This article is part of the The Tiger King and I series.
Read the previous part here.
Disclaimer: Names have been changed mostly because I forgot them and partially because they might sue me for putting them on blast.
Where do bags of gore come from? This was a question I didn't care to ask or know the answer to. I was 1 week 3 days into my time at the park when I was told we had a "delivery". At this point, I was no longer sleeping in my car; Joe had graciously offered me an air mattress in his living room, as I had proved myself to not be a PETA sleeper agent by working at his shitty park for more than a week.
I swung by Kyle's sleeping quarters to say good morning. He was furiously replying to emails. More meat for the G.W. Exotic Animal Park grinder. That was his whole job. He didn't work on the grounds with the animals. He didn't shovel shit, or cut open the gore bags. He sent emails to people like me, promising an awesome adventure. I don't know how many people got fooled into working for Joe Exotic, but if you're out there, it wasn't just you. There has to be a lot of us.
I staggered outside to see our delivery. It was an 18 foot trailer hauling 3 dead cows. I was, as always, confused. Lonny and our newest dumb teen Brandon approached with 2 wheelbarrows full of plastic bags, bread ties, and a chainsaw. I realized with dawning horror what the cattle were for. No one wants to know how the burger is made. No one wants to know where the gore bags come from. I am not a butcher. I don't know the different cuts of beef, but when you're cutting meat for a tiger, the cuts down matter so long as they're small enough to fit in the bag.
I spent two 12 hour days cutting up 3 dead cows with a chainsaw and a hatchet. Doling out gore into bags held by Lonny and Brandon. Halfway through the second day, I shut off the chainsaw after a long cut, wiped my hand across my forehead, and turned to see that Brandon was gone. He couldn't do it. I don't know how I did it. I started to ask Lonny where he went when I heard a gunshot.
We headed towards the sound and there stood Robert, panting and holding his side with his left hand. In his right was his revolver. Brandon's small blue kia was thumping out of the back lot on a flat tire at roughly the speed of sound. Robert turned and looked at us. "He worked for PETA. I knew it when he got in the car to leave. He probably recorded y'all. It's gonna be on the internet.". Robert had shot out his tire to keep him from leaving. I should have left as well, but seeing the paranoia on full display from Robert was terrifying. He shot his fucking tire out. Was he aiming for the tire? I'll never know.
Joe came running from the main house to check out the commotion for himself. He and Robert settled in next to each other, whispering about "PETA" and "the police". I don't think they were talking about the band. The smell of cattle blood was clearing out of my nose and I suddenly smelled shit. Bad shit. Joe realized it at roughly the same time and jumped back from Robert. I did not know until that point that Robert had a colostomy bag. During his run to intercept Brandon, he had punctured it on a fence. He was now leaking liquid shit down the front of himself. I shook my head and returned to the chainsaw.
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