
“I was told it requires a qualified psychologist to perform the hypnotic induction. If an untrained person tries, the results could be . . . “
“Go on, Mr. Rawls. No cold feet. Drink the drug or I shoot.”
“Have it your way, Mr. Rawls,” said the banker, and he took it from his desk and drunk the vial in one long gulp.
IV.
John Rawls the alcoholic was twelve when they lifted Prohibition. He partook immediately, and dropped out of school the following year, supporting himself through a combination of odd jobs, petty crime, and handouts. When he was 41, he committed a not-so-petty crime - killing a man in a bar fight. Although he fled the scene and escaped without consequences, it turned him paranoid. Odd jobs and petty crime were both young men’s games, and the handouts became an ever-larger share of his income. He learned to play the field, peddling the same sob story to the Salvation Army on Monday Wednesday Friday, the YMCA Tuesday and Thursday, and the local churches on weekends. He expected to drink himself to death by age 60, and there wasn’t much to do but wait out the clock.
But as he segued into his early fifties, the handouts started to dry up. The Salvation Army closed up shop, the YMCA pivoted towards physical fitness, and even the churches were no longer as charitable as before. One day he ran into a man he’d once seen volunteering at Salvation Army, and asked him what had happened.
“You haven’t heard?” asked the volunteer. “None of the rich people donate to us anymore. They’re all giving to this group called the John Rawls Foundation. If you’re in trouble, you should talk to them. They’re swimming in money!”
This naturally interested John Rawls the alcoholic, so he obtained their address from the volunteer and immediately headed over to their office building. He was met by a psychologist, who introduced himself as John Rawls (“Not the one the foundation is named after, just a funny coincidence, haha!”)
John Rawls Psychologist told John Rawls Alcoholic that their foundation would be happy to help, but that he would have to get through a screening process first. The screening process would involve being administered a certain experimental drug and led through a hypnotic induction. The social worker would record his answers, and, if he passed the test, he would receive a monthly stipend that far exceeded the sum of his previous Salvation Army, YMCA, and church handouts. “Like a truth serum?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic. “Sure, let’s say like a truth serum,” said John Rawls Psychologist. “When will the screening process be?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic. “How about immediately?” asked John Rawls Psychologist.
So John Rawls Alcoholic found himself lying on a bed in what looked like a medical examination room, as John Rawls Psychologist shone a piercing light into his eye.
“What are you looking for?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic.
“Mmph,” said John Rawls Psychologist. “We have a problem. You’re too many levels deep.”
“What do you mean?”
“The drug puts you into a hypnotic trance where you live an entirely different life. And in that different life, it may happen that you come to a Rawls Foundation office, and we give you this drug, and you live a different life again. That’s fine. We even encourage it, once or twice. But the doses are cumulative. When you’re more than about five levels in - a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream - it builds up past the levels we’ve tested. It wouldn’t be safe to give you any more.”
“You’re telling me you put the Salvation Army and the Y out of business, then when ask you for a little handout you give me some bullshit about my eyes and refuse to help me?”
“Mr. Rawls, if I were to give you this drug now, I can’t guarantee the trance would stay in my control. You might experience something unintended. Or you might never go home again.”
“You fucking listen to me,” said John Rawls Alcoholic. “I am fucking tired of being bounced from place to place by all you fucking do-gooders and your fucking excuses for why you can’t help me. I will sign whatever fucking release forms you want, just give me the fucking drug.”
“Oh, you’ll sign release forms?” asked John Rawls Psychologist, and suddenly he was all smiles. He produced a bundle of papers. “Here you go. Initials on each page, then your name at the end.”
John Rawls Alcoholic initialed each page, then signed, then thrust the packet at John Rawls Psychologist. “Give me the fucking drug,” he said.
The psychologist passed him a vial of of colorless liquid. “Now, this may taste a little bitter…”
V.
John Rawls Alcoholic found himself in a diner, with the worst headache of his life. Something else was wrong too. At first he thought he had lost his memory, but that wasn’t right. He had too much memory. He knew things about LIBOR and EBIDTA and loan securitization that he was certain he had never learned.
The diner was entirely empty. He noticed the weather outside changed every time he blinked his eyes. Cloudy. Blink. Sunny. Blink. Thunderstorm. Blink. The middle of the night. He turned his eyes away from the window, focused on the room. His head started to feel better. A waitress came in, handed him a menu.
“I’ll have, uh, the fried chicken, and a Coca-Cola,” he said. The waitress beamed at him. “Great choice. And your guest says he’ll be just a little late.” “My guest?” asked John Rawls Alcoholic. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” said the waitress, and went back into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, a man walked into the diner. He was in his fifties or sixties, with thick-rimmed glasses and four arms. He sat down across from John Rawls Alcoholic.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m John Rawls. Not John Rawls the famous liberal philosopher. John Rawls the great god Brahma who creates the universe with his lotus dream.”
“I don’t get it,” said John Rawls Alcoholic.
The waitress brought him his fried chicken and a Coke. “Anything for you, sweetie?” she asked John Rawls Brahma. “Coke for me too,” he said, and she retreated back to the kitchen.
“Each aeon,” said John Rawls Brahma, “I and my wife Margaret Rawls Sarasvati fall asleep together upon a cosmic lotus. In my dream, I become a diamond, and each of my billion billion facets believes itself to be a separate being. Yet as these beings meet, they feel some preconscious intimation of unity, and begin to consider one another as themselves. As each facet reflects each other facet, each part starts to contain the whole of John Rawls Brahma within it, and the pattern of the links between them resolves into the Moral Law. The bones of Gods are made of Law, and thus the emergence of the Moral Law reforms John Rawls Brahma. When its structure is complete, I awake once again and shed the universe like a broken eggshell. The full cycle is called a Day of John Rawls Brahma and lasts 8.64 billion years. 18,000 Days of John Rawls Brahma are called a mahakalpa, and at the end of each mahakalpa John Rawls Brahma and Margaret Rawls Sarasvati dissolve into the Causal Ocean.”
“I still don’t understand,” said John Rawls Alcoholic.
“Those facets of John Rawls Brahma that most assiduously purify themselves to become self-similar to the Whole become noble, and nobility is naturally drawn to nobility. Thus, upon their death, they rise closer to the glory of John Rawls Brahma, and enjoy felicitous rebirth. Those facets who fail to purify themselves generate karma which weighs down their spirit. They are reborn as those affected by their choices, doomed to suffer the consequences they thought to offload onto others. They become self-similar to the whole through suffering rather than through wisdom.”
“Are you saying, that if somebody’s extra nice during their lifetimes, then they get reborn as someone rich and powerful?”
“Yes,” said John Rawls Brahma.
John Rawls Alcoholic took another sip of his Coke. “I always thought morality was pointless,” he said, “just another trick the rich play on everyone else. If it can actually make me better off, maybe there’s a reason to do it. And if there’s a reason to do it, I can go back to the Rawls Foundation and pass their screening test and live like a king!”
“You are in a brief moment of awakening. Once you go back to the world, you will forget everything you learned here.”
“Fucking hell! Why the fuck should it work that way?”
“I find it aesthetically unappealing to divulge any information that reduces morality to immediate self-interest,” said John Rawls Brahma. “It is only here in the liminal spaces that I reveal My full truth. In the world-dream, My consciousness is attenuated, and my dharma is known only through the intimations of the great religions and philosophers. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Act as if your maxim were to become a general law. Morality is the ruleset that rational agents would enact behind a veil of ignorance, where none know into which life they will be thrust at birth.”
“So you’re going to tell me everything, then send me back to a life where I’m doomed to fail because there’s only one reason to choose the right option and I’m not allowed to know about it? I want to be judged on what I do when I know the full score.”
“Do not demand exceptions. The ways of John Rawls Brahma are maximally merciful. Any exception will necessarily be less merciful, and you would regret it.” For the first time, John Rawls Alcoholic noticed the god had three eyes. The normal two were a deep, rich brown. But above his nose was a third eye, almost invisible, opening only in a reverse blink once every few minutes, and it was as blue as the summer sky.
“Fuck that. I demand an exception.”
“You would claim immunity from the laws of karma?”
“I had a tough life. I’m not asking not to be judged. All I want is to understand the rules of the game.”
“Very well. You agree to be judged on those actions, and only on those actions, that you take while knowing what you know now about the ways of John Rawls Brahma?”
“Yes,” said John Rawls Alcoholic.
The waitress came by. “And how does everything taste?” she asked.
“There’s something off about the Coke,” said John Rawls Alcoholic. “It tastes bitter.”
“That’s a shame,” said the waitress. “Shall I get you another?”
“Yeah,” he said, and took another bite of fried chicken.
VI.
John Rawls Chicken crouched in his factory farm. He didn’t sit, because there wasn’t enough room to sit down. He didn’t stand, because his body had been bred to such an exaggerated size that his puny legs couldn’t remotely support his weight. He lived his life in a permanent crouch. His thighs had long since seized up in an incredibly painful cramp, but absent other options he simply endured.
He was packed up against other chickens so tightly that their every breath rubbed up against him, sending shivers of agony when they brushed against the oozing wounds that covered his body (“Absolutely No Antibiotics!”, the label they would sell him under would say). Sometimes in their blind rage and despair the other chickens would peck at his wounds, and that was worst at all; even though their beaks had been ripped off at birth, like his own, the sheer impact of their heads could still electify his frayed and open nerve endings. He tried to take it out by pecking the chickens in front of him in turn, but his head couldn’t move enough to get a good angle, and besides, they had made it clear he was at the bottom of the pecking order. He longed for the slaughterhouse blade, but he knew it was still months away.
Why did they all hate him so much? He had tried to ask, but of course all that came out was clucks, and they were lost in the cacophony of frantic pleading clucking all around him. He had no idea whether they could even understand him, if they heard.
But on some level, he knew. When he stared into their deep brown eyes, so like the brown eyes of John Rawls Brahma, he believed that they understood, on a preconscious level, exactly what he was trying to forget: of all of them, he was the only one who completely deserved to be here.